Mira Grant - Blackout

“If this is a trap, someone’s getting a very stern talking to,” I said blithely, and stepped into the elevator. George was barely half a step behind me.

Of the three Secret Service agents, only Steve got into the elevator with us, leaving the other two behind after handing one of them the bin containing our weapons. The doors swished shut again as soon as Steve was through, and Rick opened a metal panel on the wall, revealing, for the first time since our arrival, a blood testing array. It had eight distinct panels, one for each of us, with two to spare.

“I thought you didn’t do security theater,” said George.

“This is just a precaution. We’re going into a highly secured area,” said Rick. “We all have to test clean before the elevator will move.”

“Oh, great,” said Alaric. “I wanted to hang out in a death trap today.”

Becks elbowed him in the side as she pressed her thumb against the first testing square. The white plastic turned red behind her finger, remaining that color for a count of five before turning green. Rick did the same with the next square, cycling it from white to red to green. Then he stepped back, looking at the rest of us.

“You’re up,” he said.

None of us were infected. The elevator chimed softly and began sliding downward, moving with a smooth efficiency that bordered on unnerving. I realized that the four of us were standing clustered together on one side of the elevator, leaving Rick and Steve on the other. Steve was watching the wall. Rick was watching us, a deep longing in his eyes.

Talk to him , said Georgia.

I glanced toward the George beside me, wincing a little when I realized she hadn’t spoken. Still, it was good advice. I took a half step forward, focusing on Rick, and asked, “Rick, dude—what the fuck happened to you?”

“Do you remember how your sister used to say the truth was the most important thing in the world? That if we all knew the truth, we’d be able to live our lives more freely and with fewer troubles?” The elevator was slowing down. “It’s funny, because she always seemed to forget that a truth you don’t understand is more dangerous than a lie. Robert Stalnaker told the truth when he said Dr. Kellis was creating a cure for the common cold, and look where that’s gotten us.”

Robert Stalnaker was the muckraker—sorry, “investigative reporter”—whose articles on the infant Kellis cure resulted in its being released into the atmosphere, which led in turn to the creation of Kellis-Amberlee. If he hadn’t decided to “tell the truth,” we might not be in the pickle we’re in now. No one knows what happened to Stalnaker during the Rising. Whatever it was, I hope it hurt.

“Robert Stalnaker made up a story to sell papers,” said George. “And by the way, I’m right here. I can hear you.”

The elevator stopped. Rick turned to her, looking faintly abashed, and said, “I know. I just… I saw you made, Georgia. I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of you knowing everything you knew, well… before.”

“I don’t, because I’m not the same girl,” said George coldly. “You of all people should know that. You can’t really raise the dead.”

“Great. Even the clone master has issues with Miss Undead America 2041,” said Becks. “This is really the guy who paid to have you resurrected, Georgia? Because so far, not impressed.”

It was nice to see that my team’s “us against the world” mentality extended to George. “So what is it you’re saying here, Rick?” I asked. “Are you saying we’re here to learn how to lie?”

“No,” he said. Rick pressed his hand against the panel next to the elevator door. It slid open, revealing the featureless gray hall beyond. “You’re here to learn why we have to lie, and why we can’t let you run around telling the truth without consequences. It’s time you learned the truth about Kellis-Amberlee.” He looked back over his shoulder at us, and his expression was haggard, like he’d personally witnessed the end of the world. “I am so, so sorry.”

Then he stepped out of the elevator, leaving the five of us—my team, plus Steve—behind. I looked at the others. “Did that creep anybody else out, just a little bit? Or was it just me who was getting the weird ‘and then they found out he was dead all along’ vibe?”

“This isn’t good,” said Becks.

“No, and it isn’t getting any less creepy while we stand in this elevator arguing about it.” George stepped briskly out to the hallway, where she stopped, turned, and looked at the rest of us. “Well? Are you coming, or am I going to go get the scoop of the century by myself?”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not letting the dead girl make me look like a wimp,” declared Becks, and shoved her way past Alaric to exit the elevator. She stopped next to George, folding her arms. “Okay, three dudes hiding in the elevator while two girls are hanging out in the scary hall? You are now officially wimps. In case you were wondering.”

“We can’t have that.” I put a hand on Alaric’s shoulder, propelling him along with me as I stepped out of the elevator to join them. Steve was close behind me. The elevator doors slid shut as soon as he was clear, and the light above them blinked off.

Someone to my left began applauding slowly. I whipped around, hand going for a gun that wasn’t there, and found myself looking into the face of a man I hadn’t seen in the flesh for over a year—not since George’s funeral, which he made by the skin of his teeth. The others turned with me, some of them reaching for weapons they didn’t have, others just staring.

It was George who managed to find her equilibrium enough to break the silence first. I guess after coming back from the dead, nothing else is going to seem like a big enough deal to knock you off balance for long.

“Hello, Mr. President,” she said.

President Peter Ryman smiled. “Hello, Georgia.”

Maggie’s parents have arrived, or so I’m told—I haven’t been allowed to see her since their plane landed, and for all I know, they’ve come, bundled her into their private jet, and gone, leaving me to settle an utterly astronomical bill. I do hope they take physical labor in exchange. Washing dishes should have us paid off in, oh, three or four hundred years. Give or take a decade or two. Nan will shout when she finds out I’ve become an indentured servant in America. Probably say it serves me right for being so damn stubborn, going off and leaving her alone.

Dr. Abbey sent an e-mail last night, saying the others were leaving her lab on another mission. She wouldn’t say where, and my mail to her has started bouncing. Either she’s blocked me, or she’s changed addresses. Either way, we’re cut off for the nonce, because none of my colleagues are answering their e-mail. And I alone am left to tell thee…

Damn. I thought I was done being the one who stayed behind to write the story down. Bloody journalists.

May they all come home safely.

—From Fish and Clips , the blog of Mahir Gowda, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

Michael and Alisa are at the gift shop near the front gate, getting her some clean T-shirts. We’ve been at Cliff’s Amusement Park in New Mexico for two days now, and we’re all starting to run out of clothes. It should be safe to head back to Berkeley soon. Right now, it’s a media circus, and the only way we can avoid it is by acting like everything is normal. Alisa’s been a good sport about things, thank God. It probably helps that after Florida, nothing looks dangerous to her.