Blackout (58 page)

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.

She’s a good kid. Even after everything she’s been through, she’s a good kid. Shaun and Georgia… they were good kids, too. Even after everything we put them through, they somehow managed to grow up to be good people. I don’t know how that happened. I guess that makes sense, because I never really knew
them
. I never wanted to. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite, because now that they’re grown and gone—gone for good, in Georgia’s case—I’m proud of them.

I wish I’d been a better mother when I had the chance.

—From
Stacy’s Survival Strategies
, the blog of Stacy Mason, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

P
resident Ryman was flanked by three Secret Servicemen of his own, along with a man I didn’t recognize, but whose CDC-issue lab coat immediately made my heart start beating faster. I managed to hold my ground only by reminding myself that Georgia Mason—the original—would never show fear in the face of a man who wasn’t holding a gun to her head, and maybe not even then. If I was going to deal with these people, I had to do it the way she would have done it. Nothing else was going to work.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” I said, tilting my chin up just enough to be sure my sunglasses would entirely block my eyes. I didn’t want him thinking of me as a science project. I wanted him thinking of me as
Georgia
, and Georgia’s eyes didn’t look like mine.

“That’s because I’m not,” he said. He looked tired. None of his Secret Servicemen were familiar—the only familiar face I’d seen among the guards was Steve, and Steve would probably have a job until everyone who’d been on the campaign was dead and gone. There’s something to be said for loyalty like his.

Shaun took a step forward, planting himself beside me, and all but glared at President Ryman. “You mean you knew about this cloning shit, too, and you didn’t tell me? Don’t you people think that sending me a note might have been a good idea?”

“No, they didn’t,” I said, as calmly as I could. It was surprisingly easy. Losing my temper wouldn’t do any good, and I was starting to become accustomed to the idea that everyone in the world—except Shaun—was going to betray me. “I was never supposed to leave the lab.”

Rick moved to join President Ryman. He met my eyes as he turned to face the rest of us. President Ryman… didn’t. He looked away instead, and the set of his jaw said everything he wasn’t saying out loud.

“You bastard,” whispered Shaun. He started to take a step forward. I grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

“The last thing we need today is for you to assault the president,” I said quietly. “Take a deep breath, and let it go.”

“He was going to let them kill you.”

“He let them make me in the first place. Let’s call that part a wash, and see where he takes it from there.” I kept watching President Ryman’s face. He kept not meeting my eyes. “Why are we here, Mr. President? You never had to let us make it this far.”

“Yes, I did.” His head snapped around. For a moment, I saw the man I knew behind the beaten shadows in his eyes. He looked angry. Not with us—with the world. “I owed you this.”

“Did you owe us this before or after you let your people call an air strike on Oakland?” asked Becks. “David Novakowski stayed behind when those bombs came down. He was an Irwin. A good one. He wasn’t
involved in your campaign because he was in Alaska at the time, but he would have liked you.” Her tone was calm and challenging at the same time, daring him to give an answer she didn’t approve of.

“The air strike on Oakland was called in response to an outbreak, and did not involve the president,” said the man from the CDC. I managed not to cringe at the sound of his voice. “Consider your words before you make accusations.”

“It was a pretty convenient outbreak, considering one of your people had just shown up, running for her life,” snapped Shaun. “Don’t try to bullshit us, okay? We all know we’re not leaving this building alive. So there’s no point in fucking with our heads.”

“Shaun.” President Ryman actually sounded offended. “Please don’t make assumptions. You’re absolutely going to leave here alive. At a certain point, it became inevitable that we’d bring you here to fully explain the situation.”

“Does that point have anything to do with us having secure footage of a living clone of Georgia Mason running around Seattle?” asked Alaric. “I ask purely out of academic curiosity, you understand. I know you’re going to lie through your teeth.”

President Ryman sighed. “You don’t trust me anymore, do you?”

“Have you given us a reason to?” I asked.

“You’re alive, Georgia. I’d think that might be enough to buy me a little patience.”

“You were planning to have me killed and replaced with a more tractable version. I think that explains a little crankiness.”

The man from the CDC cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter who’s angry with whom. You are here to
have the true nature of the Kellis-Amberlee infection explained. With that in mind, I believe it’s time we make you understand why you have been remiss in your lines of inquiry.”

“Ever notice how people like to use five-dollar words when they know they’re wrong?” asked Becks, of no one in particular.

President Ryman shook his head. “Arguing is getting us nowhere. This way.” He gestured down the hall before starting to walk. His Secret Servicemen promptly moved to get behind us, making it clear that we’d be herded along if we didn’t come on our own.

We went.

The hallway led to a room with walls covered by crystal display screens. Two of them were already showing the structure of the Kellis-Amberlee virus. Another showed an outline of a generic human body. Ryman walked to the large table at the center of the room and stopped, clearly unhappy, as he turned to the man from the CDC.

“I believe that, at this point, I must remind you that national security depends on your silence,” said the man from the CDC. “Nothing said here can leave this room.”

“Uh,
reporters
,” said Becks. “Or did you forget?”

“Even reporters have things they care about,” he said, with chilling calm. “Perhaps you feel immortal. Perhaps you consider martyrdom something to aspire to—a thrilling entry for your much-lauded ‘Wall.’ But you have a family, don’t you? Rebecca Atherton, of the Westchester Athertons. Your youngest sister was married this past summer. Katherine. A very pretty girl. It’s a pity they live in such a remote area.”

