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Georgia In My MInd	By : TheByronicMan Category: M through R > Newsflesh (trilogy) > Newsflesh (trilogy) Views: 2033 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsflesh Trilogy or any of the related works published by its creator. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
I woke slowly the next morning, blearily aware of people moving around the room. I opened my eyes to see Shaun leaving the room with a towel. Bobbie had evidently already showered and was getting dressed. I sat up to find a Coke sitting on the bedpost next to me. Trust Shaun to anticipate my needs. I opened it and drank half of it down, feeling my brain cells starting to kick in. I was met with a chorus of “Good morning”s and managed something that might charitably be called a coherent reply. Clearly I needed more caffeine, so I drained the can. I hopped down and found a trash can, then sat on the bottom bunk to wait for my turn in the shower.
I finally mastered the power of speech and asked, “So what's our schedule look like for today?”
Rob answered, “We're expected for breakfast in about an hour. Since you and I slept the latest, we're last in line for the shower. I'd offer to share, but it's a little too small.”
I had to smile at that. I could tell he was flirting just for the fun of it, not because he expected it to go anywhere. I replied in kind, pulling one foot up on the bed, wrapping my arms around my shin, and resting my cheek on my knee as I looked at him. Shaun calls that my most alluring pose. Lately I had been working on projecting a bit of sex appeal. Now that my eyes were perfectly normal, I needed something else to knock people a little off balance. I refused to be blatant about it, like some of the bimbos that try to pass themselves off as reporters and Presidential candidates, instead aiming for an effect below the conscious level.
I saw Rob react, and took the opportunity to ask something that had been bugging me for a while. Adult-onset retinal K-A was rare but not unheard of. Live viral colonies in the testes and ovaries were known to manifest during puberty. But as a far as I knew, reservoir conditions in organs attached to major blood vessels, such as the kidneys, only occurred when live-state Kellis-Amberlee went systemic in a human or other mammal that was below the 40 pound limit at the time.
“Rob, you were five at the time of the Rising, right?”
“Yes.”
“You're about the same height and build as Shaun, and he was close to 50 pounds by the time was he was five. If I'm not prying too much, how is it that you have that particular reservoir condition?”
Bobbie flinched when I asked the question, but Rob answered without hesitation. “I was a scrawny kid. The chemo pretty much killed my appetite.”
“Chemo?”
“I had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. I was one of the small percentage of children who didn't respond well to treatment, and wasn't expected to make it to my sixth birthday.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. My parents tried to get me into the Marburg-Amberlee trial, but I didn't meet the criteria. So, the Rising saved my life. Ironic, isn't it? If it meant billions of people would still be alive, I'd rather have died.”
I jumped up and threw my arms around him. I had never been much for hugging before I was killed. I wasn't sure if that was one of the ways I differed from the original, or if it was a reaction to being so isolated from human contact in the weeks following my rebirth. Rob hesitated for a moment and then hugged me back, while Bobbie and Anna joined in from the sides.
Shaun chose that moment to come back into the room and announce, “No fair starting the orgy without me.”
We all burst out laughing, breaking the somber mood. Anna departed for her own shower, then Rob and I took our turns. Once we were dressed, we walked to the bottom of the hill and across the street. We crossed a bridge over a small stream, and from there it was a short distance to the house. If you had to pick a pre-Rising structure to defend from zombies, you could do a lot worse than the building in front of us.
It was up on piers, about four or five feet off the ground, with a stucco exterior. The windows weren't up to modern building codes, but they were much narrower than I'd seen on any other 20^th century home. There was a balcony on the second floor, higher than even the freshest infected could spit or fling blood, that would make a great firing platform. We were about to meet a man who had successfully defended his family during the Rising. The night before, Bobbie had pulled up the interview Rob had done with the owner, so I knew it had been a close thing, but he had still prevailed.
The front door opened into a small entry room with a second door and a test unit. It was a standard deadlock design, the inner door wouldn't open until the outer was shut and a clean blood test was registered. Not the most secure way to do it, as there was nothing to prevent more than one person going through at a time, but adequate for a private dwelling where you could trust the residents and guests. We went through one at a time, Rob first, and gathered in a living room.
Rob said, “They must be out on the deck,” and led the way through a wonderful-smelling kitchen and out onto a large patio.
It was bounded on two sides by the smooth masonry exterior walls of the house, the other two sides and the roof appeared to be glass panes set in a steel frame. I suspected it was really aluminum oxynitride, aka 'transparent aluminum.' From what I remembered of Mom's security catalogs, those panes would have been the largest size of ALON panels available about fifteen years earlier. The deck appeared to see frequent use, equipped with a bar, large TV screen, a hot tub, comfortable furniture, and a table set for seven.
