by Mira Grant
“I’m going to ask for anything that lets me disappear.” I kept my eyes on the road. “This is going to end soon, Becks. It’s gone too far to last much longer. Too many people have died. So if I get through this story alive… I just want to be left alone.”
“You want to be alone with George,” said Becks.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t… Shaun, I…” Becks paused, taking a breath. “You know I love you, right? As a friend. I may have loved you as something more once, but that’s over now. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So it’s as a friend, and as a colleague, that I ask… are you sure? You’re not holding on that tightly as it is. Going off to be alone with the voices in your head—”
“It’s not just voices anymore. I see her sometimes.” That stopped her. I continued. “She was sitting in that seat not long before you woke up. We were talking. If I get deep enough into the conversation, if I forget long enough, sometimes I can even feel her. I’m going to wind up alone with the voices in my head. The only question is whether or not I get the rest of you hurt in the process. Mahir was Georgia’s second. You’re mine. You know how badly I could fuck everything up if I refused to let go. So let me plan to let go. It might help me hold on a little longer.”
Becks sighed. “You’re asking me to help you turn into a crazy hermit living in the mountains somewhere.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“As long as you realize it.” She slumped in her seat, giving the jamming device a light smack with the heel of her hand. “How does this damn thing work, anyway?”
“You want the technical answer, or the honest answer?” I paused. “Actually, those are the same answer.”
“Shoot.”
“I have no fucking clue. Buffy was always real impressed with it, I know that; she wanted to build one for us, but other stuff kept getting in the way, and then we were working for a presidential hopeful, so it didn’t seem like a good political move.” And then she was dead, and she wasn’t going to be building anything for anybody. Things would have gone so differently if she’d lived. She would have seen what was happening and turned on the conspiracy that had turned her against us, and all this might already be over. George might still be alive. And I might not be looking forward to going all the way insane.
“It was nice of the Masons to give it to us.”
“Yeah, it was. I figure we’ll kill it with a hammer as soon as it’s served its purpose.” Becks shot me a scandalized look. I shook my head. “You really think they don’t have some sort of a tracking beacon in this thing? Buffy built alarms into the van security system that would have gone off if it were broadcasting—she had to reprogram them not to go off when Maggie got too close, since her parents have her rigged up with ‘do not abduct’ heiress crap. So I figure they’re just waiting until we stop moving long enough that they can assume we’re not in the vehicle anymore, and then they’re going to start pinging our position.”
Becks stared at me. “If they’re planning to use the thing to track us, why did you let me take it?”
“Because it was the only thing that would get us out of Berkeley. Even if the Masons just called the local cops on us, they’d be turning on every tracking chip they could think of as soon as we ran. And I somehow doubt they just called the local cops—or called them at all.”
“Why?”
“It took too long for them to get there. There’s a police station less than eight blocks away. My parents were turning us in for the ratings, remember? They called the CDC. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” It explained both the delay in their arrival, and why the Masons listened when I said they were making a mistake. The CDC is still the government, and after what happened during the Ryman campaign, trusting them might not have come as easy as it once did.
“Right.” Becks sighed and slumped in her seat. Then she leaned forward and turned the radio back up, signaling that she was done talking for the moment. I smiled a little, catching her meaning, and returned my focus to the road.
Things are almost over, murmured George.
“I know,” I said, and kept driving.
The outskirts of Seattle loomed up with surprising speed; the relative obscurity of the roads we’d been taking meant that there was minimal traffic. I dug a burner ear cuff out of my pocket, snapping it on. A tap triggered the connection. “This is Shaun Mason activating security profile Pardy. Something’s wrong with Brenda, we’re out of Mister Pibb, and hunting season’s here. Now let’s go to Hollywood.”
“Your taste in passwords is crap,” commented Becks.
I made a shushing motion. Mahir picked up after two rings, asking, “Oh, thank God. Shaun? Is that you?”
“If it weren’t, somebody would have just gotten really, really lucky trying to turn this thing on. Where are you guys?”
Mahir’s voice turned instantly suspicious. “Why?”
“Because we’ve just reached Seattle, and we’d like to come join you. Especially if wherever you are has a bathroom. Is there a bathroom? Please tell me there’s a bathroom. We’ve been driving for like, twenty hours, and I need to piss like you wouldn’t believe.”
“TMI, Shaun,” said Becks.
“How did you get out of Berkeley?”
“Wait, what?” Now it was my turn to get suspicious. “What are you talking about?”
“Several local Berkeley bloggers posted yesterday morning about a surprise CDC hazard team drill being run in a residential neighborhood—and their target was your family home. The Masons have even posted about it. They said they were glad to cooperate with anything that might improve safety procedures and response times.” He paused before adding, grimly, “We thought they might have turned you in.”
I sighed. “They kind of did. They just changed their minds before things could go all the way horribly wrong. How did they look?”
“Your mum had a black eye—”
“Yeah, I gave her that.”
“—and a broken arm. Your dad just had some taped-up fingers.”
“What?” I demanded. “I didn’t do that. Neither did Becks. The black eye was so it would be believable when they said we got away.”
