Replica (Replica #1)(9)
“Shannon from security sent me,” she said, stopping herself at the last second from saying Lazy Ass.
Werner disappeared. When he returned to open the door, she saw that he had suited up in gloves and a face mask. It wasn’t unusual for members of the staff to refuse to interact with the replicas unless they were protected, which Lyra thought was stupid. The diseases that killed the replicas, the conditions that made them small and slow and stupid, were directly related to the cloning process and to being raised at Haven.
He looked at the file in her hand as if it was something dead. “Go on. Give it. And tell Shannon from security to do her own work next time.” He snatched the file from her and quickly withdrew, scowling at her from behind the glass. She barely noticed. Already, in her head, she was curling up inside all those letters—new pages, new words to decipher and trip over and decode.
She retrieved the file from the metal bin after checking to see that she was still alone. This was the only part of the plan she hadn’t entirely thought out. She had to get the file up to her bed, but if she carried it openly, someone might wonder where it had come from. She could say a nurse had given it to her to deliver—but what if someone checked? She wasn’t even sure whether she could lie convincingly. She hadn’t spoken to the staff so much in years, and she was already exhausted.
Instead she opted to slip it under the waistband of her standard-issue pants, pouching her shirt out over it. The only way to keep it from slipping was to wrap both arms around her stomach, as if she had a bad stomachache. Even then, she had to take small steps, and she imagined that the sound of crinkling paper accompanied her. But she had no choice. Hopefully, she would make it back to D-Wing without having to speak to anyone.
But no sooner had she passed through the doors into the stairwell than she heard the sound of echoing voices. Before she could retreat, God came down the stairs with one of the Suits. Lyra ducked her head and stepped aside, squeezing her arms close around the file, praying they would move past her without stopping.
They stopped.
“Hey.” It was the stranger who spoke. “Hey. You.” His eyes were practically black. He turned to God. “Which one is this?”
“Not sure. Some of the nurses can tell them apart on sight.” God looked at Lyra. “Which one are you?” he asked.
Maybe it was the stolen file pressed to her stomach, but Lyra had the momentary impulse to introduce herself by name. Instead she said, “Number twenty-four.”
“And you just let them wander around like this?” The man was still staring at Lyra, but obviously addressing himself to God. “Even after what happened?” Lyra knew he must be talking about the Code Black.
“We’re following protocols,” God said. God’s voice reminded Lyra of the bite of the syringes. “When Haven started, it was important to the private sector that they be treated humanely.”
“There is no private sector. We’re the ones holding the purse strings now,” the man said. “What about contagion?”
Lyra was only half listening. Sweat was gathering in the space between the folder and her stomach. She imagined it seeping through the folder, dampening the pages. The folder had shifted fractionally and she was worried a page might escape, but she didn’t dare adjust her grip.
“There’s no risk except through direct ingestion—as you would know, if you actually read the reports. All right, twenty-four,” God said. “You can go.”
Lyra was so relieved she could have shouted. Instead she lowered her head and, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, started to move past them.
“Wait.”
The Suit called out to her. Lyra stiffened and turned around to face him on the stairs. They were now nearly eye to eye. She felt the same way she did during examinations, shivering in her paper gown, staring up at the high unblinking lights set in the ceiling: cold and exposed.
“What’s the matter with its stomach?” he asked.
Lyra tightened her hands around her waist. Please, she thought. Please. She couldn’t complete the thought. If she were forced to move her arms, the file would drop. She imagined papers spilling from her pants legs, tumbling down the stairs.
God indicated the plastic wristband Lyra always wore. “Green,” he said. “One of the first variants. Slower-acting than your typical vCJD. Most of the Greens are still alive, although we’ve seen a few signs of neurodegenerative activity recently.”
“So what’s that mean in English?”
Unlike the man in the suit, God never made eye contact. He looked at her shoulders, her arms, her kneecaps, her forehead: everywhere but her eyes.
“Side effects,” he said, with a thin smile. Then Lyra was free to go.
Lyra wasn’t the only replica that collected things. Rose kept used toothbrushes under her pillow. Palmolive scanned the hallways for dropped coins and stored them in a box that had once contained antibacterial swabs. Cassiopeia had lined up dozens of seashells on the windowsill next to her bed, and additionally had convinced Nurse Dolly to sneak her some Scotch tape so she could hang several drawings she’d created on napkins stolen from the mess hall. She drew Dumpsters and red-barred circles and stethoscopes and the bust of the first God in his red-and-blue cape and scalpels gleaming in folds of clean cloth. She was very good. Calliope had once taken a cell phone from one of the nurses, and all her genotypes had been punished for it.