Blackout: Book 3 of The Newsflesh Trilogy

by Mira Grant

  “That’s me. Only rational when I’m not being cut open and dissected for the amusement of others.” I took the laptop, breathing slowly through my nose to keep my hands from shaking as I opened it. The screen sprang to life, displaying a stark white background with the CDC logo in the center. I let my fingers rest against the keys, breathing unsteadily out. “Oh, wow.”

  “Maybe we only trust you because we don’t have any other choice, but we do trust you, Georgia.” Gregory touched my shoulder, causing me to look up. He smiled. “Let’s try and earn it from each other.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best,” I said. And then I bent my head and started to type, and Gregory didn’t matter anymore.

  His warning about avoiding my e-mail was smart, if unnecessary: Anyone who’s never worked professionally in Internet news would probably assume the first thing a journalist would do was go for their inbox. He was right, in a way. He was also wrong. All the public-facing e-mail addresses—the ones that fed into the customary webmail interfaces—were basically dummy accounts, feeding their contents into the true inboxes behind the After the End Times firewall system that Buffy had designed. The only time we ever needed to use those boxes directly was when we were somewhere that didn’t allow for logging all the way into the system. Even if I only had twenty minutes, I had plenty of time to make it that far.

  The first place I went was an online game site, the sort of thing that’s been killing productivity in offices everywhere since the first computer was invented. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised when the browser autofilled the URL after I’d entered only the first three letters. Not even the CDC is immune to the lure of brightly colored graphics and simplistic puzzles. The site presented a list of options, all with cute, easily marketed names and icons designed to catch the eye. I scrolled to the bottom.

  “What are you doing?” asked Gregory.

  “Not all computers have shell access these days, and any site that’s obviously designed to be secure might as well have a big red label on it, flashing ‘Oh, hey, look over here; people do things they don’t want you to know about when they’re over here,’ ” I said. The last icon on the list of games was a comparatively drab cartoon atom. I clicked on it. “So we have back doors, for those times when we need to get in, but don’t have access to the normal equipment.”

  “And one of your back doors involves a game site?”

  “Buffy designed their security.” I smiled as the “loading” bar appeared on my browser. “Buffy designed a lot of people’s security. She hid things all over the damn Internet.”

  “Well, I wish she were here,” said Gregory.

  “Yeah. So do I.” The menu appeared, giving a list of options. I clicked a set of five that would have resulted in an unplayable game if I’d actually been trying to play, and hit START. The screen froze.

  “Did it crash?” asked Gregory.

  “Are you going to watch over my shoulder the whole time I’m online?”

  “Yes. We’re still in the ‘earning trust’ phase, remember?”

  “Right. No, it didn’t crash. This is what’s supposed to happen.” I tapped the space bar twice. “If I were a casual player who’d just chosen a bad set of options, this is where I’d reload and try again. Since I’m not, this is where we wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait for that.” The browser flickered and vanished, replaced by blackness. A log-in window appeared, floating in the middle of the screen.

  USER NAME? it prompted.

  NANCY, I typed.

  “Nancy?” asked Gregory.

  “Remember how I said Buffy did our security programming? Well, Buffy was a pre-Rising media nut.”

  ADDRESS? prompted the window.

  1428 ELM STREET.

  There was a longer pause this time as the program controlling this particular back door checked my responses against the list. The pause wasn’t necessary. It was one more trick programmed by our former professional paranoid. If I touched the keyboard before I was prompted, it would not only kick me out, it would lock this door until someone who was already inside the firewall decided it was safe to open it again.

  Finally, the prompt asked, WHY DID YOU MOVE OUT?

  Of the eight possible questions it could have asked, that was the one I’d been hoping for. I wasn’t sure I remembered the answers to any of the others. I typed, BECAUSE A DEAD SERIAL KILLER WITH KNIVES FOR HANDS MURDERED MY BOYFRIEND.

  The pause this time lasted less than a second. WELCOME, GEORGIA MASON appeared on the screen, and vanished, replaced by the After the End Times logo.

  “That log-in won’t work again for six months,” I said, trying to make the comment sound casual. I probably failed, but it didn’t matter as much as making sure I got my point across. “Buffy knew her business.”

