Dr. Shaw led us down the hall toward the lab where her first round of tests on me had been conducted, stopping at an unmarked door. “You are no longer required,” she informed the guards, holding up her ID badge. “I assure you, the automated systems will make sure nothing untoward happens between here and our final destination.”
“Our apologies, Dr. Shaw, but we have our orders,” said the elder of the two guards, a tall, Hispanic man with a thin mustache covering his upper lip. He looked less nervous than his companion. Maybe that’s why he got the unenviable job of telling Dr. Shaw he wasn’t going to do what she wanted him to do. “We are to escort the subject to your lab and ensure that she’s secured before we leave our posts.”
“Bureaucracy will be the death of us all,” muttered Dr. Shaw, with what looked like sincere annoyance. “Very well, then, if you must. But if either of you so much as breathes on something you shouldn’t, the cost of decontamination will be coming out of your paychecks, and I will be speaking to your supervisors. Do I make myself clear?” Kathleen and George stepped up to flank us, presenting a united line. I was the only one not wearing a lab coat. For some reason, that struck me as funny.
The guards looked more uncomfortable than ever, but they stood their ground. I almost had to respect that. “Perfectly, ma’am,” said the older guard. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Yes, well, I believe you’ve established that.” She swiped her badge down the front of a magnetic scanner in the wall. The scanner beeped once. The door in front of us didn’t budge; instead, a door on the other side of the hall swung open. The guards turned. Dr. Shaw looked smug. “Gentlemen, if you’re so intent on managing my patient’s welfare, you can lead the way.”
I frowned at the expression on her face. Then I looked through the open door, and my frown struggled to become a smile.
The door opened in what appeared to be the side of a hall. A sign was posted on the wall visible through the opening—CAUTION: ACTIVE BIOHAZARD LABS BEYOND THIS POINT. CONTAMINATION RISK IS SET AT BIOSAFETY LEVEL 3. DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT APPROPRIATE CLEARANCE. Beneath that, some joker had taped a printout reading “So come on in, and kiss your ass good-bye.”
“Ma’am?” asked the older guard.
“I realize you’ve been working primarily in Level 1 and 2 areas, but my primary lab is maintained in the Level 3 wing.” Dr. Shaw glanced to me as she spoke, giving me a brief but meaningful look that chased away any doubts I may have had about my fate. If I were still Dr. Thomas’s pet subject, he would never have let me enter a Level 3 biohazard lab. He approved this. He was done with me.
All CDC properties start at Level 1, including the bathrooms and reception areas. No special training or equipment is needed to enter one. Level 1 biohazard facilities work with agents that don’t harm healthy adult humans. Level 2 biohazard facilities work with things that can harm healthy adult humans, and will usually have some precautions in place to deal with contamination. It’s only once you hit Level 3 that you start needing major protective gear. With the door standing open, I could hear the faint hiss of air being drawn into the hall, caught by the negative pressure filters. Airborne dangers could get in, but they would never make it out.
The guards stared at the sign. Dr. Shaw cleared her throat. “Gentlemen?”
The younger guard actually jumped. “Ma’am?” he asked.
“I realize you’re simply trying to do your jobs, but I assure you, no amount of staring at the wall will get us to my lab. Can we proceed?”
“Just a moment.” The older guard murmured something to his companion before raising a hand and tapping the skin behind his ear. “I’ll be right back with you.”
“Subdermal communications implant,” I muttered. “Slick.” Buffy would have loved to get her hands on one of those. With the way I went through the ear cuffs I used to contact my team, something subdermal would have—would have—
I touched the top edge of my left ear, where my ear cuff should have been. I hadn’t even thought about it since waking up, and now that I remembered it, I felt naked without it. Somehow, I found that reassuring. It was one more piece of evidence that I was still me, even if I was someone else at the same time. For the first time, I felt myself feeling sorry for the Georgia Masons who had been cloned, studied, and killed before me. How many of them ever knew they weren’t the woman they thought they were? How many of them touched their ears, feeling naked and wondering whether they’d get the chance to be properly clothed ever again?
I hoped none of them. If they hadn’t been able to escape—and clearly, they hadn’t, because I wouldn’t have been here if they had—then there was no reason they should ever have needed to feel like this.