“That’s Becks. Always ready to offer a helping headshot.” I restrained the urge to pick George up and get her feet away from the ground. I needed to let her walk on her own. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t.
“I thought I learned from the best,” said Becks. She stayed where she was, letting us step away from the vehicle. It was clear she intended to follow us to the door, rather than risking George getting the drop on her. Oddly, it wasn’t only George who found her paranoia comforting. Knowing there was someone behind me, ready to shoot if something started to go wrong, made me a lot more comfortable letting George take my hand, even though it would keep me from getting to a gun as fast as I might need to.
Mahir walked on my other side. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The worried, faintly disapproving look on his face said volumes.
True to the concierge’s word, a man in the hotel uniform was waiting by the airlock with a pair of fluffy blue and gold slippers in one hand and a matching robe in the other. He held them out to us as we approached, saying, “The management is thrilled that you’re here, but would prefer that you not distress the other guests.”
“What?” I asked blankly.
Mahir cleared his throat and nodded toward George. I turned, looking at her.
There were stains on the sleeves of her once-white lab coat. Some were clearly chemical; others could have been blood. Some of the stains on the cuffs of her pants were definitely blood, as were the streaky smears on the tops of her feet. The fact that she was dressed like a medical professional would just make those little spots more terrifying for most people. We trust doctors because we have to. We never forget that they’re the profession with the highest day-to-day risk of infection.
George looked down at herself, clearly coming to the same conclusion. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the robe and slippers. Putting them on made her look less disheveled, and oddly younger; the robe was at least three sizes too large, and hung on her like a shroud. She tied the robe around her waist, sleeves all but swallowing her hands, and flashed a quick, professional smile at the attendant. “It’s great.”
“Welcome to the Agora, miss. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay.” He bowed before turning and stepping into the airlock. I was pretty sure any charges associated with the robe and slippers would be appearing on our master bill, and would be hefty enough to make me choke. Good thing none of us were ever going to see the price tag for this place.
Once the attendant was clear of the airlock, George and I stepped inside. A little more of the tension went out of her shoulders as soon as we were past the first layer of glass, like even that thin barrier took us farther from her captivity. I couldn’t reach her hands, swaddled as they were in layers of plush terry cloth, so I squeezed her shoulder instead.
The smile she flashed my way was a lot less professional. “You can keep doing that forever,” she said quietly.
“Planning on it,” I said. Then the door was sliding open in front of us, and we left the airlock together, letting it begin a new cycle as Becks and Mahir were processed through.
George looked around the Agora lobby with a cool, calculating curiosity, like she was assessing the whole place for acoustics, security, and exit routes—the three most important functions of any space as far as a journalist was concerned. Every move she made just convinced me a little more that she was who she said she was. I knew I wanted to believe her, which put me at a disadvantage, but… if she’d been off in anything but the superficialities of her appearance, I would have been the first to notice. So far, she was doing everything right. That meant she was either the real thing, or an unbelievably good fake.
Please be the real thing, I prayed, to no one in particular.
Only one of us can be real, replied the quiet voice of my inner Georgia.
I stiffened. She’d been quiet for so long that I’d almost started thinking of it as a transition. George dies, she moves into my head. George comes back to life, she moves out again. It was simple. Straightforward.
Impossible. You don’t recover from going crazy just because the thing that made you that way is magically undone. If the human mind worked like that, we’d be a much saner species.
“Shaun?” George looked up at me, frowning. “You okay?”
For a horrible moment, I didn’t know which of them I was supposed to respond to. Then Maggie stepped out of the elevator lobby, eyes wide. She was back in her normal clothes, a heavy cable-knit sweater over a long patchwork skirt, and her hair was braided into a semblance of control. She started toward us, her gaze never moving away from George’s face.
“Shaun?” she said, when she was close enough to be heard without raising her voice. “What is this?”
“That’s a complicated question,” I said honestly. The airlock door slid open behind me, and footsteps marked Mahir and Becks falling into a flanking position, Mahir to my left, Becks to George’s right.
“Hi, Maggie,” said George.