Becks’s eyes widened before narrowing into angry slits, filled with a murderous rage. “Don’t you even—” she began.

“And you, Mr. Kwong.
Your
sister is your only remaining family. She’s currently in the custody of Stacy and Michael Mason—not people renowned for their ability to keep children alive, when you stop to think about it.”

For possibly the first time in my life, original or artificial, the urge to defend the Masons rose inside me. “You’ve made your point,” I snapped. “We’ll keep our mouths shut. Now do you want to explain what the hell is so important that you need to tell us your evil plan before you have us all shot?”

“It’s not an evil plan, Georgia; it’s the truth.” With those words, President Ryman went from sounding weary to sounding utterly heartbroken. “You’ve become too associated with this whole situation, and that means we need you. You’re the ones who tell the truth, and the ones who fell off the radar when things turned bad. People will believe you.”

“Even when we’re lying to them?”

His silence was all the answer I needed.

“Please sit,” said the man from the CDC.

Grudgingly, I sat. The others did the same. Only the man from the CDC remained standing.

“The first thing you need to understand is that the KA virus, being manmade, bonds tightly to anything it encounters,” he began, in the sort of easy, lecturing tone that all doctors seem to learn in medical school. Ignoring the tension in the room, he produced a remote from his pocket and pointed it at the nearest screen. The Kellis-Amberlee model displayed there began to rotate. “This tendency created the hybridized virus to begin with. And it is what has complicated our cure for the infection.”

Shaun frowned. “Complicated your
search
for a cure?”

“No,” said the man from the CDC calmly. “Complicated our cure.” The model was suddenly surrounded by smaller, semi-spherical images that looked something like slides I’d seen of pre-Rising flu virus. They began attacking the larger KA virus, surrounding it before engulfing it entirely. “We’ve managed to create several treatments that work remarkably well, destroying the Kellis-Amberlee infection in nine out of ten afflicted.”

We all stared at him, even Steve. It was Alaric who found his voice first, asking slowly, “Then why haven’t you released it?”

“The Kellis-Amberlee virus has become so entwined with our immune systems that killing it kills them as well. Without a functioning immune system, the cured become targets for every opportunistic infection that comes along. None of our subjects have lasted long.” The image on the screen reset itself, returning to the single Kellis-Amberlee virus, floating serene and undisturbed. “To put it in simpler terms: Kill the virus, kill the population.”

“So why don’t you just
tell
people that?” demanded Shaun. “We’re not idiots!”

“Try telling Alexander Kellis that people aren’t idiots,” suggested the man from the CDC. “We cannot say ‘there will never be a cure.’ People need hope. The hope that someday, Kellis-Amberlee will be banished, and we will be free to resume the lives that we remember.”

“Why?” asked Alaric. He shook his head slowly. “We can live with the virus. The reservoir conditions are proof of that. We can find a new status quo.”

“One where anyone could become a zombie, anytime, and you don’t dare shoot them because they
might—
might
—recover their senses? This nation barely recovered from the Rising when the lines were clear and infection meant death. I doubt we could hold together as a people if we were told that recovery was an option.” I was starting to hate the absolute calm of the man from the CDC’s delivery. He continued to watch us coolly. “A cure may be impossible, but a solution
will
be found. A strain of the virus that doesn’t generate anomalous reservoir conditions will be discovered, and will be used to standardize the tragically incurable condition that now informs our society. No one will ever need to know that a cure is not possible. No one will ever need to give up hope.”

“No one except for all the people who would have recovered if you’d just failed to shoot them in the head,” said Shaun. The bitterness in his voice was strong enough to worry me. I put a hand on his arm, praying that would be enough to keep him from doing anything stupid. “The ones who would have
gotten better
.”

“Sacrifices must be made,” said the man from the CDC.

Something in his tone provided the last piece I needed to fully understand what he was saying. “You want to infect the entire world with the same strain of the virus,” I said slowly.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to need a better distribution method if you’re planning to accomplish that. You can’t be sure of everyone getting exposed the natural way.”

For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. Alaric, meanwhile, was staring at him, mouth actually falling slightly open in shock.

Finally, Alaric said, in a hushed tone, “You built the mosquitoes?”

“ ‘Built’ is a strong word—” began Rick.

“They were never intended to reach the American mainland,” said President Ryman.

I had heard that man speak with conviction a hundred times on the campaign trail; I had heard him make promises he damn well intended to keep. I had never heard him deliver a party line with that little sincerity. He wasn’t lying. He might as well have been. “What happened?” I asked. “Was there a leak?”

“No,” said Shaun, before anyone else could speak. “They let them go. They wanted to bury the news cycle, keep what happened in Memphis from getting out. Isn’t that right?”

“The storm was an unexpected complication,” said the man from the CDC. “The carrier mosquitoes were never intended to make it out of Cuba.”

I was busy holding Shaun’s arm, keeping him from doing anything we might regret later. I didn’t think to grab Alaric. Neither did Becks. Before any of us had a chance to react, the normally nonviolent Newsie was launching himself at the man from the CDC, locking his hands around the taller man’s throat and slamming him into the wall. The crystal display screen shook dangerously, but didn’t fall.

“YOUR COMPLICATION KILLED MY PARENTS!” shouted Alaric, slamming the man from the CDC against the wall again. No one moved to pull them apart. “THEY WERE IN FLORIDA! YOU KILLED MY FAMILY TO BURY A NEWS CYCLE, BECAUSE YOU COULDN’T READ A FUCKING WEATHER REPORT!”