A man and woman in their late sixties stood up as we entered. I recognized the man as our host from the recording of Rob's interview, and as he started to speak I suddenly heard a low growl come from my right. I looked over and saw a large dog rising to its feet. It wasn't a breed I recognized, having a long ridge of fur running down its back. It had a bandage on one shoulder and had its eyes fixed on Rob with its teeth bared menacingly.
“Daisy! Down! Friend!” He looked back towards us as the dog settled down. “Rob, you haven't been visiting often enough, she doesn't remember you.”
“Sorry Karl, but I've got to make a living.”
“True enough.” Karl looked at me and Shaun. “I know the rest of these juvenile delinquents but I haven't been introduced to you two. I'm Karl and this is my wife, Marie.”
If Rob trusted this man, then so would I. “I'm Georgia Mason, and 'delinquent' is an apt term for my brother Shaun here.”
Shaun nodded in agreement. “So, what's with the dog?”
Karl said, “She's a Rhodesian Ridgeback hound, induced with a reservoir condition as a pup. I've got three others out protecting the flock, but Daisy got bit by an infected deer the other day and is on light duty while she recovers.”
Hearing her name, Daisy got up and limped over to Karl to be petted while still glaring at Rob.
“What does she have against Rob?” Shaun asked.
“They can smell live-state virus, even reservoir conditions. They're trained not to attack if you hold still or run away, so if there are any immune deer running around out there they'll be safe.”
“Impressive.”
“Yep. Anyway, y'all go on and sit down. Breakfast will out in a flash.”
Karl and Marie went to the kitchen while we sat at the table, and Rob said, “There's Cokes at the bar if you want one.”
“I'm just fine,” I said, reaching for a carafe of orange juice. With most of the population afraid to leave their homes, there just isn't as much transport capacity as there used to be. Produce gets harder to find and more expensive the farther you are from where it's grown, and that goes double for labor-intensive crops like citrus fruits. I hadn't had a decent glass of OJ since before I died. Texas used to be the third largest producer of oranges in the country. After what happened in Florida while I was a 'guest' of the CDC, it had moved up to second.
Our hosts returned bearing food. Marie set down bowls of biscuits and hash browns, and a platter bearing an omelet the size of half of a large pizza, already cut into portions.
“Wow!” Shaun said. “How many eggs did that take?”
“Only one,” Marie replied. “Don't worry, other than the size they aren't much different from chicken eggs.”
Karl had a couple of plates of sausage and a pot of cream gravy. “The white plate is ostrich, the green one is gator.”
Shaun helped himself to a liberal portion of alligator sausage. After snagging a small piece off of his plate, I got some of each. The rest of the food was passed around and we made idle conversation as we ate.
When we were done, Karl leaned forward and tented his fingers together. “Rob, got a call from your sister last night. She asked me to pass along a message, said she didn't want to risk contacting you directly.”
“What's up now?” Rob asked.
“The Mexican consulate in San Antonio has filed a formal request that you be prosecuted for murder and terrorism in the deaths of seven of their citizens. They claim your actions in Big Bend meet the standards of the Raskin-Watts decision for weaponized use of the Kellis-Amberlee virus.”
“That's a load of crap.”
“I know, but a subpoena has been issued requiring you to appear before a hearing in the federal district court downtown. Your lovely lady friend Anna is also being subpoenaed as a material witness.”
“Remarkable timing,” I said.
“Yep,” Rob said. “If the Mexican government cared all that much they would have said something a couple of years ago. Funny that it comes up at the worst possible time.”
“Well, until you actually get served with the subpoena, you're not required to abide by it, so you just have to stay out of contact.”
“It means that Anna and I don't dare go into town. I don't like having to split up.”
Karl interjected, “If you need to get your friends into San Antonio, I can help. I have a delivery scheduled for tomorrow, but I can move it up a day. The police manning the checkpoint on 281 are so used to seeing my trucks that they don't bother to check IDs anymore.”
“That might work.”
“No it won't,” Bobbie said. “The cops would recognize you in an instant, and Anna is a little too memorable. I'll drive them.”
Rob sighed. “Okay, you have a valid point.”
“Now that we have that settled,” Karl said, “How about a tour while the truck is being loaded?”
