Mira Grant - Blackout

Becks was the first to get herself back under control. Straightening up, she wiped her eyes and grinned at Alaric. “Glad to see you’re feeling up to being an asshole again, Kwong,” she said.

Alaric half saluted. “Just doing my part for Assholes Anonymous of America.”

“Somebody has to,” I said. I sat down in Dr. Shoji’s abandoned seat, tossing the last turkey sandwich to Alaric before taking a sip of my still-warm coffee. “So basically, we’re going to hit the ground running.”

“Do we ever do anything else?” asked Becks.

“No,” said George.

I toasted her with my coffee. “And thank God for that.”

Becks laughed again as she stood and made her way back to the kitchenette. Alaric started unwrapping his sandwich. I smiled one more time at George before unwrapping my own sandwich and taking a large bite. We needed to keep our strength up. I had the distinct feeling that not only would we be hitting the ground running, we were probably never going to slow down again. Our lives—all our lives—had been measured in calms between storms for a very long time. Even when we were dead, in George’s case. Well, this was the last calm, and I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

I’ve always lived my life—

No. That’s a lie.

Georgia Carolyn Mason, b. 2016, in the final year of the Rising, d. 2040, during the Ryman campaign, always lived her life by one simple commandment: Tell the truth. Whenever possible, whatever it requires, tell the truth. This blog was for opinions and personal thoughts, because those, too, are a part of the truth. No one is truly objective, no matter how hard we try, and unless people knew where her biases were, they couldn’t know when to read around them. Georgia Mason lived to tell the truth. Georgia Mason died to tell the truth. It’s not her fault some people couldn’t leave well enough alone.

I am not Georgia Mason. I am not anyone else. I am a chimera, built of science and stolen DNA and a dead woman’s memories. I am an impossibility. These are my biases. These are the things you need to know, because otherwise, you won’t be able to read around them. I am not her.

But my name is Georgia Mason.

And I am here to tell you the truth.

—From Living Dead Girl , the blog of Georgia Mason II, August 10, 2041. Unpublished.

Listen to the clone girl. She’s got some pretty good ideas, and oh, right, if you so much as look at her funny, I’ll blow your fucking face off. We clear? Good.

—From Hail to the King , the blog of Shaun Mason, August 10, 2041. Unpublished.

GEORGIA: Thirty-three

Despite Becks’s dire predictions, no one shot us out of the sky. The computerized voice of the autopilot came on over the intercom as the plane touched down on the main runway of the Montgomery County Airpark, saying, “Welcome to Montgomery County, Maryland, where the local time is nine fifty-seven P.M. Thank you for flying with the Epidemic Intelligence Service. Please remain seated while the sterilization crew secures the plane. Any attempts to get up and move about the cabin will result in the immediate activation of security measure Alpha-16.”

“Meaning what?” asked Shaun.

“Meaning the plane fills with knockout gas and we stay unconscious until somebody comes along and shoots us full of the counteragent,” said Alaric. We all turned to stare at him. He shrugged. “While some people were taking naps and fucking around with their guns, I was reading the security information card. Well. Security information booklet. They take security seriously around here.”

“They are the EIS,” said Becks.

“Which has meant basically jack shit for the last twenty years,” said Shaun.

“They saved me,” I said. “They can secure us as much as they want.”

That killed the discussion. We looked at each other, then toward the front of the plane. There was still no sign of Dr. Shoji.

“You know, if he was planning to double-cross us, this would be the best time to do it,” said Shaun.

“If he was planning to double-cross us, wouldn’t he have just crashed the plane somewhere over Iowa?” asked Alaric.

“Not if he wanted to live,” said Becks. “And not if he wanted to dissect us. I mean, Shaun’s immune, Georgia’s a clone…”

“And I’m an asshole,” said Alaric helpfully.

Everyone laughed nervously. There was a soft “thump” as the plane stopped rolling down the runway, followed by the sound of clamps affixing to the wheels and windows. This was one plane that wouldn’t be flying anywhere until it was certified infection free. Blue antibacterial foam began cascading down the windows, blocking our view of the airfield.

“The foam they use to sterilize planes costs eight dollars a gallon,” said Alaric. “It takes approximately two thousand gallons to sterilize a plane this size.”

Becks gave him a sidelong look. “Why do you know these things? What inspires you to learn them?”

“It impresses the ladies,” said Alaric. They both laughed. Shaun didn’t. I turned to look toward the front of the plane, and waited.

The blue foam slowed from a torrent to drips and drabs, finally stopping altogether. A steady stream of bleach followed it, washing away both the remains of the foam and any biological agents foolish enough to think that hitching a ride on an EIS plane was a good idea.

“Overkill much?” muttered Shaun. I surreptitiously reached over and squeezed his knee.

Alaric must have heard him, because he held up the security information booklet and said, “If they had any reason to believe we’d flown through or over an active outbreak, they’d be rinsing the whole plane down with formalin. Twice. And we’d be praying the plane was properly sealed, since otherwise, we’d probably melt.”

“It’s just our way of saying ‘thank you for flying EIS Air,’ ” said Dr. Shoji, shrugging on a lab coat as he emerged from the cockpit. His black T-shirt and shorts were gone, replaced by khaki pants and a loudly patterned Hawaiian shirt covered with purple and yellow flowers. I raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. “It’s camouflage. I’m supposed to be the visiting director of the Kauai Institute of Virology—which is technically true, even if I’m not here on the business of the Institute—and this is what they expect. I’d wear shorts if I thought I could get away with it, but the CDC dress code forbids exposed legs. Something about caustic chemicals.” He waved a hand, clearly unconcerned.

“Why are you up and moving about the cabin?” asked Shaun. “Not in the mood to get gassed because you had a cramp, thanks.”

“Ah—sorry.” Dr. Shoji produced a small remote from his pocket and pressed a button.

The “fasten seat belts” sign turned off, and the voice of the autopilot said, “We have finished external decontamination. Please rise and collect all personal belongings. An EIS representative will be waiting on the jet bridge to confirm your current medical condition and offer any assistance that may be required. Once again, thank you for flying with EIS Air. We appreciate that you have many choices in government-owned health services, and would like you to know that the EIS has always been dedicated to the preservation of the public health, above and beyond all other goals.”

“Wow. Even the private planes have to say that shit,” said Shaun.

Alaric stood, snagging his laptop bag from the overhead compartment as he asked, “By ‘offer any assistance,’ do they mean bandages or bullets?”

“I don’t know.” I stood, stretching, before retrieving my jacket from the overhead bin. I shrugged it on, checking to be sure my holster was covered. I probably wasn’t legally allowed to carry a concealed weapon—my field license almost certainly expired after I died—but I wasn’t going to tell unless someone asked me. “It probably depends on your test results.”