First Shift - Legacy

his hand.

Shaking his mouse with one hand, waking up his monitor so he could boot a game of solitaire, Troy smiled across the hallway at Victor, who smiled back. And in his other hand, still sticky from the outer coating dissolved by his saliva, two pills nestled in a palm dyed pink. The blood red stain from the day before was already beginning to fade. But Troy was tired of fading. He had decided to remember.

15

2049 • Savannah, Georgia

Donald sped down highway 17, driving manually, a flashing red light on his dash warning him as he exceeded the local speed limit. He didn’t care about being pulled over, didn’t care about being wired a ticket or his insurance rates creeping up. It all seemed trivial. The fact that there were circuits riding along in his car keeping track of everything he did paled in comparison to the suspicion that machines in his blood were doing the same.

The tires squealed as he spiraled down his exit ramp too fast. He merged onto Berwick Boulevard, the overhead lights strobing through the windshield as he flew beneath them. Glancing down at his lap, he watched the gold inlay text on the book throb with the rhythm of the passing streetlights.

Order. Order. Order.

He had read enough to worry, to wonder what he’d gotten himself mixed up in. Helen had been right to warn him, had been wrong about the scale of the danger.

Turning into their neighborhood, Donald remembered an ancient conversation—he remembered her begging him not to run for office, that it would change him, that he couldn’t fix anything up there, but that he could sure as hell come home broken.

How right had she been?

He pulled up to the house and had to leave the car by the curb. Her Jeep was in the middle of the driveway. One more habit formed in his absence, a reminder that he didn’t live there anymore, didn’t have a real home.

Leaving his bags in the trunk, he took just the book and his keys. It was enough of a load, that book.

The motion light came on as he neared the stoop. He saw a form by the door, heard frantic scratching on the other side. Helen opened the door, and Karma rushed out, tail whacking the side of the jamb, tongue lolling, so much bigger in just the few weeks that he’d been away.

Donald crouched down and rubbed her head, let the dog lick his cheek.

“Good girl,” he said. He tried to sound happy. The cool emptiness in his chest intensified from being home, from lying to their dog about his mood. The things that should’ve felt comforting just made him feel worse.

“Hey, honey.” He smiled up at his wife.

“You’re early.”

Helen wrapped her arms around his neck as he stood. Karma sat down and whined at them, tail swishing on the concrete. Helen’s kiss tasted like coffee.

“I took an earlier flight.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the dark streets of his neighborhood. As if anyone needed to follow him.

“Where’re your bags?”

“I’ll get ’em in the morning. C’mon, Karma. Let’s go inside.” He steered his dog through the door.

“Is everything okay?” Helen asked.

Donald went to the kitchen. He set the book down on the island and fished in the cabinet for a glass. Helen watched him with concern as he pulled a bottle of brandy out of the cabinet.

“Baby. What’s going on?”

“Maybe nothing,” he said. “Lunatics—” He poured three fingers of brandy, looked to Helen and raised the bottle to see if she wanted any. She shook her head. “Then again,” he continued, “maybe there’s something to it—” He took more than a sip. His other hand hadn’t left the neck of the bottle.

“Baby, you’re acting strange. Come sit down. Take off your coat.”

He nodded and let her help him remove his jacket. He slid his tie off, saw the worry on her face, knew it was a reflection of his own. He tried to relax the knot he could feel above his nose, the scrunched brow that was frozen on his forehead—it was the emotional and physical antithesis of sore cheeks from smiling too much.

“What would you do if you thought it all might end?” he asked his wife. “What would you do?”

“If what? You mean us? Oh, you mean life. Honey, did someone pass away? Tell me what’s going on.”

“No, not someone. Everyone. Everything.”

He tucked the bottle under his arm, grabbed his drink and the book, and went to the living room. Helen and Karma followed. Karma was already on the sofa waiting for him to plop down before he got there, a goofy smile, oblivious to anything he was saying, just thrilled for the pack to be reunited.

“It sounds like you’ve had a very long day;” Helen said, trying to find excuses for him.

Donald sat on the sofa and put the bottle and book on the coffee table. He pulled his drink away from Karma’s curious nose.

“I have something I have to tell you,” he said.

Helen stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed. “That’d be a nice change.” She smiled to let him know it was meant in jest. Donald nodded.

“I know, I know,” he said. His eyes fell to the book, then drifted toward what he figured was the general direction of Atlanta. “This isn’t about that project. And honestly, do you think I enjoy keeping my life from you?”

Helen crossed to the recliner next to the sofa and sat down. “What is this about?” she asked.

“I’ve been told it’s okay to tell you about a… promotion. Well, more of an assignment than a promotion. Not an assignment, really, more like being on the National Guard. Just in case—”

Helen reached over and squeezed his knee. “Take it easy,” she whispered. Her eyebrows were lowered, confusion and worry lurking in the shadows there.

Donald took a deep breath. He was still revved up from running the conversation over in his head, from driving too fast. The weeks since his meeting with Thurman were a blur, a blur of reading too much into the book and too much into that conversation. He couldn’t tell if he was piecing something together or just mentally falling apart.

“How much have you followed what’s going on in Iran?” he asked, scratching his arm. “And Korea?”

She shrugged. “I see blurbs online.”

“Mmm.” He took a burning gulp of liquor, smacked his lips, and tried to relax and enjoy the numbing chill as it traveled through his body. “They’re working on ways to take everything out,” he said.

“Who? We are?” Helen’s voice rose. “We’re thinking of taking them out?”

“No, no—”

“Are you sure I’m allowed to hear this—?”

“No, sweetheart, they’re designing weapons to take us out. Weapons that can’t be stopped, that can’t be defended against.”

Helen leaned forward, her hands clasped, elbows on her knees. “Is this stuff you’re learning in Washington? Classified stuff?”

He waved his hand. “Beyond classified. Look, you know why we went into Iran—”

“I know why they said we went in—”

“It wasn’t bullshit,” he said, cutting her off. “Well, maybe it was. Maybe they hadn’t figured it out yet, hadn’t mastered how—”

“Honey, slow down.”

“Yeah.” He took another deep breath. He had an image in mind of a large mountain out west, a concrete road disappearing straight into the rock, thick vault doors standing open as files of politicians crowded inside with their families and just a handful of belongings.

“I met with the Senator a few weeks ago.” He stared down into the ginger-colored liquor in his glass.