No one demurred, so we all trooped outside. We hadn't noticed them the night before, but in the daylight the flocks (herds?) of ostriches scattered about the area were impressive. We got to see where the alligators were penned up and fed a sterilized diet to ensure any infected meat was cleared out of their digestive tracts. Then we followed the stream down to a marshy area to observe the alligators in their natural habitat. I learned more about ostrich and alligator raising than I really wanted to, but some bits were interesting. Then it was back to the main house, or rather a new-looking building next to it.
Karl ushered us inside. “I decided to take a page from Rob's book and branch into merchandising. I cut out the middleman by buying a couple of digital clothing printers and setting up this shop.”
Rob said, “I've been thinking about moving our t-shirt production in-house. How's that working out for you?” He and Karl moved off, discussing relative costs.
Marie said, “As a souvenir, feel free to help yourselves to a shirt. If ostriches aren't your thing, Karl practiced by recreating some small batches of t-shirts from his younger days. We can't sell them because the artwork is still under license, but I think we can give a few away.”
I'd heard that sort of thing before. People are always trying to get journalists to use their products for the free advertising. Still, Marie seemed less self-serving than the usual run, so I took a look at what was available. The printing was a little rough, I would have rejected them if they had come from our suppliers, but I suspected that was an artifact of copying from existing shirts. To my surprise, there was one I immediately had to have. It bore an image of the Capitol Building with the words “Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid People in Large Groups.” It spoke to my cynical journalistic heart.
Shaun picked out one that read “The Hardest Part About a Zombie Apocalypse Will Be Pretending I'm Not Excited.” Hard as it was to believe, some people before the Rising thought that way, or at least pretended to. Then again, some women wrote love letters to serial killers.
Anna took a shirt bearing a picture of a mountain lion and a brief description of it's habits and hunting skills. I supposed that was appropriate for a Park Ranger. The art was particularly fuzzy, it appeared that the original had been embroidered.
Bobbie bypassed the vintage t-shirts and selected one showing a recipe for an ostrich-egg omelet. Most of the text was increasingly ridiculous methods for accomplishing the difficult task of cracking the egg open.
Then Shaun said, “Hey George, check this out.”
He was holding up a shirt that had what looked like a college seal, except that there was a green, tentacled thing in the center. It read “Miskatonic University: Home of the Fighting Cephalopods.”
Karl had rejoined us by then. “Ah, that's one my favorites. Seems like nobody reads Lovecraft anymore. The man who supplied my dogs requested one of those as a gift for his former boss.”
Shaun and I exchanged glances. That explained Dr. Abbey's new email address. Meanwhile, Rob had picked up a shirt that read “I Like My Zombies Free Range. They Just Die Better That Way.” My faith in humanity sank a little further at this example of pre-Rising culture. Most people today wouldn't get the joke. Karl had the first free range livestock operation I'd ever seen. They were notoriously hard to defend against the infected, so almost all poultry producers used cages.
One of the ranch hands poked his head in the door and gave a thumbs-up. Karl said, “Ah, looks like your ride is ready. Time for you folks to hit the road.”
He led us outside where a truck was waiting. It was a quad cab with a heavy brush cutter on the front, and was hitched to a trailer. The trailer carried three large crates, one with a refrigeration unit on top. The other two had air holes, and I could hear thumping noises coming from inside them.
“Um, what are we delivering?” I asked.
“A couple of critters for the Zombie Farm, a zebra and a Japanese sika deer, and some carcasses to feed them.”
“Zombie Farm?”
“I'll explain on the way,” Bobbie said.
Karl turned to Bobbie. “Just drop the trailer and head on in to town. They'll handle unloading, and I'll send someone to get it tomorrow.”
“Are you sending someone with us to bring the truck back?”
“Thought about it, but you might need it. Since your husband is staying here with his LAV, we can manage without it.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Ah, and here's your disguises.”
Big George approached carrying a bundle of leather. It turned out to be three leather coveralls like I had seen Karl's employees wearing. From the texture, I cleverly deduced that it was alligator hide. I put on the one he handed to me, and it wasn't too bad a fit, just a little loose. Bobbie and Shaun followed suit.
I looked up at the sun. “I think this might get a little warm.”
“The little box on your left hip is a fan. Circulates air to help keep you cool and creates a positive pressure for a slight bit of extra virus protection. Biohazard quality filter on the intake. Battery is good for ten hours and there's a charging cable in your left pocket.”
I turned on the fan and immediately felt a little cooler. “Yeah, that helps.”
We made our various goodbyes and got moving. Bobbie drove, I sat in the back seat, and Shaun rode shotgun. Literally in this case, there was one racked next to his left knee. Between that, the two rifles in the window behind my head, and our handguns, we left the rest of our weapons behind when we stopped at the bunkhouse to get our luggage. I hadn't seen any of Karl's people toting crossbows, so Shaun would have to do without. A couple of miles from the house we passed through an automated entry station equipped with scanners, high-end blood test units, full decon setup, and enough active defenses that I certainly wouldn't want to try to get through it if I wasn't welcome. We turned right onto another road, crumbling but well-traveled.
