Blackout

MAHIR: Forty-two

The phone rang at half-three in the morning, waking both Nan and Sanjukta from a sound sleep. Nandini glared as she levered herself from the bed and left the room, following our infant daughter’s wailing. I swore, rolling over and grabbing my cell off the bedside table, bringing it to my ear before I was done sitting up.

“This had best be bloody important, or I’m letting my wife give you what-for,” I snarled.

“Mr. Gowda, this is Christopher Rogers, from the All-Night News. I apologize if I woke you—I thought I had calculated the time difference between London and San Francisco correctly.”

Smug bastard. I could hear it in his voice, the vague self-congratulatory tone of a reporter who thinks he’s put his subject off balance. “How did you get this number?”

“Mr. Gowda, I have a few questions, if you don’t—”

“I bloody well do mind. This is an unlisted number, and I know what you’re calling about. You want to know where the Masons are, don’t you?”

Silence greeted my question. That was a sufficient answer in and of itself.

“When will you people learn to listen? I don’t know where the Masons are. No one knows where the Masons are. They disappeared after the management of the CDC was given over to the EIS. Last anyone saw of either of them, they were in an unmarked car heading God-knows-where.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The last time I saw them was on the border between the United States and Canada, when Steve handed them the keys to their own van, which was waiting for them on the Canadian side. They mailed back all the bugs the CIA had planted a week later, and they were gone.

It was true enough. Every version of their disappearance ended the same way, after all: and they were gone.

“Mr. Gowda, your site is still syndicating blogs provided by both Masons. We find it difficult to credit your continued insistence that you do not know their whereabouts.”

“You little nit. They’re using relays put in place by Georgette Meissonier. So far as I know, your FBI has been trying to unsnarl that woman’s mad coding since before she died. What makes you think I could do it from here? I’m a reporter, not a computer technician.”

Nandini came back into the room, Sanjukta held against her chest. She cast a glare at me, demanding, “Who is it?”

“Another reporter. I’m getting rid of him.”

“Let me.”

“Not sure he deserves that yet, dear.” I turned my attention back to the phone. “My wife is about to take the phone off me. You’d best hang up, and never call this number again, or I’ll have you cited for harassment. Surprisingly, your government takes quite an interest in my complaints.”

Emily Ryman had taken her place beside her husband while pictures of her clone, killed during the attack on the White House, were shown to the world. President Ryman was found guilty of betraying the public trust. He was not found guilty of treason. He had been coerced, he had been afraid for the lives of his family, and he had been uncovering a treasonous group within his own government. He barely escaped being hailed as a hero.

Shaun and Georgia’s reports had a great deal to do with that, and President Ryman’s gratitude to the Masons had transferred to the site when they vanished. Having the President of the United States indebted to me had proven very useful in some situations—such as this one.

“Mr. Gowda, please. The people have a right to know.”

“The people know everything they have a right to know, Mr. Rodgers. I’ll be hanging up now.” They didn’t know there was no cure. Someday they would—someday we’d take back India, and a great deal more of the world beside—but not yet. The world wasn’t ready. Too many shots would go unfired, and too many more would die in the blind hope that their loved ones would be among the saved. Recovering from the first Rising took us twenty years. It might take twenty more to reach the point where we could recover from the second one.

“Mr. Gowda—”

I hung up on his protests and stood, dropping the phone onto the bed. “I’m sorry about that. Let me take her. You get some rest.”

“I hate that those people call here,” she complained, placing Sanjukta gently in my hands.

I drew my infant daughter close, smiling down at her sleepy face, her dark eyes almost closed. Looking up, I said, “I hate it as well. They’ll stop eventually.”

Nandini snorted her disbelief and climbed back into the bed, rolling over to face the wall. Her breathing leveled out in minutes, telling me that she had drifted back to sleep.

Sanjukta was less obliging. I left the bedroom, walking slow circles around the living room as I waited for her eyes to close. “Would you like to hear a story, my love? It’s about some very brave people and the way they tried to change the world.”

I wasn’t lying to that reporter when I told him I didn’t know where Shaun and Georgia—the second Georgia—were. They sent their posts and articles via blind relay. They sent their very rare postcards much the same way. So far as I knew, they were somewhere in the vast empty reaches of Canada, making a life for themselves. Maybe they had come back into the United States to rejoin Dr. Abbey—a few of her letters had led me to believe she might have seen them, at least briefly—but I doubted those would ever be more than visits. The Masons had lived and died in the public eye. Now, finally, they were free of it, and they were living for themselves, rather than living for anyone else. I wasn’t going to be the one to take that away from them.

Especially not now. They were clever to vanish when they did, while the world was still reeling from their final revelations. Things exploded not long after. The new director of the CDC, Dr. Gregory Lake, publicly redirected their research into reservoir conditions and possible vaccination paths, while privately redirecting it into spontaneous remission and transmittable immunity. Oversight committees were called, and arrests were made through all levels of several governments. The world slowly began to change as the people began, finally, to rise.

Maggie recovered, and remained with the site. Her parents even assisted in funding replacements for the equipment we’d lost, both to disaster, and when the Masons insisted on reclaiming their van. Alaric and Alisa moved in with her; Alaric and Maggie will be getting married in the spring, mirroring the ceremony into several virtual worlds for the sake of those of us who have had quite enough of the United States for now, thank you very much.

Alaric took over the Newsies; one of our more promising betas—another George, amusingly enough, although he goes by “Geo” to prevent confusion—took over the Irwins; and I? I took over the entire operation, with Maggie as my second. We work well together. Maybe it’s not as flashy and exciting as it was during the Mason era, but it does well enough by us.

We changed the world. That’s all the news can hope to do, I suppose.

The last postcard I had from the Masons came not a week before that reporter’s early-morning call. It summed up the whole situation rather neatly:

“Still having a wonderful time. Still glad you’re not here

.

All our love—G&S.”

Sanjukta sighed, drifting back into sleep. I kissed her on the forehead as I turned to carry her back to her own room, where I settled her down on the mattress of her crib. She fussed, but didn’t wake.

I drew the blanket over her and backed out of the room, pausing in the doorway to whisper, “They may not have lived happily ever after. But they lived happily long enough.”

And then I turned, and I went back to bed.