  “Remind me—why wasn’t she working for the CIA? Or better yet, for us?” Gregory dragged a chair over and sat down where he could watch my screen. Oddly, it made me feel more at ease, rather than making me feel spied on. There’s almost always been someone watching over my shoulder while I worked. It was usually Shaun, but that didn’t change the way Gregory’s presence calmed me down.

  “You guys didn’t offer her enough opportunities for bad poetry, porn, or bad poetry about porn.” I clicked the link that should have taken me to the staff directories. Instead of opening, it flashed a red “restricted” warning at me. “Crap.”

  Gregory frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About the poetry and porn? No. She was a genius. We all knew she’d been scouted by at least one of the alphabet soup agencies. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’d been scouted by all of them.” I glared at the screen. “I’m not kidding about this stupid firewall, either. They didn’t close the loopholes into the system, but they locked down the staff directory. Who does that? Purge it all, or allow for the occasional spontaneous resurrection!”

  “Most people who come back from the dead can’t type, you know.”

  “Right now, I don’t care. Let me try something else.” I moved my mouse to the administrative panel for the forums. If anything was going to stop me, it would have done so on the first layer, when I accessed the full member list. Nothing pinged. “Oh, jeez. They let Dave do the purge, didn’t they? He never finishes everything on the first go.”

  “David Novakowski?” asked Gregory, sounding suddenly hesitant.

  I glanced toward him. “Yeah. Why?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but…”

  Something in the way his voice trailed off told me what he didn’t want to finish his sentence. My eyes widened. “Dave’s dead? How the hell is Dave dead? He was the most careful Irwin I ever met!”

  “There was an outbreak in the location of your team’s new headquarters. It’s unclear exactly why he did what he did, but he chose to remain behind after the quarantine sirens began ringing. He was still inside the building when it was sterilized.”

  “By ‘sterilized,’ do you by any chance mean ‘carpet-bombed’?”

  Gregory looked away.

  Pressing my lips into a thin line, I looked back to the computer. The After the End Times forums were open in front of me like some sort of a miracle, with their threads and board titles looking so familiar that it was like I’d never left. It didn’t matter that I didn’t recognize even a quarter of them—that could happen when I spent a weekend in bed with a migraine and let Mahir take forum duty for me. What mattered was that they were there. I scrolled to the bottom of the screen, and closed my eyes for a moment from sheer relief.

  The moderator’s forum was listed. If there had been any changes to my profile following the purge of my core system access, the forum would have turned invisible, marking me as one more end user. I crossed my fingers, opened my eyes, moved the mouse to the appropriate icon, and clicked.

  The forum opened without a pause. I started scrolling down, barely aware that I was crying. According to the admin script at the bottom of the page, only
two users with mod privileges were currently online. One was me. The other was Alaric.

  “What are you doing?” asked Gregory.

  “Sending up a flare,” I said. I opened a private message window and tapped out, ALARIC ARE YOU THERE? NEED TO CHAT ASAP, DO NOT HAVE MUCH TIME.

  I hit enter.

  “Georgia—”

  “Just give it a second.”

  A message appeared in my inbox less than fifteen seconds later. HOW DID YOU GET THIS LOG-IN? THIS IS NOT FUNNY. LOG OFF RIGHT NOW OR I WILL CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES.

  I grinned. “Oh, good. He’s pissed.”

  “That’s good?”

  “Yeah, that’s good. If he’s pissed, he’ll want to know who I am so he can have someone to be pissed at. That means he’ll talk.” I hit REPLY, typing, BUFFY GAVE ME THIS LOG-IN THE DAY WE WENT LIVE. ALARIC, IT’S ME. IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME, OPEN A CHAT. I CAN PROVE IT.

  Gregory looked dubiously at my screen. “Let me guess. The goal here is to make him really mad.”

  “Kind of, yes. Alaric thinks better when he’s mad—he doesn’t second-guess himself nearly as much.” I was speaking from a flawed model and I knew it: Not only had Alaric been alive while I wasn’t, giving him time to adapt and change, but I was working off memories extracted from a dead woman’s mind and implanted in my own. Even the way I thought about myself—half “me,” half “her”—told me I couldn’t trust my own judgment where the reactions of others were concerned. And that didn’t matter, because my judgment was the only thing I had.