“So, Zombie Farm?”
“A tourist trap over on 281. They have a collection of unusual infected animals for people to gawk at.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“They haven't lost a visitor yet. But if you prefer something safer, the same folks operate the Snake Farm on Interstate 35.” She paused for a moment. “Is it sad that a place that prominently displays the ten most poisonous snakes in the world is the safer alternative?”
“Sad, but true.”
“Anyway, the Snake Farm has been there for about 75 years. Local legend has it that back in the day it was a front for a brothel.”
“What?” Shaun said.
“The story goes that if you asked the cashier for change for a twenty, you'd be taken to a trailer out back where the 'ladies' were waiting. Rob once did some research looking for proof and says it probably isn't true, but the rumor persists.”
“Uh huh. On another subject, I didn't know zebras were native to Texas.”
Bobbie laughed. “There used to be a couple of exotic wildlife ranches around here. Some of the animals managed to hang on even after the tourists stopped coming by to hand feed them. About five miles from Karl's place there are even some giraffes.”
That gave us something to think about for a while. Shaun was eagerly scanning the landscape around us as though expecting to see a zombie giraffe looming over the trees. After a while the road twice crossed a winding dry creek. The culverts underneath the road were mostly blocked and the pavement itself was under a good foot of loose rock. Dead brush and even whole trees piled against the sagging fences nearby showed just how high the flood waters could get. I made a mental note to never drive through here in a thunder storm.
About half an hour after leaving the ranch, we came to an intersection with a maintained highway. To our immediate left was a small building with a billboard in front proclaiming it to be the Zombie Farm. To the rear was a high cinder block wall topped with razor wire. Bobbie pulled in and parked to the side of the building.
“Can y'all unhook the trailer while I let them know we're here?”
“Sure,” I said, and Bobbie went inside while Shaun and I went to the rear of the truck.
It was the first time we'd been alone all day, so I took the opportunity to ask Shaun, “How are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Butt's still a little sore, but I've had worse aches after a day in the field. She's keeping quiet.”
“Do you think it's permanent?”
“Doubt it. Probably just lulling me into a false sense of security.”
I tried to smother a grin. Shaun had already picked up Karl's habit of dropping pronouns. I wondered if the accent would follow.
“What's so funny?”
“Startin' to talk lahk a native.”
Shaun thought for a moment and laughed. “Wouldn't want.... I wouldn't want that, it might damage my cosmopolitan image.”
Around the time we got the trailer unhitched, Bobbie returned and said, “We've been offered a free tour.”
“I'd rather not.”
“Yeah, it's no fun if they're in cages.”
“Then with unanimous consent, let's get back on the road.”
We climbed back into the truck and were once again headed south on 281. Out of curiosity I called up a map. We were barely eighty miles from where we had left this same highway the day before. It had taken us more than sixteen hours to cover a distance that should have taken a little over one. I regretted the delay, but without it we might not still be moving at all.
For the first five miles or so, we drove past the burned ruins of small businesses. Then gated shopping centers started to appear alongside the road, and high-end residential communities covered the hills to either side. A few minutes later we came to a checkpoint blocking the road, just short of a major highway interchange. There were a surprising number of cars waiting, being processed through four gates.
Bobbie picked the lane being manned by a particularly handsome police officer, muttering “I hope he's not gay.” When we stopped at the back of the line, she unzipped her coverall to her waist and opened a few buttons on her blouse.
When we got to the front, the officer handed in three test kits and said, “I haven't seen you before. Is Karl keeping you close to home?”
“The boss rotates the job to give everyone a chance to get into town. Guess I just never lined up with your shift on the gate,” Bobbie said, shrugging her shoulders. I couldn't see what effect that had on her chest, but the cop definitely noticed. “I'm sure I would have remembered.”
“I know I would have,” he said with a smile, accepting back the kits, noting that they all showed green, and sealing them in biohazard bags. “Hope to see you come to town again.”
“Me too,” Bobbie said, touching the back of his hand where it rested on the edge of the window.
He smiled even more broadly before, then turned away to open the gate.
Once we were on our way, Shaun asked, “Wouldn't an uglier cop have been even more distracted?”
“Or more suspicious,” I said. “Someone who looks that good expects to be flirted with. Someone who looks like, oh, you for example, might wonder why he's suddenly getting that kind of attention.”
