She sat on the stairs and turned on her phone. A little battery power was left. Berenike had left a message the night before:
“I found the fourth sister. Lillian, say hello.”
A young voice said, tentatively, “Hello. I’m Lillian. I’m eleven years old. Um, Berenike is taking care of me. I’d like to meet you.”
Berenike added, “It’s been a very hard day for her. We’re on our way to City Hall to be safe. I guess the White House wants us all arrested, and some so-called patriots are trying to do it. Be careful. I’ll send more information.” She had sent the same list of suspects that Irene had already seen on the screens of her kidnappers. They weren’t the only set of clones.
Avril had left a message last night, too: “To let you guys know, I’m okay. Are you?”
Berenike messaged again, an hour ago: “Good morning. You know, I woke up every two hours last night to see if the lights were on. And they were. That means the rebels are winning. Lillian and I are going to spend the day delivering supplies. She’s pretty tough, all things considered. She lost her mom yesterday.”
Irene thought about how to reply. “I’m out of jail now. I was arrested by the patriots. I can’t get a car, so I guess I have to walk home. I’ll keep checking in.” It was too hard to pronounce the words that Mamá was dead, that Nimkii might be out of his pen, might be gone, might be dead, too.
She began walking. She knew the route, five miles, and it had never seemed so long. She saw only one car drive past and no other signs of life. She passed a field where cows were lowing desperately, and they came to the fence when she passed as if she could help them. At one farm, hundreds of chickens were running free. A few of them followed her for a while, apparently thinking she’d feed them. If she had any food, she’d have eaten it herself.
It began to drizzle. About a mile later, when she was damp and shivering, the rain stopped and the clouds broke up. The sky was sunny when she walked up the driveway of the farm, calling Nimkii’s name.
No sign of him, though, not for the rest of the morning, not all day.
I was free to leave … but.…
Leave but … I was shown how the White House had targeted me as well as some of SongLab’s progeny as Chinese spies—my children! I could only hope with a trembling heart and hands that they had found safety. Worse, yesterday’s chaos had given way to more careful thought, and both sides had taken a step toward organization, which meant new, more systematic confrontations. Disease alone could not achieve sufficient destruction.
Leave but … the virus and its mutations still might yield life-giving secrets, and now that I had slept (although not well) and was refreshed (under the influence of stimulants), I could continue with my research, which might work miracles.
In the meanwhile, I was told, please avoid standing near windows. Snipers. The building’s guards had been rearranged … but some still patrolled the interior of the building against the known existence of an enemy within. The Prez had died, sensationally of both illness and a bullet, but his supporters would die harder.
Under those extenuating circumstances, I paused to have lunch—or dinner, time having lost some of its importance—and Vita joined me in the little self-service cafeteria. Two days ago I would have been flattered. Today I welcomed her only because I had unfinished business.
“Why recruit me?”
“We thought it might be you,” she said.
“Me?”
“The one who could have released the second virus.”
My heart crashed to be subjected to such an obvious lie. She knew how to evoke a sympathetic tone of voice, but her words were transparent. If something went wrong, I would be set up as the scapegoat. In fact, I would already be in custody. She had known that all along and had willingly taken part in the plan. Her beautiful, brilliant mind had failed her in the most basic ways.
Perhaps she read the disappointment I tried to hide. “You had the motive and the means,” she said.
I looked down at my meal, an egg-salad sandwich, probably ersatz eggs, which would be a kindness to chickens, but imitation eggs amounted to one more way in which the world had long ago begun turning falsely on its axis.
“Or rather,” she continued, “they thought it could be you. I thought you would help in ways we couldn’t predict, and I was right.” She added a tiny ersatz smile.
“I’m glad I proved you right.” To protect my heart, I changed the subject. “We can reconsider ways to slow viral replication within cells, and with luck we can find something relatively common and ready to use.”
“Maybe garlic soup?” she said sarcastically. “That’s what they’re saying, garlic soup.”
Her little joke struck me sour, more revelry in falsehood. “Maybe fresh garlic extract applied directly to lung tissue would be effective. But about having a motive, I was misjudged.”
“You’ve been badly misjudged before and might have a vendetta.”
“I was saddened, not vengeful. I love people. That’s why I made them.”
She took a sip of tea. “You never had children of your own, though.”
“After three ectopic pregnancies and other troubles, I could take a hint.”
“I’m sure something could have been done.”
I was sure I didn’t need advice about my reproductive life, knowing what the next assumption would be. By the time I’d given up on motherhood, I’d already founded SongLab: it did not serve as a substitute for a personal lack of