  That was a depressing thought. I was trying not to dwell on it when a light blinked at the bottom of my window, signaling an incoming chat request.

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m rushing you, Georgia, but we can keep this window active for another ten minutes at best.”

  “That should be all I need.” I opened the chat window. THANKS FOR TALKING TO ME, ALARIC. I APPRECIATE IT. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?

  The response was immediate, making me think it had been more than half typed before I said anything. YOU’D BETTER LOG OFF THIS SYSTEM RIGHT NOW AND NEVER COME BACK. YOU’RE JUST LUCKY MY BOSS ISN’T ONLINE, OR YOU’D BE SORRIER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE.

  DO YOU MEAN MAHIR OR SHAUN WHEN YOU SAY THAT? It was common knowledge that Mahir was my second; he was almost certainly also my replacement. I WOULD BE MORE AFRAID OF SHAUN, PERSONALLY. MAHIR MAY GET ALL PISSY AND BRITISH AT YOU, BUT HE DOESN’T HIT. IT’S ME, ALARIC. IT’S GEORGE. LICENSE AFB-075893, CLASS A-15. THE FIRST TIME WE MET IN PERSON, YOU BROUGHT ME A CAN OF COKE TO SHOW YOUR RESPECT, BUT YOUR HANDS WERE SHAKING SO HARD THAT IT EXPLODED EVERYWHERE WHEN I OPENED IT. SOME CAMERA JOCKEY FREAKED OUT, AND WE WOUND UP IN DECON FOR THREE HOURS. REMEMBER?

  There was a longer pause before his answer appeared—at least in part, I was sure, because my reply wasn’t what he was expecting. Finally, two words flashed on my screen: GEORGIA’S DEAD.

  I took a deep breath. Then, more slowly than before, I tapped out my answer.

  ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO SIT THERE, POST-ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE, AND TELL ME THE DEAD NEVER COME BACK?

  “Five minutes, Georgia.”

  “Hold on.” I stared at the screen, willing Alaric to reply. Seconds ticked by, making me feel like my time had been wasted—maybe worse than wasted. If he thought I was an imposter, and told Shaun…

  HOW?

  I was so relieved I actually laughed as I typed, CLONING. THE CDC HAS BEEN A NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY GOVERNMENT ORGANIZATION. NEED TO GET A MESSAGE TO SHAUN. IS HE THERE? I regretted the question as soon as I sent it. If he still didn’t believe me… Hurriedly, I typed, DON’T ANSWER THAT. IF YOU HAVE A WAY OF REACHING HIM, TELL HIM I AM BEING HELD AT THE SEATTLE CDC. I AM WORKING WITH THE EIS. I NEED AN IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION. I AM IN DANGER. PLEASE CONFIRM.

  Again, seconds ticked by. I was still crying. I wiped my cheek viciously with one hand, watching the screen, praying to a higher power I didn’t believe in for some sort of miracle. Alaric was a Newsie. Even if he didn’t believe I was who I claimed to be, there was a chance he’d be interested enough in the idea of me to chase the story. If he did that, I might have a chance.

  Finally: WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE YOU?

  “Oh, thank God, he’s asking something easy,” I muttered, and typed, EITHER I’M THE REAL THING, A TRAP, OR A GREAT STORY. FIRST OPTION, YOU NEED TO SAVE ME. SECOND OPTION, YOU NEED TO FIND OUT WHO’S TRYING TO TRAP YOU. THIRD OPTION, YOU NEED TO GET YOUR FACTS STRAIGHT BEFORE YOU GO PUBLIC. PERSONALLY, I THINK I’M ALL OF THE ABOVE. In case that wasn’t good enough, I added, BESIDES, IF THERE’S ANY CHANCE I’M THE REAL DEAL, AND YOU DON’T GO AFTER IT, SHAUN WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU.

  Gregory’s watch beeped. He looked at it and winced. “You need to log off now. IT has started scanning the wireless connections in this part of the building. Nothing indicates that this isn’t random, but—”

  “Better safe than sorry. I get that.” Quickly, I typed, GOT TO GO—SECURITY IS LOOKING OUR WAY. TELL SHAUN YOU HEARD FROM ME. HE’LL BE SO PISSED HE’LL COME TO FIND THE FAKE AND BUST ME OUT INSTEAD. PLEASE, ALARIC. BELIEVE ME. I AM BEGGING YOU.