“Good point.”
Bobbie laughed. “I'd take Shaun over that guy any day.”
“I would too, but that doesn't make me blind.”
“Maybe if you start wearing shades 24/7 again, I'll look better.”
“I dunno, it might take a blindfold.”
Eventually my brother and I stopped trading insults, and Bobbie asked, “George? Could you check the TZR website? Karl is a premium subscriber and some of his people check the site daily, so it shouldn't raise any flags.”
There was a touch screen in the back of Shaun's seat, so I turned it on and entered the web address. It was already logged in, and the site prominently displayed a flashing red “Breaking News” link. I tapped it, and a video popped up showing a woman about my age with long blonde hair, sitting in what looked like a living room. The video started playing:
This morning US marshals served a warrant at the home of this site's founder, Robert Philips, seeking computer files pursuant to investigating baseless allegations made against Rob by the government of Mexico. Subscriber lists and visitor logs were not covered under the warrant and were not accessed by investigators. Rob Philips and his wife are currently on vacation and not available for comment. Please check back for further updates.
“I was expecting something like that,” Bobbie said.
“Same here. Not the most, um, professional report I've seen.”
“I know that voice, it's Rob's sister. She must have blown the dust off of her journalist credentials. Makes sense, under Plan B she would have been the only one at home with enough access to post a report.”
“Is she one of your betas?”
“No, she has access because she occasionally posts accounts of her cases. She has her own business as a zombie tracker.”
“A what?”
Shaun said, “Ah, I've heard about that. A family member ends up as part of a zombie pack, you can hire a tracker to get them and bring them back for cremation and burial. In Texas, anyway. It's not a valid profession in any other state, but a few are considering it.”
“Yep, that's it. We tried to do a webcast reality show about Jenny and her crew, but few of her clients would allow it.”
I browsed through the TZR website, checking the forums. They were out of control, I couldn't see any moderator activity trying to keep a lid on things. I couldn't stand to watch, so I dug deeper into the archives. I snorted. If anything, Rob's fangirls were even more rabid than Shaun's. I had to wonder if that might be because in Rob's case a few of them got lucky, helping spur on the rest. I went back to the main forum page, and there was a flashing alert icon on the admin forum. I clicked on it and was taken to a thread barely five minutes old that already had over a dozen posts, and more were added while I watched.
“Bobbie, a bunch of your bloggers are reporting being interrogated by the police and by Federal marshals, and claim that they are under surveillance.”
“How many?”
I took a quick count. “Up to twenty now.”
“Damn. That's everyone, except for Claudia and a couple of Irwin/Newsie teams out in the field.”
Shaun said, “I wonder why there's no mention of us?”
“It's obvious. Whoever is behind this wants us to stay free but cut off from help so they can get to us themselves.”
The banner at the top of the web page suddenly changed from an ad to another “Breaking News” message. I clicked it and was taken to a one paragraph story. “Now there are Federal arrest warrants out for Rob and Anna.”
“I'm not surprised. Whoever is after you two has to be getting desperate since you dropped off the face of the earth. Well, even if they check the ranch, there are thousands of acres to hide out in. Plus the Sheriff up there is a good friend of Karl's and doesn't much like the Feds, so they won't get a whole lot of cooperation.”
I kept scanning the website, and when nothing new turned up I checked other local news blogs and the sites of more traditional news outlets. The blogs slanted heavily in support of Rob but had no new information, while the TV and newspaper sites barely covered the story at all. Several bloggers reported a rumor that Shaun and I had recently been spotted in Sacramento. I was so engrossed that I didn't notice we had exited the highway until we stopped in front of a gate. Raised letters projecting from the stone wall to the left proclaimed this to be the Texas Biomedical Research Institute.
A guard approached Bobbie's side of the truck as she lowered the window. He looked in and said, “Is there something I can do for you folks.”
I took a deep breath. If we weren't safe here, we were fucked. “We're Georgia and Shaun Mason. You should be expecting us.”
“Yes, we have been expecting people by those names. Do you have any references?”
“Dr. Danika Kimberly, Dr. Shannon Abbey, and Garcia Pharmaceuticals.”
Shaun added, “We were told to ask for a Dr. Andrew Carrion.”
“And who are you?” he asked, looking at Bobbie.
“I'm their personal security.”
“You look nothing like a bodyguard,” he said, giving Bobbie a thumbs-up. “Excellent tradecraft. Go ahead and pull up to the inner gate while I kick this upstairs.”
