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  Shaun may hate the Masons, but at least they supported what he chose to do with his life. No cotillions, no coming-out parties, no “Oh, honey, this is just a phase” or “Please, darling, it’s just one night.” Just one night, just one dance, just one silk dress, and the next thing I knew, I’d be just one more product of the Westchester Trophy Wife Factory, proudly producing quality goods since the days of the Mayflower. I am a card-carrying Daughter of the American Revolution. I can foxtrot, quickstep, waltz, and tango. I know how to plan a cocktail party, make small talk, and overlook a man’s personality, manners, and hygiene in favor of what matters: his bloodline and his bank account.

  font size="3">These are the things my parents taught me. They raised me to be just like my sisters—sweet, pliant, pretty, and available to the highest bidder. It’s too bad I had other ideas. I am the shame of my family, the bad seed whose name will be quietly erased from the family tree the day after my picture gets posted on the Wall. I am the one who couldn’t be content playing nicely with the other children, and who had to go out and get her hands all dirty.

  It’s days like this when I miss Georgia most of all. I may have abandoned the Newsies to go Irwin the second the opportunity presented itself, but she understood what I meant when I talked about my family, about not being sorry that I let them down. The things that made her a pretty lousy friend made her an excellent boss, and I think this would all be a hell of a lot easier if she were here.

  Mom, Dad? The next horrible thing I do in public is for you. I hope you choke on it.

  —From Charming Not Sincere, the blog of Rebecca Atherton, March 8, 2041

  Hello, darlings! I hope you’re ready for some sizzling romance, swashbuckling adventure, tragic love, and mysterious happenings, because all those and more are on the schedule for this week. I’ll be on the live chat every night from seven to ten Pacific time, and I’m always happy to talk about anything your little hearts desire. I’m your private Scheherazade, and I’m here to tell you stories all night long. Welcome to Maggie’s House of Horrors—I hope you’re planning to stay for a while.

  After all, you know I always miss you when you’re gone.

  —From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, April 11, 2041

  Four

  What are we going to do?”

  Becks asked the question, but all three of my staffers were looking at me with near-identical expressions of impatient expectation on their faces. It was all I could do to not turn and flee the room. They were expecting me to give them a direction; they were expecting me to make the call; they were expecting me to be George.

  “What are we going to do?” I echoed, hoping they’d take the question as rhetorical.

  The person it was aimed at didn’t. There are small mercies. We’re going to find out what’s going on, and we’re going to scream it from the mountaintops, said George. I repeated each word a half-beat behind her, creating a weird delay that no one outside my head could hear. We’re going to do our jobs. We’re going to go out there, and we’re going to get the news.

  All four of the people in the room were staring at me by the time I—we—finished our little speech. Alaric was the first to look amisducking his head slightly as he turned back to his computer screen. Dude always wanted me to be my sister when it came time to make a decision, but he was never okay with it when I actually did.

  “That’s great and everything, but there are a few things to work out,” said Dave. He held up a finger. “What do we do with Doc here?” A second finger. “If we don’t know whether it’s safe to talk to the CDC, where the hell are we supposed to start?” A third finger. “What are we going to say to the rest of the site? This isn’t you and a little team and a van anymore. This is a business. We can’t go chasing a story we can’t talk about, maybe even disappear on everybody, and expect them to be cool with it.”

  “Call Rick, see what he says,” said Becks.

  “I’m pretty sure we can’t call the vice president of the United States with ‘Hey, we have a dead CDC researcher who says somebody’s trying to suppress her research,’ ” I replied. “We’re going to call Rick, but we need more than we have before we do it.”

  Becks looked mollified. Rick Cousins used to be one of our staff Newsies. Now he’s helping run the country. That gave us a certain degree of access to the president, but if we were going to announce that the sky was falling, we needed to have some proof.

  “And the rest?” asked Dave.

  “Starting with your third question, we’re going to tell Mahir, because he already knows, and we’re going to tell Maggie,” I said. “We can figure out the rest as we go.”

  Dave frowned. “Why are we getting Maggie involved?”

  “Because she’s in charge of the Fictionals. If there’s any chance this is going to end up getting big enough that we have to bring the whole site in on it, I want her to have had time to figure out how she’s planning to tell her people,” I said.

  Plus, it’s the right thing to do, added George.

  “Well, yeah,” I muttered. “I knew that.”

  My team had learned not to comment on my conversations with George. Kelly hadn’t. Frowning, she asked, “Are you wearing an earpiece?”

  “What?” Shit. “Uh… no, not exactly.”

  “Then who are you talking to?”

  There was no way out but straight ahead. Shrugging, I said, “Georgia.”

  Kelly hesitated, emotions chasing themselves across her face like a gang of zombies chasing a government hunting party. Finally, she settled for the easiest possible answer: “I see.”

  The urge to get up in her face and try to start something was almost too strong to suppress. That’s how I usually dealt with people who gave me the look that she was wearing now, that horrible mix of surprise and shock and pity. Six months ago, I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. Six months ago, I was thinking a lot less clearly. Maybe I’m crazy. But I’m going to be the kind of crazy thatfont sizreful until it blows everything in its path to kingdom come.