  I hit ENTER and logged off. Gregory snatched the laptop as soon as I pulled my hands away from it. He flipped it over, ejecting the battery pack with a motion too smooth to be anything but practiced.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, and then he was striding out of the room, the battery in one hand, the laptop in the other. I stayed where I was, slumping ever lower in my seat, my eyes fixed on the space where the computer had been.

  For just a moment, I’d been able to reach the outside world. I’d been able to tell someone what was happening—and whether he believed me or not, Alaric listened. He knew. I had put my hands on the keys, and even without the muscle memory of the body I was born in, they’d known what to do. Maybe I could still be Georgia Mason after all. As long as I could still tell the truth…

  “Rise up while you can,” I whispered. Then I slumped in my seat, put my head down on my arms, and sobbed until the tears ran out.

  Mahir are you there?

  Mahir I need you to reply RIGHT NOW. It’s important or I wouldn’t be trying to break radio silence.

  Mahir, PLEASE. If you’re ignoring these messages because you think I’m fighting with Dr. Abbey or something, PLEASE. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU. I can’t talk to Becks or Shaun until I talk to you.

  MAHIR GODDAMMIT YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

  … fuck.

  —Internal chat log, user AKwong to user MGowda, August 1, 2041.

  We have removed all tracking devices and self-destruct triggers from the subject, who continues to self-identify as “Georgia Mason.” She was made aware of the realities of her situation by Dr. Lake before we reached this phase, and her psychological progress has been nothing but encouraging. I believe she will remain stable in the long term, providing we are able to secure her release. My team can keep her isolated for a few days more; Dr. Thomas and his lackeys are distracted with the final preparations to awaken her replacement.

  This has crossed a line. This experiment has always been both disgusting and morally questionable, but for the first time, it has become obscene. She’s a real person. She knows who she is, even if she is only that person because of us. She thinks, she feels, and she wants to go home.

  How did we ever come to this?

  —Taken from a message sent by Dr. Danika Kimberley, August 1, 2041. Recipient unknown.

  Twenty

  We left the Brainpan and returned to the Agora. Breaking into the CDC in broad daylight would take a stupid plan and render it actively suicidal—not something I was in a hurry to do, all indications to the contrary aside. Besides, even if it had been full dark, I would have insisted on going back to the resort. There was no way we were going to take Maggie into the field with us. Not for something like this.

  She was silent during the drive, almost shrinking in on herself as she listened to Becks and Mahir arguing about the best ways to bypass CDC security. She’d been a part
of this team almost from the beginning, but that time was coming to an end, and we all knew it. When this was over, if she was still alive, she wouldn’t be one of us anymore.

  I parked the van in the Agora garage and twisted around to face her. “Maggie, I—”

  It was too late. She was already out of the van and on her way to the airlock door. I froze where I was, not sure what I was supposed to do.

  “Let her go.”

  For a moment, I thought the voice was Georgia’s. Then I lifted my head and saw Becks looking at me.

  “She’s made her choice. That doesn’t mean she feels good about herself. Let her go. We can talk to her when we get back.”

  If we get back, said George.

  “Yeah,” I said, answering them both, and unfastened my seat belt.

  We didn’t talk as we followed Maggie’s path to the airlock. The lobby was empty when we arrived. Somehow, that wasn’t much of a surprise. We didn’t discuss our next move. We just split up, each of us heading for our own room to do whatever it was we had to do in order to feel like we were ready. If you can ever feel ready for something like this.

  Becks and I hadn’t had much time to get unpacked—or much with us to unpack—but there was enough that it took me about fifteen minutes to get everything together, double-checking the ammo in every gun and the straps on every holster. I even retied my boots. It never hurts to be overprepared. Then I stopped, looking at the empty room, and closed my eyes.

  “This is all I’m going to leave behind,” I said aloud. “No apartment. No belongings. No family. Just a hotel room that won’t remember me tomorrow.”

  “I’ll remember you.” Georgia’s hand on my shoulder was gentle. I started to turn toward her. “Shhh. Don’t open your eyes. Just come with me.” She tugged me to the bed, pushing on my shoulder until I sat. “Now you’re going to get some rest.”