The outer gate slid open, allowing Bobbie to drive in before slamming shut behind us. We were trapped. The gates looked sturdy enough to stop a tank. Three ranks of flame nozzles protruded from the walls to either side. If the guards took a sudden disliking to us, we'd be incinerated in seconds. A small remote-controlled drone flew over to the driver-side window, carrying three devices that looked like wrist-sized blood pressure cuffs. It took me a moment to recognize them, because I hadn't ever seen one up close. They were wearable monitors that continually tracked viral levels. These were so expensive that so far as I knew even the CDC only used them on high-risk subjects. Bobbie handed them around and we each put one on. As it adjusted to the size of my wrist I barely felt the prickle of needles entering my skin. A moment later the light went green, and a quick glance at Bobbie and Shaun showed that they had gotten the same result.
At that point the inner gate opened and another guard waved us through, motioning us to stop when we drew alongside him. “Okay, you people check out. Take the first right, then you want the second building on the left.”
Bobbie thanked him and we started moving again while Shaun looked around in awe. “I haven't seen this level of security anywhere, not even at the White House.”
“The White House doesn't have hundreds of huge, infectable mammals wandering around the Rose Garden,” I said, pointing to a domed enclosure where large numbers of apes or monkeys could be seen playing, climbing, or just lounging around. Nearby, small buildings could be seen with adjoining cages, each containing a single simian occupant. “They have to be seriously worried about outbreaks. Plus, doing primate research would make them a major target for both animal rights activists and animal extermination fanatics.”
We parked in front of the building to which we were directed and got out. As we approached the main door, a screen next to it lit up. It showed yellow wire-frame outlines of each of us, which turned to green as we got closer. The door slid aside and we passed through it into an entryway where we were met by an older, heavyset, graying man in a lab coat.
“Hello, I'm Dr. Carrion. If you'd like to accompany me to my office, we can sit down and talk.”
“Any chance we get some food on the way?” Shaun asked. He had a point, it was already a bit past noon.
“I can have something sent over from the cafeteria.”
“That would be great, if it's not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. About half my colleagues have so much trouble tearing themselves away from their work that they'd starve to death if they couldn't get meals delivered.”
Dr. Carrion showed us to a moderately cluttered office. Only one of the four visitor chairs was piled with professional journals, so we didn't have to clear any off to sit down. We completed introductions while making lunch orders.
Dr. Carrion looked a bit uncomfortable after Bobbie introduced herself. “Mrs. Philips, I enjoy your writing and God knows I've had to deal with enough archived video to appreciate your technical skills, but I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to be here.”
I broke in before Bobbie could speak. “Look, my brother and I regularly get death threats. We've been shot at by snipers, betrayed by friends and family, and I've already been killed once. There's a woman in the hospital recovering from gunshot wounds because she was mistaken for us. Bobbie is the only person within a thousand miles who we can trust that is free to be here. If she is willing to stick around, we want her to be involved.”
“Okay, fair enough. There is one more thing that needs to be settled first, however.”
“And what would that be?”
“This is not a treatment facility. We don't normally handle individual cases. In order to justify the expenditure of resources, we need to be doing something that has a broader application.”
“I assume you have something in mind.”
“Miss Mason, your unique situation is directly applicable to research we are currently conducting. As you are more intelligent than our usual test subjects, you can provide a perspective that we cannot get through any other ethical means. If you will agree to a battery of interviews along with cognitive and behavioral tests, my professional posterior will be covered. And at least some of what we learn from you will help your brother.”
“Okay, I agree to your tests.”
“Thank you. In anticipation of your arrival, my department has prepared a preliminary course of investigation. For the first few days, we intend to administer an array of standardized tests that you would have taken in school.” He opened a folder and handed me and Shaun stacks of forms. “We would like you to release your educational, licensing, and medical records to us for the purposes of comparison. Also included are releases for the proposed methods of study.”
He waited with remarkable patience as we carefully read each form before signing it. He made no effort to hurry us even when our lunches arrived and usurped some of our attention.
Shaun, looking up from one form, asked, “What's this fifteen syllable drug you want to use on me?”
“It's a mild psychoactive drug used in the treatment of patients with Dissociative Identity Disorder. It allows a therapist to bring different personalities to the surface and induces a generally calm and cooperative state.”
“I don't think that would help. Except for sometimes when I'm asleep, all she can do is talk inside my head.”
Dr. Carrion suddenly looked interested. “This is the first I've heard that she can do anything other than 'talk inside your head.' If she can come to the forefront under any circumstances, then that drug should bring her out. What does she do when she's in control?”
Shaun and I described in detail the times she tried to kill me and the way she betrayed us to our enemies, ending with “So you can see why we aren't happy about deliberately giving her control.”
