Maggie’s parents have arrived, or so I’m told—I haven’t been allowed to see her since their plane landed, and for all I know, they’ve come, bundled her into their private jet, and gone, leaving me to settle an utterly astronomical bill. I do hope they take physical labor in exchange. Washing dishes should have us paid off in, oh, three or four hundred years. Give or take a decade or two. Nan will shout when she finds out I’ve become an indentured servant in America. Probably say it serves me right for being so damn stubborn, going off and leaving her alone.
Dr. Abbey sent an e-mail last night, saying the others were leaving her lab on another mission. She wouldn’t say where, and my mail to her has started bouncing. Either she’s blocked me, or she’s changed addresses. Either way, we’re cut off for the nonce, because none of my colleagues are answering their e-mail. And I alone am left to tell thee…
Damn. I thought I was done being the one who stayed behind to write the story down. Bloody journalists.
May they all come home safely.
—From Fish and Clips, the blog of Mahir Gowda, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.
Michael and Alisa are at the gift shop near the front gate, getting her some clean T-shirts. We’ve been at Cliff’s Amusement Park in New Mexico for two days now, and we’re all starting to run out of clothes. It should be safe to head back to Berkeley soon. Right now, it’s a media circus, and the only way we can avoid it is by acting like everything is normal. Alisa’s been a good sport about things, thank God. It probably helps that after Florida, nothing looks dangerous to her.
She’s a good kid. Even after everything she’s been through, she’s a good kid. Shaun and Georgia… they were good kids, too. Even after everything we put them through, they somehow managed to grow up to be good people. I don’t know how that happened. I guess that makes sense, because I never really knew them. I never wanted to. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite, because now that they’re grown and gone—gone for good, in Georgia’s case—I’m proud of them.
I wish I’d been a better mother when I had the chance.
—From Stacy’s Survival Strategies, the blog of Stacy Mason, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.
GEORGIA: Thirty-five
President Ryman was flanked by three Secret Servicemen of his own, along with a man I didn’t recognize, but whose CDC-issue lab coat immediately made my heart start beating faster. I managed to hold my ground only by reminding myself that Georgia Mason—the original—would never show fear in the face of a man who wasn’t holding a gun to her head, and maybe not even then. If I was going to deal with these people, I had to do it the way she would have done it. Nothing else was going to work.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” I said, tilting my chin up just enough to be sure my sunglasses would entirely block my eyes. I didn’t want him thinking of me as a science project. I wanted him thinking of me as Georgia, and Georgia’s eyes didn’t look like mine.
“That’s because I’m not,” he said. He looked tired. None of his Secret Servicemen were familiar—the only familiar face I’d seen among the guards was Steve, and Steve would probably have a job until everyone who’d been on the campaign was dead and gone. There’s something to be said for loyalty like his.
Shaun took a step forward, planting himself beside me, and all but glared at President Ryman. “You mean you knew about this cloning shit, too, and you didn’t tell me? Don’t you people think that sending me a note might have been a good idea?”
“No, they didn’t,” I said, as calmly as I could. It was surprisingly easy. Losing my temper wouldn’t do any good, and I was starting to become accustomed to the idea that everyone in the world—except Shaun—was going to betray me. “I was never supposed to leave the lab.”
Rick moved to join President Ryman. He met my eyes as he turned to face the rest of us. President Ryman… didn’t. He looked away instead, and the set of his jaw said everything he wasn’t saying out loud.
“You bastard,” whispered Shaun. He started to take a step forward. I grabbed his elbow, stopping him.
“The last thing we need today is for you to assault the president,” I said quietly. “Take a deep breath, and let it go.”
“He was going to let them kill you.”
“He let them make me in the first place. Let’s call that part a wash, and see where he takes it from there.” I kept watching President Ryman’s face. He kept not meeting my eyes. “Why are we here, Mr. President? You never had to let us make it this far.”
“Yes, I did.” His head snapped around. For a moment, I saw the man I knew behind the beaten shadows in his eyes. He looked angry. Not with us—with the world. “I owed you this.”
“Did you owe us this before or after you let your people call an air strike on Oakland?” asked Becks. “David Novakowski stayed behind when those bombs came down. He was an Irwin. A good one. He wasn’t involved in your campaign because he was in Alaska at the time, but he would have liked you.” Her tone was calm and challenging at the same time, daring him to give an answer she didn’t approve of.