Blackout (57 page)

“Sometimes the contest
is
the point,” said Becks piously.

Rick pushed George out to arm’s length, eyes avidly scanning her face. That was going to keep him distracted for a few more seconds at least. The fact that George hadn’t pulled away from him yet meant she wanted us to be studying something else—namely, our surroundings.

I turned to look around, not bothering to be subtle about it. Let Alaric and Becks be subtle; I’d play the happy buffoon, a role I’ve been practicing since I was a kid. People underestimate you if they think your only interests in life involve poking zombies with sticks and getting that perfect camera angle.

We were in an underground garage. There was a row of SUVs identical to the one that drove us from the airfield parked nearby, presumably waiting to be needed. The lights were smooth and clear, and the doors weren’t just gated; they were sealed with metal sheeting that looked almost like blast protection. This place was locked down tighter than a bank vault.

Oh. Crap. Feeling like an idiot, I turned to Steve and said, “I’ve never been to the White House before. Do you think we’ll get some of those cool souvenir key chains before we leave? I’ve wanted one of those ever since I saw a video of this one dude from Newfoundland using his to pop a zombie’s eye out.”

Spreading it a little thick, don’t you think?
asked Georgia.

I forced myself to ignore it and keep on smiling. Crazy doesn’t go away overnight. Especially not crazy you’ve watered and tended yourself. But wow was this not the time to have an incident.

“I don’t think this is a souvenir key chain kind of visit, but man, it’s good to see you,” said Rick. I turned to see him walking toward me, leaving George behind. He kept talking as he stuck out his right hand, clearly expecting me to shake it. “There were a few points where you went quiet, and I was afraid—let’s just say I’ve had reasons to be worried about your welfare.”

“Really?” I took his hand, squeezing his fingers until that big politician’s smile he’d acquired somewhere started to look strained. “Because it seems to me that if you knew we were having problems, you could maybe have answered your fucking e-mail and helped us.”

“No. I couldn’t have.” His smile died as he pulled his hand away. “And just so you’re aware, if it were up to me, I would have stuck a bow on her and delivered
her to your doorstep on your birthday. I never wanted things to be this way.”

Dr. Wynne. Buffy. Rick. How many of the people we considered allies were never allies at all? “But they are,” I said.

Rick sighed. “True enough.” He turned, starting toward the sealed blast doors behind him. His Secret Servicemen continued facing forward, watching us with what I could only describe as suspicion. They were waiting for one of us to do something.

Instead, we just stood there. Finally, Alaric asked, “Are we supposed to go with you?”

“What? Oh. Yes.” Rick waved for us to follow him. “Right this way.”

“Blood tests…?” asked Becks.

“We don’t bother with the security theater here,” said Steve. There was a deep disdain in his voice—less, I thought, for the lack of security in this garage, and more for the idea that the security everywhere else in the world was flawed.

And it
was
flawed. I used to believe in that level of security, in blood tests every ten minutes and checking your reflexes and response rates constantly. Even as an Irwin, I swore by following the rules. And then I met Dr. Abbey, who maintained the absolute minimum where security was concerned, and I learned that half the tests we take on a daily basis are useless. If you haven’t been exposed or gone outside, what’s the point of sticking another needle in your finger? Those tests didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know… but they reinforced the idea that we had to be afraid, always, that our humanity was fleeting, maintained only by a constant web of government oversight.

Rick tapped out a code on the keypad by the blast
doors and they slid open, revealing a hall that could have belonged in any government building I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure what it is that identifies their hallways, but there’s something in the inevitable combination of beige, white, and green that just screams “seat of power.” Mind, the Presidential Seal etched on the sliding glass doors that had been concealed behind the blast doors didn’t hurt.

“You know, my mother always dreamed I’d wind up here someday,” said Becks. “Pretty sure she wanted me to be First Lady, not a semi-hostage journalist on the run from a global conspiracy, but hey. At least I’m in the White House.”

I laughed and started for the doors. They slid open at our approach, and, once again, there was no blood test required to get inside.

“Getting into the White House through any of the public entrances requires six blood tests and a retinal scan,” said Rick as we walked. “If you’re unable to successfully complete a retinal scan for any reason, you have to submit to whatever further testing security deems necessary. Refusal to be tested will result in your being removed from the premises.”

“And shot,” said George. “Correct?”

Rick looked uncomfortable. “It generally doesn’t come to that.”

“Mm-hmm.” She had stepped through the doors a few feet ahead of me. She stopped there, waiting until we could walk on side by side. “What are we doing here, Rick?”

“You’re here because… it was time for you to be brought up to speed.” He kept walking, trusting the rest of us to follow. I’m sure the presence of three enormous Secret Service agents had nothing to do with his degree of confidence.

No, really.

The four of us stuck close together as we walked along the hall, George and me in the lead, right behind Rick, with Becks and Alaric behind us. Steve and the two unnamed agents brought up the rear. The driver of our SUV stayed in the vehicle when we went inside. Presumably, he or she had been left in order to park the car. This was all very well organized. I stepped a little closer to George, whose face was set in the grim mask that meant she was as uncomfortable as I was. That was good. I didn’t want to be the only one who knew we were walking into a trap.

We stopped at an apparently blank wall midway down the hall. Rick gave the rest of us an apologetic look as he said, “This is where we have to take your weapons away. I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re about to go into some very secure areas, and I don’t have the clearance to authorize you to go armed.”

“You’re the Vice President of the United States,” said George. “If you don’t have the clearance, who does?”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.

“Right.” George sighed and removed the gun from her belt. Steve stepped up with a large plastic bin; she put the gun inside.

That was the cue for the rest of us to begin shedding our weapons. Alaric and George were clean in a matter of minutes. Becks and I took longer. The bin in Steve’s hands was dangerously full by the time we finished.

“Can we get a claim check for those?” asked Alaric.

Steve snorted, expression darkly amused. “Unlikely.”

“Just checking,” said Alaric, unruffled.

“Thank you,” said Rick. He pressed his hand against the wall. A light came on behind his palm, and the wall turned transparent—a trick I’d only seen once
before, in the Portland offices of the CDC. There was an elevator on the other side.

Alaric whistled. “Where can I get me one of those?”

“First, get a six-billion-dollar security budget. After that, I’ll put you in touch with the DOD,” said Rick. The transparent patch of wall slid to the side as the elevator doors swished open, revealing a surprisingly industrial-looking metal box. This elevator could have been located in any dock or warehouse in the world, and yet here it was, in the White House. Rick beckoned us forward again. “After you.”

“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.