“I can understand that, but it will be necessary. We can't even begin to formulate a course of treatment until we know more.”
“So you don't even have an idea how you are going to fix this,” Shaun said, tapping the side of his head.
“With DID sufferers, talk therapy has proven most effective. Until the approval of this new medication, the hardest part has been convincing alters to surface so that the therapist can talk to them. But you are a unique case, even leaving aside the fact that your condition is artificially induced. Despite what popular culture would have you believe, there have been no rigorously documented cases of 'evil' alternate personalities. Alters normally try to act as something of a team, with each one fulfilling a function in support of the whole.”
“So why do they need to be cured?”
“Some have adapted well enough that they don't. But others find the condition so disrupting to their daily lives that they seek treatment. Therapy can help them reintegrate, or at least teach the alters methods of communicating among themselves.”
“There's already too much communication, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to integrate with her.”
“Which is why we don't yet know how we are going to treat you, or even if we can.”
Shaun looked down at his feet. “So how do we start?”
“First off, I'm afraid we need to keep the two of you apart for at least the initial stages of study.”
Shaun looked up again, glaring at Dr. Carrion. I grabbed his hand before he could speak and asked, “Can you tell us why?”
“The primary reason is your safety, Ms. Mason. You've said that the entity in your brother's head is actively hostile towards you. The procedures we'll need to use may very well leave her more able to act, which could put you in danger.”
“A primary reason implies one or more secondary reasons.”
“Yes. We cannot compel her cooperation, but merely encourage it. I strongly suspect that your presence will make her harder to work with, and that will delay any possibility of finding a solution.”
“Then the sooner we can get started, the better.”
“I agree,” said Dr. Carrion. “I can free up a couple of my people to proctor some preliminary tests this afternoon. While I set that up, someone from security can show you to your quarters. Sorry, but I've only been assigned two rooms.”
“I think we can manage,” I said.
Dr. Carrion summoned a guard who escorted us out to the truck to get our bags, then let me and Bobbie into a room in a nearby building. He led Shaun down the hall and around a corner. I told myself that it would only be for a few days, and entered the room. It didn't look very welcoming. The walls were an institutional beige, while the floor was linoleum in nearly the same shade. There were two plain chairs, a table, and a single bed with a nightstand. On the other hand, it was different from the cold, sterile room I'd awakened in after my rebirth. It looked as if someone might actually live here once in a while, none of the furniture was bolted down, it had its own bathroom, and there were no obvious means for people to spy on us.
Bobbie said, “Reminds me of my first apartment.”
“Yeah, it looks like some of the places Shaun and checked into renting back when we were about 20. We gave up and decided to stick it out with the Masons until we could afford better.”
“You were lucky to have that option. I moved out at 16 and never looked back.”
I grimaced at the reminder that while Mom and Dad had their faults, there were worse parents out there. I shrugged it off and changed clothes, glad to get out of the leather coverall Karl had loaned me. While it had turned out to be cooler than I expected, it still wasn't very comfortable. Bobbie changed as well, then we sat and waited about twenty minutes before there was a knock at the door. The delay was additional evidence that we might not be under surveillance. I answered the door to find the same guard waiting for me. He led me to an office that was a near-twin of Dr. Carrion's, but much less lived in.
An older man seated behind the desk stood up as I entered. “Hello Miss Mason, it's nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well, Dr...?”
“Just call me Eric. I'm not high enough up the totem pole around here to rate a title or last name. Us soft science guys play second fiddle to the biomedical types.”
“In that case, call me George.” I started to take a seat.
“Please, take my chair. It'll be easier for you to use the computer.”
He stood out of the way and I moved past him to sit down. He continued, “I presume that at some point you've taken the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inquiry?”
“Yes. Three times, in fact.”
“Good. It's queued up and ready to go. I'll leave you to it.”
Eric left the room and I turned to the computer. The MMPI was interesting the first time I took it, but got progressively more tedious each time after that. I worked my way through it, trying not to think about how my answers might be different from before. Less than a minute after I finished, Eric returned.
“Gee, great timing.”
“The system pinged me when you finished. If you're up for it, I think we can fit in one more series of tests this afternoon.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
Eric leaned over the desk, taking the mouse and rapidly clicking through icons. “There you go.”
“Implicit Association Test? You're aware that was debunked five years ago, right?”
“George, I knew the IAT was flawed about ten years before you were born, when it told me I was prejudiced against white people.”
I looked up at him. He was one of the palest men I'd seen in a while. Considering that I'd been living in Canada, that was saying something. “How did that happen?”