“Apparently, it wasn’t believable enough for the CDC. Snap your transmitter to the GPS, I’ll send you the address for our hotel. Wipe it as soon as you get here.”
“Done. See you soon, Mahir.”
“One hopes,” he said.
I removed the cuff from my ear and handed it to Becks. “Here—connect this to the GPS. Mahir’s going to send us directions on how to get to the hotel he and Maggie are staying at. Keep the jammer going. The Masons made the news.”
“What?” Becks glanced at me in confusion as she connected the ear cuff to the GPS. The GPS unit beeped and began to display its “loading” screen.
“Mom has a broken arm. Dad has some broken fingers. Think they tripped and fell after we left the house?” I gripped the wheel harder than necessary, resisting the urge to slam my foot down on the gas and race my anger away. “The fucking CDC, Becks. My parents called the fucking CDC and said we’d be waiting for them, gift-wrapped and unsuspecting, and when we weren’t there, the fucking CDC showed their disappointment.”
“You can’t be sure it was the CDC.”
“That’s what the blogs are saying. They’re calling it a training exercise. As in, ‘The CDC decided to train their employees on beating the crap out of my parents.’ ” My fingers clenched even tighter. “Those fuckers. They had no right.”
“Ahead, turn left,” said the GPS.
Do it, said George.
I turned left.
“This is insane,” said Becks. “What the hell is going on here? What did we do?”
“Honestly? I don’t know anymore.” Something in my face must have told her to let it be. Becks shook her head, settling in her seat. After a moment’s hesitation, she drew one of her pistols, resting it against her thigh below the window’s sight line. If some
one decided to use us for a “training exercise,” they weren’t going to find us as off guard as they might have liked.
The GPS led us through a maze of side streets to what looked like a relatively major road, one that led us away from downtown and toward the less densely populated residential areas. The buildings took on a dilapidated look as we crossed from one zone into the next… and then, abruptly, began to improve, until we were passing well-maintained mini-mansions surrounded by high fences instead of tenement apartment buildings. Some of them even had their own private gatehouses. The convenience stores and their kin were replaced by upscale grocery stores, fancy salons, and dry cleaners whose signs boasted zero-contact door-to-door service. There were no blood tests on the corners; instead, men on motorized scooters patrolled the sidewalks, running checks on anyone who wanted to get out of a vehicle.
More tellingly, as we drove deeper into the clearly wealthy part of town, people began appearing on the sidewalks. Some of them were walking small dogs, like Maggie’s teacup bulldogs, or the more traditional pugs and Pomeranians. Others had cats on leashes. We even passed a couple with one of those bizarre tame Siberian foxes trotting at their heels, its bushy tail low and its triangular ears pricked forward as it scanned its surroundings for danger.
“This can’t be right,” said Becks, watching the fox slide out of view. “Check the directions.”
“These are the directions Mahir gave me. Maybe they’re hiding in someone’s attic. I don’t know. Wherever they are, they’re going to be trying to stay unobtrusive.”
“In two hundred yards, you have reached your destination,” announced the GPS.
I looked forward. “Oh, fuck.”
“You have got to be kidding,” said Becks.
In front of us loomed the elegant, fenced-in shape of a luxury resort. It looked like it was large enough to host the entire Republican National Convention, assuming anything as gauche as politics were ever allowed to pass its pristine white gates. The guardhouse in front was staffed by four men, their concierge uniforms somehow managing to go perfectly with their assault rifles. Two of them moved out to the street, motioning for me to stop the van.
“There’s no way we can reverse fast enough,” said Becks. “They have to have cars.”
“Or they’d just shoot the windows out.” I set the brake. “It was nice knowing you.”
“Same here.”
The men took positions on either side of the van, one next to my window, one next to Becks’s window. The one next to mine raised a white-gloved hand and knocked, deferentially.
Forcing a smile, I lowered the window. “Hi,” I said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“No problem, Mr. Mason. We’ve been expecting you.” The man produced a handheld blood-testing unit while I was still gaping at him. “If you would please allow me to verify your current medical state, I would be delighted to explain.” On the other side of the van, his companion was making a virtually identical speech to Becks.
“Uh.” I stared at him for a moment before focusing on the most disturbing part of that statement. “You’ve been expecting us?”
“Oh, yes. Miss Garcia contacted the front desk after you called.” The man kept smiling. It was starting to make me nervous. “We’re thrilled to have you joining us.”
“Uh… huh.” I took the testing unit, pressing my thumb down on the pressure plate. “Did she threaten your lives, by any chance? Tell you you’d never work in this town again? Cry?”
The man actually laughed. “Oh, no, nothing like that! She simply asked us to meet you at the gates, and to assure you that the Agora Resort is a completely confidential retreat for those who may be in need of more… confidence… in their security.”
“Wait—did you say the Agora?” Becks leaned into my field of vision, her right hand still outstretched as she pressed her thumb to her own blood-test unit. “This is the Agora?”
“Yes, Miss Atherton.” The man frowned, although his overall air of polite readiness to serve remained. “You’ve heard of us?”
“My mother stayed here once, when she was younger. She was a Feldman before she got married.”
