“Well, the Iranians didn’t figure it out for themselves so much as steal what Israel was working on.” He smiled at Donald. “So, of course, we had to start playing catch-up.”
“I don’t understa—”
“These critters in here are programmed for my DNA, Donny. Think about that. Have you ever had your ancestry tested?” He looked Donald up and down like he was surveying a mottled mutt. “What are you, anyway? Scottish?”
“Maybe Irish, sir. I honestly couldn’t tell you.” He didn’t want to admit that it was unimportant to him; it seemed like a topic Thurman was anything but apathetic about.
“Well, these buggers can tell. If they ever get them perfected, that is. They could tell you what clan you came from. And that’s what those crazy Iranians are working on: a weapon you can’t see, that you can’t stop, and if it decides you’re Jewish, even a
“I thought we were wrong about that. We never found any NBs in Iran.”
“That’s because they self-destructed.
Donald laughed. “You sound like one of those conspiracy theorists—”
Senator Thurman leaned back and rested his head against the wall. “Donny, the conspiracy theorists sound like
Donald waited for the Senator to laugh. Or smile. It wasn’t happening.
“What does this have to do with me?” he asked. “Or our project?” He suspected the answer was:
Thurman closed his eyes, his head still tilted back against the wall behind him. “You know why Florida has such pretty sunrises?”
Donald wanted to throw his water bottle. He wanted to get up, spin in circles, scream, then beat on the door until they hauled him out of there in a straightjacket. Instead, he took a sip of water and spun the cap back on.
Thurman cracked an eye. Studied him. He finally realized Donald wasn’t going to guess.
“It’s because the sand from Africa blows clear across the Atlantic.”
Donald nodded. He saw what the Senator was getting at. He’d heard the same fear-mongering on the twenty-four-hour news programs, how toxins and tiny machines can circle the globe, just like seeds and pollens have done for millennia.
“It’s coming, Donny. I know it is. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, even in here. I asked you to meet me here because I want you to have a seat at the
“Sir?”
“You and Helen both.”
Donald scratched his arm and glanced at the door. He wanted out of there.
“It’s just a contingency plan for now, you understand? There are plans in place for anything. Mountains for the president to crawl inside of, but we need something else.”
Donald remembered the congressman from Atlanta prattling on about zombies and the CDC. This sounded like more of that nonsense.
“I’m happy to serve on any committee you think’s important—”
“Good.” The Senator took the book from his lap and handed it to Donald, who was prepared this time for how heavy it would be. “Read this,” Thurman said.
Donald checked the cover. It was familiar, but instead of French script, it read:
“That’s your bible from now on, son. When I was in the war, I met boys no higher than your knee who had the entire Qur'an memorized, every stinkin’ verse. You need to do better.”
“Memorize?”
“As near as you can. And don’t worry, you’ve got a couple of years.”
Donald laughed. He snapped the book shut and studied the spine. “Good. I’ll need it.” He wanted to know if there would be a raise involved or a ton of committee meetings. This sounded ludicrous, but he wasn’t about to refuse the old man, not with his reelection coming up every two years.
“All right. Welcome.” Thurman leaned forward and held out his hand. Donald tried to get his palm deep into the Senator’s. It made the older man’s grip hurt a lot less. “You’re free to go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He stood and exhaled in relief. Cradling the book, he moved to the airlock door.
“Oh, and Donny?”
He turned back. “Yessir?”
“The National Convention is in a couple of years. I want you to go ahead and pencil it into your schedule. And make sure Helen is there.”
Donald felt goose bumps run down his arms. Screw the committee,
“Absolutely, sir.” He knew he was smiling.
“Oh, and I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you about the critters in here.”
“Sir?” Donald swallowed. His smile melted. He had one hand on the hatch’s wheel. His mind resumed playing tricks on him, the taste on his tongue metallic, the pricks everywhere on his skin.
“Some of the buggers in here are very much for you.”
Senator Thurman stared at Donald for a beat, and then he started laughing.
Donald turned, sweat dripping from his brow as he worked the wheel in the door. He nearly dropped the book twice, his palms were so sweaty. It wasn’t until he secured the airlock, the seals deadening the laughter and the bad joke, that he could breathe again.
The air around him buzzed, a jolt of static to kill any strays. Donald blew out his breath. He exhaled the unseen and imagined torment in his lungs to their electrified death. And then he fought back the tears and the panic, the urge to scream. He didn’t want the pretty nurse or the man in the sunglasses to see him cry.
14
The shrinks kept Troy’s door locked and delivered his meals while he went through the Silo 12 reports alone. He spread the pages across his keyboard—safely away from the edge of his desk. This way, when stray tears fell, they hit only wood. He routinely palmed them off and smeared them into his thigh.
For some reason, Troy couldn’t stop crying. The shrinks with the strict meal plans had taken him off his meds the last two days, long enough to compile his findings sober and free to remember. He had a deadline. After he put his final notes together, they would get him something to cut through the pain.
Images of the dying interfered with his thoughts. It was always that view of the outside, of people suffocating and falling to their knees. Troy remembered giving the order. What he regretted most was making someone else push the button.
Coming off his meds brought back other random haunts. He remembered his father. He remembered events from before his orientation. And it confused him that a billion dead could be an ache in his gut while a few thousand made him want to curl up and die.
Maybe it was because he saw himself as a steward to the thousands. They were in his charge. But then again: hadn’t that been true of the billions? Hadn’t they all been stewards of one another? Or was inaction somehow a lesser sin? Was keeping quiet less evil than barking orders?
The reports on his keyboard told a story, a predictable story. Troy knew there were paragraphs in The Legacy that told the same tale. What he didn’t understand was how something could be predictable without being