“Well, let me give you an example. At one point an image of gun appears. The test assumes that I'll see it as a negative association, representing crime and violence. As a white guy, and therefore considered to be automatically racist, I am expected to associate guns with black people.”
I nodded.
“The problem is that I'm a Texan, a country boy, and an Air Force veteran. To me, guns represent putting food on the table and defending myself, my loved ones, and my country. While at the time, the vast majority of African-Americans subscribed to a political ideology that supported draconian gun control and were sadly under-represented, though not entirely absent, at my local shooting range. So I saw guns as a positive thing and subconsciously associated them with white people.”
“Wow. That's the clearest explanation I've ever heard for what is wrong with the IAT.”
“If you look up the article that called the test's methodology into question, you'll find my name listed as one of the contributors.”
“Then why?” I said, gesturing at the computer screen.
“Because it was required for all sophomores in California during the years you attended high school, so I assumed you'd taken it.”
I nodded again. I was never told what the results were, but everyone in my class was required to attend counseling afterward. The counseling session wasn't any more revealing.
“Then it should be in your school records, and the inherent biases won't matter when we're comparing your responses from then to now.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then I'll leave you to it. Feel free to take a break between series. Is there anything I can get you?”
“A Coke would be great. And directions to the bathroom.”
“I'll rustle one up for you, and right across the hall.”
I decided to make a visit across the hall first, and by the time I returned my drink was waiting. After a couple of swallows, I was ready to start. It was a grueling, fast-paced process, and I needed to rest between sessions. Eventually I finished, and Eric returned and offered to walk me back to my room. The sun was setting on what felt like the longest day I'd had in months. Eric and I exchanged goodnights, and I went inside to find Bobbie waiting for me.
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” I replied.
“Good thing I snagged you something from the cafeteria before it closed. I also talked them into bringing us a microwave and a fridge.”
While my dinner was heating up, I checked the refrigerator and found it stocked with Coke and water. While eating, I told Bobbie how my afternoon had gone, and she described the tour she'd gotten of the primate pens. Once those topics were exhausted, we talked about inconsequential things until I started yawning and Bobbie suggested going to sleep.
I stood up and stripped down to my t-shirt, bra, and panties. “Say, can you teach me that trick with the bra?”
“Sure,” she said.
After a little coaching, I successfully removed my bra without taking my shirt off first. Then we stood there looking at the bed.
Bobbie said, “If I get on my side with my back to the wall, that should leave room for you.”
“You couldn't talk them out of another bed?”
“They insisted there weren't any available.”
“Yeah, you just wanted an excuse to finally get me in the sack.”
“Maybe,” Bobbie said with a grin. “Or maybe they just want to watch.”
“Are they watching?”
“I found one camera, but my induction meter showed there wasn't any power going to it. I put a piece of tape over it just in case.”
“Good girl,” I said, trying to mimic Rob's voice.
“If you're going to be like that, then I definitely want to get you into bed.”
“Then let's do it.”
Bobbie slid under the covers, leaving as much room for me as possible. I got in beside her, trying to lie on my back at first. My arm kept falling over the edge, so I turned on my side with my back to her. It was certainly different from being cuddled up to Shaun, but not bad. It was comforting without being a turn-on. I heard Bobbie's breathing settle into the regular pattern of sleep and tried to follow her into unconsciousness. Her hand slipped to my hip, then slid up over my shirt to cup my breast. I thought about waking her up but she would have been embarrassed, and as long as she didn't get any more aggressive in her sleep there was no point. It wasn't distracting enough to keep me awake for long.
I was awakened by a hissing sound. The door opened, and two men carrying guns and wearing respirators entered. Bobbie shoved me off the bed and onto the floor while reaching for her revolver on the nightstand. She knocked it onto the floor and collapsed limply on top of me. The gun was two feet in front of my face, but I couldn't seem to move my arms to reach for it. After a few seconds the world went dark again.

From: and.car @ txbiomed

To: dir.sec @ txbiomed.rsc

Wednesday, June 30^th, 2042
I expect you to find out who is responsible and deliver their ass to me. On a platter. Medium rare. If you can't accomplish that, then your resignation will be an insufficient but necessary substitute.
From: and.car @ txbiomed.rsc

To: dir.neuro @ txbiomed.rsc

Wednesday, June 30^th, 2042
I strongly protest the decision to keep Mr. Mason ignorant of the kidnapping of his sister and her companion. He has a right to know. Damn it, basic human decency is more important than research. Besides, without her, he is of limited benefit as a research subject.
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Georgia In My MInd