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“Shaun Phillip Mason,” said Shaun, grimacing. Our usual games worked on the security system at home, but with a setup this advanced, there was too much potential that the computer would mistake “messing around” for “confused about your own identity” and call security. “Room four-nineteen.”

“Georgia Carolyn Mason,” I said. “Room four-nineteen.”

“Welcome, Mr. and Ms. Mason,” said the hotel, after a fifteen-second pause to compare our voice prints to the ones on file. “Could I trouble you for a retinal scan?”

“Medical dispensation, federal guideline seven-fifteen-A,” I said. “I have a registered case of nonactive retinal Kellis-Amberlee and would like to request a pattern recognition test, in accordance with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

“Hang on while I check your records,” said the hotel. It fell silent. I rolled my eyes.

“Every time,” I muttered.

“It’s just trying to be thorough.”

“Every time.”

“It only takes the system a few seconds to find your file.”

“How many times have we gone through this garage now?”

“Maybe they figure that if you were infected, you’d forget that stupid federal guideline.”

“I’d like to forget your stupid—”

The speaker clicked back on. “Ms. Mason, thank you for alerting us to your medical condition. Please look at the screen in front of you. Mr. Mason, please proceed to the line marked on the floor, and look at the screen in front of you. Tests will commence simultaneously.”

“Lucky disabled bitch,” muttered Shaun, placing his toes on the indicated line and opening his eyes wide.

My screen flickered, resetting from scanning to text mode, and displayed a block of text. I cleared my throat and read, “Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow.”

“Please hold,” said the hotel. The black plastic doors on two of the test panels slid upward, revealing the metal testing panels. “Mr. and Ms. Mason, please place your hands on the diagnostic panels.”

“Don’t you love how it doesn’t tell us whether we’ve passed or not?” said Shaun, putting his hand flat on the first panel. “They could be calling security right now and just stalling us until they get here.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Optimism,” I said. I pressed my hand to the second panel, feeling the brief sting of a needle against the base of my palm. “Got any other cheery thoughts?”

“Well, if Rick’s frantic, Mahir may have experienced spontaneous human combustion by now.”

“I hope somebody got it on film.”

“Mr. and Ms. Mason, welcome to the Parrish Weston Suites. We hope you enjoy your stay; please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.” The hotel finished delivering its sugar-soaked greeting as the doors between us and the elevator slid open, allowing us to proceed. They closed as soon as we were through, locking us out of the air lock. “Thank you for choosing the Weston family of hotels.”

“Same to you,” I said, and hit the Call button.

The science of moving people from point to point has improved over the past twenty years, since the infected have done a lot to discourage the once-natural human desire to linger alone in dark, poorly defended places. The Weston had nine elevators sharing a series of corridors and conduits. They were controlled by a central computer that spent the day dispatching them along the most efficient, collision-free routes. It took less than five seconds for the elevator doors to open. It promptly skidded sideways twenty yards once we were inside, beginning the rapid ascent to the elevator access closest to our hotel rooms.

“Priorities?” asked Shaun, as the elevator shot upward.

“Clear the message boards, perform a general status check-in, and debrief,” I said. “I’ll get my crew online if I have to haul them out of their beds. You get yours.”

“What about the Fictionals?”

“Rick can handle them.” If Buffy wanted to skip out on what might be the most important scoop the two more realistic sections of the site ever had, that was her prerogative, but she’d have to cope with us rousing her junior bloggers. Her department didn’t get to hang up the blackout curtains just because she wanted to get laid.

Shaun grinned. “Can I tell him?”

The elevator slowed as it approached our floor, dumping inertia at such a rate that you’d never guess it had just been traveling in excess of twenty miles per hour. The doors slid open with a ding. “If it’ll make you happy, by all means, tell him. Make sure he knows Magdalene is his to abuse. That should help things a bit.” I approached our room, pressing my thumb against the access panel. It flashed green, acknowledging my right to enter. Shaun opened the door and shoved past me, leaving me standing in the hall. I sighed. “After you.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” he called back.

Rolling my eyes, I followed him.

When the senator booked our rooms, he gave us a pair of adjoining suites, assuming Buffy and I would take one room while Shaun and Rick took the other. It didn’t work out that way. Buffy refuses to sleep without a nightlight, which I can’t tolerate for obvious reasons; Shaun tends to respond violently to unexpected noises in the night. So Rick and Buffy wound up in one room, while Shaun and I were in the other with all the computers, turning it into our temporary headquarters.

Rick was at a terminal when we came in. The cat he’d saved was curled up in his lap, purring. I’d be purring, too, if I’d just eaten the better part of a tuna fish sandwich from room service.

“Lucky cat,” I commented.

“Oh, thank God,” said Rick, looking up. “Everyone wants to know what we’re doing next. The raw footage has been downloaded so many times I thought we were going to blow up one of the servers, Mahir won’t stop pinging me, and the message boards are—”