Mira Grant - Blackout

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 tucked 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.”

“Hey, Mahir.” I shook my head. “Looks like we’ve both been having an interesting time. I’ll see your luxury hotel, and raise you one zombie bear.”

“I can see that this is going to be a deeply enlightening evening.” He put a hand on my arm. “I’ve been following the feeds about the Masons. Two of our juniors are covering it, due to the connection to our site’s founders. How are you holding up?”

It took me a second to realize that by “our site’s founders,” he was referring to me and George. “Oh, okay, I guess. Totally out of my mind, but that’s normal. Should we be hanging around down here?”

Maggie disengaged from Becks, glancing my way. “Our rooms are on the third floor. Did the Agora tell you about the baths?”

“That depends. When you ask ‘did the Agora’ tell us, do you mean—”

“The hotel.”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say. Yeah, it told us.”

“Good.” Maggie looped one arm through Becks’s and one arm through mine, tugging us across the lobby toward the elevators. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into something that doesn’t smell like road funk, and then we can sit down for dinner and to plan our plan of attack for tomorrow.”

“Road funk?” I asked.

“Plan of attack?” Becks asked.

Tomorrow? George asked.

“Your timing is impeccable, as always,” said Mahir, moving to walk alongside the three of us. “Tomorrow morning we will finally be accomplishing our goal here in the city of Seattle.”

“What do you mean?” asked Becks.

Maggie freed an arm long enough to push the elevator “call” button and leaned even closer, whispering conspiratorially, “We’re here to meet the Monkey, remember?”

The elevator arrived with a loud ding and Maggie stepped inside, waving for the rest of us to follow. After exchanging a look with Becks, I did.

“I think I preferred the zombie bears,” I muttered.

“That’s just you, Mason,” she said, and started laughing. Maggie and Mahir joined in. There was an edge of hysteria to the sound, like they were laughing to hold back the dark. I stood there, feeling the elevator gaining speed beneath us, and held my silence as we rose higher, and closer to the future.

I was never a “poor little rich girl.” I had a lot of money, sure, but I also had parents who loved me, and who balanced the urge to give me everything I wanted with instilling me with a strong sense of personal responsibility. I never thought of my money as a burden. The only burden was the way it made people look at me. That was what I couldn’t stand, and that’s the reason I chose to go into the field I went into. I was good at being a Fictional. I was never that good at being a spoiled brat.

There are things money can’t buy. People who love you, a job you’re good at, a sense of personal respect… those are on the list.

—From Dandelion Mine , the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, July 31, 2041. Unpublished.

Buffy was complaining today about how we need a new transmitter for the van, and we can’t afford it right now. She wants us to ask the Masons for a loan. She doesn’t seem to understand that having parents who are in the media business doesn’t mean we can turn to them for every little thing we need. Sure, they’d probably give it to us, but we’d be giving up something a lot more valuable. We’d be giving up our independence. All it’s going to take is one loan, and they’ll have the leverage they need to start worming their way into our business. They want it. I

know

they want it.

And I am not going to let them have it.

—From

Postcards from The Wall

, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted on July 31, 2041.

Seventeen

Georgia.”

The word was distorted enough to seem unimportant. I didn’t bother trying to respond. I was lying on something soft, it was pleasantly dark, and if people wanted to talk to me, they could knock themselves out. Nothing said I had to answer .

“She’s unresponsive.”

“I expected she might be. Let’s assume she’s awake, and put her back under for now.”

“Are you sure? The strain to her system—”

“We need to finish this.”

A needle slid into my arm. The sensation was sharp enough to break the haze, replacing soft darkness with sudden concern. I opened my eyes, peering into a blur of light. There were figures there, wearing medical scrubs, with clear plastic masks over their faces. That just made me more concerned. What were they doing that might splash them with my bodily fluids?

“Doctor—” The speaker sounded alarmed. Whatever I was supposed to do, opening my eyes apparently wasn’t on the list.

“I see her. Increase the midazolam drip—I want her out until we’re done.” The taller of the two figures bent toward me. “Georgia? Can you hear me?”

I made a sound. It was faint, somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

It was apparently enough. “Increase that dose now , Kathleen,” snapped Dr. Kimberley, her features becoming visible through the plastic as she leaned closer. She raised one blue-gloved hand, brushing my hair away from my face. “Don’t try to move, Georgia. This will all be over soon.”