Mira Grant - Blackout

—Taken from an e-mail composed by Mahir Gowda, July 26, 2041. Unsent.

Eleven

Dr. Thomas smiled indulgently across the table separating us. “Now, Georgia, I know things have been very stressful for you these past few weeks—”

“Boredom and stress aren’t the same thing,” I said. “You can check the dictionary if you want. I’ll wait.”

He made a note on his tablet. “Inappropriate humor is a defense mechanism, isn’t it?”

“No, Shaun was a defense mechanism. Since he’s not here, I have to fill in.” I took a breath, trying to look miserable. It wasn’t easy. I’ve never had to worry about what my eyes were doing. People say the eyes are windows to the soul, and I was accustomed to having blackout curtains over mine. Without my retinal KA, they might be giving me away without my even knowing it. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

“When your system is ready to stand the stress,” said Dr. Thomas, making another note on his tablet. “Dr. Shaw says you were very cooperative with her tests, and confirms your story about the haircut. I’m sorry to have doubted you.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, trying to look frustrated and innocent at the same time. The frustration was easy. The innocence wasn’t. “I’ve never been much of a liar.”

That little dig hit home; Dr. Thomas winced. I made my reputation as a Newsie based on my refusal to lie—a refusal that got me fined several times early in my career, when I was found in places I wasn’t supposed to be and couldn’t come up with an even half-decent excuse for what I was doing there. I never got better at making excuses. I just got better at refusing to let Shaun talk me into climbing over fences marked NO TRESPASSING.

My memories of those early escapades were fuzzy, like I’d reviewed them so many times that the edges had begun to blur. A lot of my earlier memories were like that, and had been since I’d woken up. I’d been trying to figure out what that meant. Given what Gregory had shown me the night before, I was pretty sure I finally knew.

The memories weren’t fuzzy because the things I remembered happened a long time ago, or because there was a glitch in the process that transferred my consciousness into a freshly cloned body. The memories were fuzzy because the things I remembered never happened at all—not to me, anyway. I was “remembering” an implanted incident extracted from the mind of a dead woman. A certain loss of fidelity was only to be expected.

Somehow, knowing that I wasn’t really who I thought I was—knowing that Georgia Mason was dead and gone and never coming back—made dealing with Dr. Thomas easier. I don’t like lying. I’ve never liked lying. And when I was myself, I wasn’t any good at it. Now that I was someone else who just thought she was me, it seemed like a skill worth developing. I wasn’t compromising my values. I was creating my values, and compromising the values of a dead woman.

And maybe if I told myself that enough times, I’d convince myself to believe it.

Finally, Dr. Thomas cleared his throat, and said, “Your test results have been good so far. I believe you may be stabilizing.”

“Bully for me.”

“The people who have been monitoring your case remotely are very encouraged. You’re getting high marks.”

After Gregory’s revelation that I was being used as a display model, that announcement made me want to start smashing things. I forced the urge back down, asking coldly, “Will any of these people be coming to see me in person?”

Dr. Thomas smiled, chuckling in practiced amusement. It was so at odds with his generally nervous demeanor that it made me want to slap him and send him to acting classes at the same time. “Vice President Cousins is too busy to come to the CDC for social calls, even when he’s calling on an old friend.”

I sat up a little straighter, old journalistic instincts locking my shoulders tight as his words sunk in. “ Vice President ? Rick? My Rick? From After the End Times?”

“Ah…” Dr. Thomas looked suddenly uncomfortable, realizing he’d said more than he should have. “Yes. Governor Tate was another unfortunate casualty of the incident which claimed your… I mean to say, the incident that resulted in your untimely…” He stopped, looking even more uncomfortable.

“Death?” I suggested. “Murder? Martyrdom? I always wanted to be a martyr.” That was my second lie for the day. I never wanted to be a martyr. I wanted to live long enough to bury Shaun, however long that happened to be, and I wanted to die in my time, and on my own terms.

“Yes.” Dr. Thomas nodded, looking relieved. “After the governor’s death, President Ryman selected your colleague to stand with him. He said it was the least he could do to honor your memory, and to show the blogging community that it would still have a voice.”

My shoulders tightened. He said “blogging community” the way most people would say “dead rat.” Choosing my words carefully, I asked, “So Ryman won the election?”

“By a good margin. The events in Sacramento, unfortunate as they were, only provided his campaign with additional exposure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they did.” What happened in Sacramento would have given Ryman’s campaign virtual domination over the news cycles, regardless of what his opposition did to try to force themselves back into the picture. As long as Ryman himself made it out alive, he’d been all but guaranteed the White House. “Can you let Rick know I’d like to see him?”

“I’ll pass the word, but the vice president is a very busy man.”

I’m sure you will , I thought. Aloud, I said, “Thank you. It would be nice to have someone to talk to. I’m going a little stir-crazy in here.”

“I understand, but, Georgia, things have changed since your death. Your face is very well known in the outside world, and even some of our personnel are… uncomfortable… about the implications of your presence. I’m sure you can see where it would be bad for everyone if someone assumed you had amplified because they were aware of your current legal status.”

“Right.” I forced a smile. From the look on Dr. Thomas’s face, I could tell that it didn’t look any more genuine than it felt. Given the circumstances, that was probably okay. There was no way the comment about “current legal status” was intended as anything but a warning: He was telling me I was still listed as deceased in all the government databases that mattered, and that if someone shot me, they wouldn’t be guilty of murder. They’d be acting within the law.

Life was easier when I was dead.

Dr. Thomas stood. “Now, if you’d come with me, we’ve prepared a little treat for you.”

“A treat?” The gun in my sock pressed reassuringly against my calf as I stood, reminding me that whatever else I might be, I was no longer defenseless. Sure, I’d be lucky if I could take out more than one of them before they were on top of me, and that assumed that my memory of knowing how to fire a gun could overcome the fact that my new body had no muscle memory, but there was a chance . That was more than I’d had before. I was going to hang on to it with everything I had.

“Come with me.” Dr. Thomas turned and walked toward the door, confident that it would open at his approach. It did, of course, sliding smoothly aside to reveal the hallway. Envy burned my throat as I walked after him. The doors wouldn’t respond to me. I walked toward them and they stayed stubbornly closed, like I was infected.

Like I was still dead.

The ever-present guards were waiting outside the lab. They fell into position ahead and behind us. We walked the length of the familiar hall, passing the doors I was accustomed to stepping through. I was starting to get worried—maybe this whole thing had been a test; maybe Gregory was working for the CDC after all, and I’d failed by going along with his grand conspiracy theory—when Dr. Thomas finally stopped. The lead guard did the same.