Fire? In the reporter’s now-shaky feed, smoke rose from the front and rear of the building.
“That wasn’t one of our contingencies,” Enos said, as if fire were a personal insult.
Avril’s crew leader, Morgana, announced, “I’ve got the code for the lock.” She hurried to the door to the sector and held the phone on her wrist against it. Nothing happened. “Fuck, I thought I did.”
Avril sniffed. There might be smoke in the air, at least some sort of sharp plasticlike odor.
“Lemme try again,” Morgana muttered.
“Wait,” the reporter said, “I’m hearing police communications. Security robots are retreating behind the fires. The heat hides their thermal signatures.”
Morgana put her phone to the door again. Nothing happened. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Avril’s thighs ached from crouching, and her shoulder still hurt, too, and her muscles wanted to move.
“I hear sirens,” the reporter said. “Fire trucks? But how can they get close if the robots will shoot at them?” Flames popped out of the building as if the facade were hollow inside. “These are cheap buildings, I bet. They’ll burn easy.”
Morgana shouted, “I’ve got it. You’re free. Let’s go!”
Avril knew the plan. Find the exits, appraise the situation, and work with the rescue teams outside to bring out the ill mutineers first. But the exits were on fire, and robot guards were shooting. Things weren’t going to go as planned. She ran down the corridor anyway toward the back exit, just as she’d been assigned, to clear the way for people carrying ill prisoners.
“Irene!”
She turned. Cal had called her from inside one of the pens. He was in need of a shave and a shower—and stooped and wary, not the confident man she’d met five days ago.
“I’m not Irene.” He knew better, and she had better things to do than waste her time on him. She had an assignment.
“Can you be Irene?” he said.
“Can I be a clone? Sure. I’ve done it all my life. Is it a good thing now?” What was he going to do, apologize?
“I was just being careful about things. You know.”
Nope, she wasn’t getting an apology. Her team had reached the end of the corridor. She needed to catch up.
He said, “Irene needs you to help her.”
“The one with the mammoth?”
“Her mother is here.”
Celia! He’d been arrested with her, arguing. Avril would gladly help Irene, but not him. “What does she need?”
He fidgeted. “Her mother is sick. Irene can’t get here, but you can be her and help her mother. You can pretend to be Irene. I have her on the phone. You can talk to her.”
Pretend to be Irene? She’d watched that video twenty times at least. She didn’t look exactly like Irene: too pale, too thin, too young. But maybe she could pretend. “Let me talk to Irene.”
“Come with me. You can use Celia’s phone.” He reached for her arm, the wrenched one.
She stepped aside. “I’ll follow you.”
Celia lay with a sweater draped over her chest on a carpeted area alongside a chain-link fence that served as a dividing wall. The rug was old and stained and dirty. The air smelled much more smoky, acrid—and smoke from plastic was toxic.
Cal picked up a phone on the floor next to Celia and spoke into it. “Here’s Avril.” He held it out.
The projection showed an almost-mirrorlike face. “Hello?” she said.
“Are you there, Avril?” Irene asked. Behind her were voices, but distant, as if she were outdoors. Irene’s voice sounded like her own in a recording, higher and thinner compared with the way she heard her own voice in her ears. It was creepily familiar.
Irene said, “I need you to pretend you’re me. I can’t get there to be with her.”
Cal handed Avril an earpiece. She slipped it in and thought she heard Irene sobbing. Or maybe she heard the pulse from her own heart, beating fast. Celia had a bit of blood in the corner of her mouth, and her hair lay around her in snarls. She coughed compulsively, deep and wet and weak.
Cal took the phone and held it to record the scene. Irene gasped when she saw her mother and how appalling she looked.
If Avril’s mother got sick, would she be like this? Who would care for her? She took Celia’s hand. It felt too warm. Celia clasped Avril’s hand weakly.
“We speak Spanish to each other,” Irene said in a tight voice. “Tell her, ‘Estoy aquí, Mamá.’”
Avril rummaged through her two years of high school Spanish. I’m here, Mama. She pronounced it as best she could with pure, musical vowels.
Celia took a shallow, rough gasp. “Irene,” she muttered with the Spanish pronunciation, ee-RAY-nay. “¿Estás bien?” Are you well?
Avril repeated what Irene told her, surprised by how much she understood: “Yes, I am well and I am here. I am going to live, Mamá. I am well.”
“Vas a vivir,” Mamá rasped. You are going to live.
“I love you, Mamá, and I’m here.”
Celia muttered something more and coughed a lot. Irene was silent. An alarm went off nearby. A fire alarm? Finally. Avril looked around. The air was gray with smoke. Somewhere far away, glass shattered. Everyone besides her and Cal and Celia had fled from the pen.
Mamá suddenly sat up, her mouth spilling bloody foam. She moaned and writhed. Avril tried to hug her.
“What’s going on?” Cal said. He was still holding the phone for Irene to watch. Avril knew what was happening. Death. And Irene didn’t need to see this—it was bad enough to watch a stranger die. Avril slapped the phone out of his hand.
“Estás bien,” she murmured to Celia. You’re okay. “Estoy aquí.” I’m here. “Te amo, Mamá.” I love you, Mamá. That was all the Spanish she could remember, but what else was there to say? Irene was sobbing in her earpiece. Could she even hear what was happening over the blaring alarm? Mamá’s breaths became hoarse. And with one long rasp, they stopped.
Avril kept holding her, and she began coughing, too. Would CPR have worked? With this poisoned air?
The lights went out. A crash came