  “We all cope in our own ways,” I said briskly. “Dave, is Maggie online? We can conference her in right now.”

  “Negative,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation. I gave him a curious look. He shrugged. “She had a movie party last night. She won’t be up for another few hours.”

  “Is she actually nocturnal or just trying to train herself to act that way?” asked Becks. Glancing to me, she added, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”

  “What, with telling Maggie?”

  “With not telling everyone else.”

  “How many people work for this site?”

  Becks paused. “Uh… I’m not sure.”

  “That’s why we have to do things this way, because right off the top of my head, neither am I.” I gestured at the server bank. “Like Dave says, this isn’t just me and a team that fits in a van anymore; this is a business. You know why corporate espionage keeps happening, no matter how bad they make the penalties for getting caught?”

  “Greed?” ventured Alaric.

  “Poor judgment brought on by possession of insufficient data?” said Kelly.

  “People stop caring,” said Dave.

  I pointed at him. “Give that man a prize. People stop caring. Once you reach the point where you’re working with more people than can comfortably go for drinks together, folks stop giving as much of a shit. Politics creep in. Do I trust everyone who works for us with the day-to-day? Yeah. I’d trust every Irwin we have at my back in a firefight, and every Newsie we’ve got to tell the truth according to their registered biases. But we go dangling a giant cherry of a story like ‘The CDC has illegal clones, and their dead researcher isn’t really dead, oh, and maybe there’s a conspiracy blocking certain research paths,’ somebody’s going to leak it. They’ll do it for profit, they’ll do it because it gives them the leverage to get a better job with another site, or they’ll do it because it’s just too damn good n
ot to share. Every person we bring in on this is another chance that this gets out before we’re ready, and we’re all fucked.”

  “Some of us more than others,” muttered Kelly, sotto voce.

  “You trusted us with Tate,” said Becks.

  “We didn’t have a choice with Tate, and we didn’t understand the stakes the way we do now,” I said. “We tell Mahir, we tell Maggie, and we stop there until we know what’s going on. Anyone really feel like arguing?”

  No one did.

  “Good,” I said, after taking another look around the room. “Doc? From what you’re saying, the CDC’s out of the picture. I’m assuming that means WHO is also compromised.”

  I pe="3">She nodded marginally. “WHO and USAMRIID. There’s no way we can go to them without the CDC finding out what we’re doing. But…” She hesitated.

  “But what?” asked Becks. “I’m sorry, Doc, you can’t just show up here with your corpses and your conspiracy and your craziness and not give us at least a place to start.”

  Kelly wiped her eyes, managing to do it without smearing her mascara, and said, “I mentioned that the funding wasn’t really there for researching the reservoir conditions. My team had the director’s blessing, and we were still working on a shoestring budget. Our interns kept getting reassigned, our lab spaces… anyway. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that almost all the specialists have gone into the private sector to pursue their own research. I have a list.”

  “Thank you, God,” said Dave, rolling his eyes theatrically toward the ceiling.

  “Dave, cut it out.” I focused on Kelly. She was holding it together better than I would have expected. Pure researchers don’t usually do well when suddenly hurled out of their labs and into the real world. “Is that everything, Doc?”

  Kelly took a deep breath, and said, “No one outside the CDC knew what my team was researching.”

  Dead silence engulfed the room as Dave and Alaric stopped typing and Becks and I just stared. There was a moment where I wasn’t sure I’d be able to control my temper—a moment where her statement was one thing too many in the “Why didn’t you say that first?” column. Was it her fault? No. But it was suddenly our problem.

  Calm down, cautioned George. We need to keep her talking.

  “Says you,” I snapped. Kelly blinked, looking to Becks, who shook her head. My team’s had time to learn the difference between me talking to them and me talking to George. Thankfully.

  It’s not her fault.

  “I know.” I whirled around and punched the wall. Kelly jumped, making a small squeaking noise. That was satisfying, even as it made me feel worse about the whole situation. Like she wasn’t scared enough already? “Sorry, Doc. I’m just… I’m sorry. I was a little surprised, is all.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. It wasn’t—not according to the look in her eyes—but it was going to have to do.

  I shook my hand to ease the ache as I counted to ten, considering the implications of Kelly’s words. We’d always known somebody inside the CDC was involved with Governor Tate’s doomed attempt to claim the presidency through the use of weaponized Kellis-Amberlee; Kelly’s information just confirmed it. What we’d never had was the proof necessary to make a concerted inquiry into one of the most powerful organizations in the world. “Get me facts and I’ll convince the president,” that’s what Rick had said. But the facts had been awfully slow in coming.

  As for me… I’d been ready to take the CDC on single-handedly, if that was what it took. Mahir and Alaric talked some sense into me. Getting myself killed wouldn’t bring George back. If we wanted the pple responsible for her death punished, we needed to be slow, we needed to be careful, and we needed to nail them to the wall. Kelly’s information didn’t change any of that, and at the same time, it changed everything, because it meant the conspiracy was still alive and well. If someone inside the CDC decided that the study needed to stop, then someone inside the CDC was involved in whatever was raising the death rates among individuals with reservoir conditions.

