“George R. Stewart,” he replied. “And yes, the ‘R’ stands for ‘Romero.’ My parents were grateful, not creative.”
“Georgia, here,” I said. “One of my best friends was a Georgette.”
“Georgette Meissonier, right?” George caught my startled expression and reddened again. “I, um. I’m a big fan of your work. Your last post was… it was amazing. I’ve never read anything like it.”
I wasn’t sure whether I should feel flattered or embarrassed. I wound up mixing both reactions as I said awkwardly, “Oh. So you know the part where I’m dead.”
“The dead have been walking for a quarter century.” He moved to my other side, adjusting another sensor. Dr. Shaw’s other assistants all seemed to have machines to tend, leaving George with the dubious honor of working with the living equipment. Me, and the slime mold. “I’m glad you’re back. If anyone deserves to be back…”
“Let’s hope the rest of the world feels the same way when I start doing the celebrity blog circuit,” I said, putting a lilt in my tone to show that I was joking. I wasn’t joking.
“They’re waiting for you,” he said, cheeks getting redder still. He stopped talking after that, focusing all the more intently on the sensors he was shifting. I blinked a little, watching him. I’d expected a lot of reactions. That wasn’t one of them. My last post… it made me another name on The Wall, but that was all, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
The idea that I’d become some sort of symbol worried me. I’m a realist. I’ve been a realist since the day I looked at the Masons—who’d been Mommy and Daddy until that moment—and realized that Shaun was right, and they didn’t love us.
I’d already known the CDC was never going to let me go. Whatever they brought me back for—blackmail or science project or just because I was the most convenient corpse when they decided to prove they could do it for real—it wasn’t going to include opening the doors and telling me to go on my merry way. I was a prisoner. I was a test subject. I was, in a very real way, as much a piece of lab equipment as the machines that I was connected to. The only difference was that the machines couldn’t resent the fact that they had no choice in their own existence.
And if I was a symbol, I was also a weapon, whether I wanted to be one or not.
“Are any of them pinching you?” asked George.
“No,” I said, resisting the urge to shake my head. I didn’t want to trigger any more alarms if I didn’t have to. “I think we’re good to continue.”
“We’re almost done,” he said, and offered one more awkward, almost worshipful smile before moving away.
The remainder of the tests passed without incident. More living slime was applied to my limbs and torso, sometimes by George, sometimes by one of the other assistants; more sensors were attached or moved, allowing Dr. Shaw’s equipment to record a detailed image of everything going on inside me. I resisted the urge to spend the whole time staring at the monitors. I didn’t understand them. All I could do was upset myself more by watching them.
I’d almost managed to drift off again when the assistants began pulling the sensor pads off, letting George sprinkle what looked—and smelled—like baby powder on the sticky green residue the sensors left behind. True to his word, the green stuff rolled into tight little balls, which he scraped off me with the edge of his hand, gathering it all into one gooey-looking mass.
“Please don’t forget to feed the slime mold,” said Dr. Shaw, moving to disconnect the sensors at my temples. “I have no desire to listen to a week of complaints because we have to culture ourselves a new colony.”
“Yes, Dr. Shaw,” said George, and hurried off with his handful of inert green goop. Most of the other assistants followed him, leaving me alone with Dr. Shaw and Kathleen, the assistant who had initially brought me my currently discarded robe. She was holding it again, face a mask of patience as she waited for Dr. Shaw to finish freeing me from their equipment.
“Kathleen, what is our time situation?” asked Dr. Shaw, working a thumbnail under one of the sensors on my forehead. Either these had been pressed down harder, or they’d used a particularly robust batch of slime mold to glue them to my head and neck; it felt like she was trying to chip her way through concrete.
“We have fifteen minutes remaining in your original research appointment,” said Kathleen serenely. “We have ninety-three seconds of previously untransmitted sensor data, which James is now feeding through the main uplink. It will remain unquestioned for approximately fifty-four more seconds.”
I was still blinking at her in confusion when Dr. Shaw nodded, said, “Good,” and ripped the recalcitrant sensor from my forehead. I yelped, clapping a hand over the stinging patch it left behind. Dr. Shaw watched me, calm appraisal in her eyes. “Are you paying attention?”
“Yes!” I gasped, half glaring at her. “I was paying attention
“There will be an accident with the building’s EMP shield tonight, at six minutes past midnight. The shift change will have occurred an hour previous, and you will have a thirty-minute window before anyone realizes they’ve lost the visual feed to your quarters.” The certainty in her voice told me this wasn’t the first time she’d had to give this little spiel. “Your contact will come to collect you. There’s something we feel you need to see.”
“Eleven seconds,” said Kathleen.
“Do you understand?” asked Dr. Shaw.
I understood that they’d obviously timed this little window of stolen security so as to leave me no room for asking questions. “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“Four seconds.”
Dr. Shaw bent to remove the last sensor from the underside of my jaw. This time, her fingers were gentle, and the slime mold let go without resistance. The professional chill was back in her eyes as she stepped back, saying, “You may get dressed now. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” I said, standing. My legs were surprisingly shaky; I’d either been sitting still for longer than I thought, or there was some form of muscle relaxant engineered into their adhesive slime. Possibly both. Kathleen passed me the robe, and I leaned against the side of the chair to shrug it back on. Being clothed didn’t make me feel any better. As the tests Dr. Shaw and her team had been running proved, I was always naked here. What difference did fabric make when these people could look inside my body, and understand it in ways that I didn’t?
Kathleen and Dr. Shaw waited as I got my balance back. “Better?” asked Dr. Shaw.
“I think so.”
“Good. Make yourself decent; I’ll go unseal the door before Dr. Thomas decides to knock it down.” She almost smiled as she turned and walked away from us, her heels clacking against the floor.
“This way,” said Kathleen, motioning for me to follow her—in case, I supposed, I had somehow managed to forget where I left the screen that was protecting my flimsy CDC-issue pajamas… and the gun Gregory had somehow managed to smuggle to me. That was the last thing I was going to forget.
Becoming a licensed journalist requires passing basic gun safety and marksmanship exams; even if you’re planning to do nothing but sit at home typing to an anonymous audience, having the phrase “accredited journalist” after your name means having a carry permit. Becoming a licensed field journalist, like I am—like I
Kathleen waited outside the screen while I went behind it and put my pajamas back on. The small plastic gun tucked easily into the top of my right sock, not even creating a noticeable bulge once my pants were on. As long as I could act natural, Dr. Thomas would never know that it was there. That was probably what Gregory was counting on.
Gregory, and the EIS. There was no way Dr. Shaw wasn’t working for them, and if she was one of theirs, her assistants probably were, too. Definitely Kathleen; no one who was loyal to the CDC would have stood there calmly counting down our privacy window. Not unless she was a double agent hidden in the EIS, and that idea was too James Bond for me to worry about, since there was nothing I could do if it was true. The CDC had been infiltrated.