“Ah!” said the man, suddenly all smiles again. “Of the New Hampshire Feldmans?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a pleasure to have another member of the family with us. I hope we can live up to whatever fond memories she may have shared with you.” He deftly plucked the test unit from my hand, holding it up to show the green light that had come on at the top. “You are, as expected, clean. Welcome to the Agora, Mr. Mason. I, and the rest of the concierge staff, am pleased to serve.”
“Um, thanks?” I looked from Becks—who was being shown her own clean test unit—to the concierge, not bothering to conceal my confusion. “What happens now?”
“Now you enter. A valet will take your van”—he paused as my hands tightened on the wheel—“or not, as you prefer. Your party is waiting for you in the lobby.” He stepped back. His partner did the same, and the gates in front of us swung slowly open.
Becks put a hand over mine. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve heard of this place.”
“So?”
“So I wouldn’t have if my mother hadn’t stayed here. You need so many zeroes in your bank account to get in that there are presidents who never stayed here.” Becks pulled her hand away. “They believe in discretion above pretty much all else. Now let’s go.”
“You’re the boss.” I started the engine.
Becks smirked. “I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah, thought you might.”
Getting past the valet without ceding the keys was easier than I’d expected. Every place I’d ever seen that was even remotely like this had been staffed by people who were so desperate for tips that they’d do anything to guarantee them—as long as “anything” didn’t involve coming close enough to actually touch another human being. There’s a commonly held belief that people who work in the hospitality industry are less paranoid about strangers than the rest of us. I’d almost been able to buy it, until I stayed in a few hotels and saw how careful the staff was to avoid touching the guests. It was almost funny, except for the part where it was so damn sad.
George theorized once that the people who worked in hospitality were even more afraid of other human beings than the average man on the street. “This way they never get attached to anyone,” she’d said. “People come and go. They don’t stay long enough to become anything but names on a ledger. There’s no sense of loss when there’s nothing to lose.”
The Agora was disturbingly different. The valet’s smile when I said I’d rather park myself seemed sincere, and the garage maintained for self-park vehicles was large, spacious, and well lit, with emergency doors located every fifteen feet along the walls. The bellhop who opened the hotel’s main door for us was also smiling, and kept smiling even when it became apparent that our days on the road didn’t leave us exactly minty fresh. And neither of them held out a hand for a tip.
“This is weird,” I muttered to Becks, once I was sure we were far enough past the guy for my comment to go unheard.
“This is wealth,” she replied, and slapped her palm flat on the test sensor that would open the airlock separating the outer ring of the hotel from the main lobby. I did the same. The doors swished open a second later, allowing us both to step through.
“Welcome, Mr. Mason. Welcome, Miss Atherton,” said a polite female voice. “The Agora recommends that you make use of our lavish guest facilities. A hot bath has already been drawn in your rooms. We’re glad that you’re here.” The door on the other side of the airlock slid open, and the main lobby was revealed for the first time.
Now that’s just overkill, commented George.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I said, and followed Becks out of the airlock.
The Agora lobby was decorated in shades of white and blue. It looked like the interior of the world’s most expensive glacier. A piano was t
ucked away into one corner, half blocked from view by tall plants with broad green leaves and trumpet-shaped blue flowers. The sound of the unseen pianist’s playing echoed through the room, soft enough not to be distracting, yet somehow unpredictable enough to make it clear that there was a live person at the keys. The front desk was set just to the side of a curved flight of stairs leading to the second floor.
Maggie and Mahir were standing near the center of the lobby, talking quietly. They looked around when the airlock door slid shut behind us. “Shaun! Becks!” exclaimed Maggie, the volume of her voice seeming inappropriate in this overly rarified atmosphere. “You made it!” She started toward us at a trot, Mahir following behind somewhat more slowly.
“Uh, yeah. We did,” I said, transferring my staring to Maggie. “You look…”
“Like the heir to Garcia Pharmaceuticals,” she said, and smiled. “You like?”
“Uh…”
Maggie was wearing a tailored blazer over a white lace shirt, no bra, and pants that could have been applied with a spray can. Maybe they were—they’ve been doing some incredible things with memory polymers in the last few years, and I know canned clothing was one of the things being worked on. Her normally curly, normally braided brown hair was both loose and straight, falling down her back like it had developed its own private gravity. Again, maybe it had. The ways of the obscenely rich are alien to me. Her makeup was elaborate enough that I was certain she hadn’t done it herself.
At least she was still wearing sensible shoes, rather than teetering on a pair of impractically high heels. I’ve heard them called “fuck-me pumps” in some of the pre-Rising media. These days, we call them “get-you-killed heels.” I think it’s a little more appropriate.
“It’s Shaun, Maggie, and you’re a girl,” said Becks, coming to my rescue. “He has no idea what the safe answer is, and so he’s going to vapor lock until you change the subject. Hi. It’s good to see you. You look wonderful.” She stepped forward, sweeping the head of the After the End Times Fictionals into a hug, which Maggie gladly returned.
Mahir caught my eye and smirked. “Hallo, Mason.”