  Somebody knew. Somebody knew George was in danger—before the campaign, her condition pre-existed the campaign by years—and they didn’t do a thing. Somebody knew—

  Shaun!

  Her tone was sharper this time, cutting cleanly through my anger. I took another deep breath, counting to ten before I straightened, tucking my bruised hand behind my back. “Doc, give Dave the list.” I paused. “Please.”

  “Sure.” Kelly produced a flash drive from her briefcase and leaned over the back of the couch to pass it to Dave. He took it without a murmur of thanks, slamming it straight into a USB port and beginning to type.

  “Thanks. Now take off all your clothes.”

  “What?” demanded Kelly, eyes going wide. “Shaun, are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just need you to strip.”

  “I’m not going to take off my clothes!”

  “Actually, princess, you are,” said Becks, standing and moving to stand beside me. “We need to check you for bugs. Don’t worry. You don’t have anything we haven’t seen before.”

  Being asked by another woman seemed to do the trick, even if it was overly generous to call what Becks was doing “asking.” Kelly sighed deeply and began removing her clothing, holding each piece up to show us before dropping it to the floor. Finally, when she was standing stark naked in the middle of the living room, she spread her arms and asked, “Happy?”

  “Ecstatic.” I glanced to Becks. “Take her clothes with you.” Becks nodded, and grabbed a laundry bag before beginning to gather Kelly’s things.

  “Wait, what?” Kelly dropped her arms. “Where is she taking my clothes?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re going with them. Becks, get the countersurveillance kit from the closet and take her to the bedroom. I want everything she has swept for trackers, bugs, anything that might transmit. Don’t bring her back until you’re sure she’s clean.” I gave Kelly a reassuring look. “It’s not personal, Doc. We just need to know.”

  Kelly surprised me: She didn’t argue. She just sighed, looking resigned, and said, “I understand decontamination procedures,” before picking up her briefcase and turning to Becks. “Where do we go?”

  “This way.” Becks slung the laundry sack over her shoulder and led Kelly from the room. The door closed behind them with a snap as Becks engaged the interior locks. They’d be a while.

  Alaric and Dave were watching me warily when I turned to face them. I smiled faintly. “It’s a fun day, isn’t it? Alaric, turn on the wireless speaker. I want the two of you to hear this.”

  “Hear what?” he asked, beginning to type again.

  “I’m going to play the concerned citizen and call the Memphis CDC. I want to extend my heartfelt condolences to my good friend Joseph Wynne,” I said blandly, pulling out my phone. “Dave, start the server recording.”

  “It’s on,” he said.

  “Good.” With all the necessary steps taken, I flipped my phone open. Most guys my age have girlfriends and drinking buddies on their speed dial. Me, I have the Memphis CDC. Sometimes I really think I never had a chance in hell of having a normal life.

  “Dr. Joseph Wynne’s office, how may I direct your call?” The receptionist’s voice was bright, perky, and generic. I might have spoken to him before; I might not have. Office staff at the CDC seemed trained to behave as interchangeably as possible.

  “Is Dr. Wynne available?”

  “Dr. Wynne has asked not to be disturbed today.”

  “And why is that?”

  “There has been a recent personnel change, and he is attempting to redistribute tasks in his department,” said the receptionist pertly.

  That was the coldest way I’d ever heard to describe somebody’s death. Rolling my eyes, I said, “Tell him it’s Shaun Mason calling with condolences for his recent loss.”

  “One moment please.” There was a click and the speaker was suddenly playing the elevator music version of some blood
less pre-Rising pop hit. Removing the lyrics and most of the subliminal bass actually improved the song.

  Dave and Alaric got up and came to stand beside me, as much for the psychological benefit as to hear what was going on; the speaker was broadcasting every tortured, tuneless note to the entire room, and it kept broadcasting as the music clicked off, replaced by the tired, Southern-accented voice of Dr. Joseph Wynne: “Shaun. I wondered when you’d be calling.”

  “I just finished processing the news, sir. How are you holding up?”

  “Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose,” he said. Someone who thought Kelly was dead might have taken the strain in his voice for grief. Since Kelly was in the next apartment showing Becks parts of her anatomy that only her gynecologist would normally see, I recognized his hesitance for what it was: fear.

  I was talking to a man who was scared out of his mind.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We don’t rightly know yet, although I wish we did. There’s a group of folks here from the Atlanta office going over our security tapes and checking all the facilities. There’s no way anyone should have been able to ghis far into the building, but they managed it somehow.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I said, exchanging a nod with Dave. It was good tactical thinking. Set up a convoluted enough break-in and distract the security teams with picking it apart, rather than looking too closely at “Kelly” while she was still in the morgue. The body would be cremated almost immediately—hell, it might have been cremated already, depending on her family’s wishes—and any chance of them identifying it as a clone would be lost. Sure, Dr. Wynne would be fucked beyond belief if the break-in was revealed as a fake, but Kelly would be in the clear.