Hugh Howey - First Shift - Legacy

In one fist, he clutched the cap from the red marker. In the other, the marker itself, uncovered, tip pressed into his damp palm, spread a stain across his flesh the color of blood.

Donald had toured the Pentagon once, had been to the White House twice, went in and out of the Capitol building a dozen times a week, but nothing he’d seen in D.C. prepared him for the security around RYT’s Dwayne Medical Center. The process hardly made the hour-long meeting with the Senator seem worthwhile.

By the time he passed through the full body scanners leading into the nanobiotech wing, he’d been stripped, given a pair of green medical scrubs to wear, had a blood sample taken, and had allowed every sort of scanner and bright light to probe his eyes and record—so they said—the infrared capillary pattern of his face.

Heavy doors and sturdy men blocked every corridor as they made their way deeper and deeper into the NBT wing. When Donald spotted the Secret Service agents—who had been allowed to keep their dark suits and shades, he saw—he knew he was getting close. A nurse scanned him through a final set of stainless steel doors. The nanobiotic chamber awaited him inside.

Donald eyed the massive machine warily. He’d only ever seen them on TV dramas, and this one loomed even larger in person. It looked like a small submarine that had been marooned on the upper floors of the RYT, or maybe some kind of time machine from a sci-fi flick. Hoses and wires led away from the curved and flawless white exterior in bundles. Studded along the length were several small glass windows that brought to mind the portholes of a ship.

“And you’re sure it’s safe for me to go in?” He turned to the nurse. “Because I can always wait and visit him later.”

The nurse smiled. She couldn’t be out of her twenties, had her brown hair wrapped in a knot on the back of her head, was very pretty. “It’s perfectly safe,” she assured him. “His nanos won’t interact with your body. We often treat multiple patients in a single chamber.”

She led him to the end of the machine, which Donald thought was shaped like a Tylenol capsule. He could imagine a giant bursting its fist through the wall, plucking the chamber up, and popping it in his mouth. There was a locking wheel on the very end of this massive pill. The nurse gave it a spin, and a hatch opened with a sticky, ripping sound from the rubber seals and a slight gasp of air from the difference in pressure.

“If it’s so safe, then why is that thing so thick ?”

A soft laugh. “You’ll be fine.” She waved him toward the hatch. “There’ll be a slight delay and a little buzz after I seal this door, and then the inner one will unlock. Just spin the wheel and push to open.”

“I’m a little claustrophobic,” Donald admitted.

God, listen to himself. He was an adult. Why couldn’t he just say he didn’t want to go in and have that be enough? Why was he allowing himself to be pressured into this?

“Just step inside please, Mr. Keene.”

A Secret Service agent in the corner smiled. Donald wanted to ask him why he didn’t step inside as well if he was so brave.

The nurse placed her hand on the small of Donald’s back. Somehow, the pressure of a young and pretty woman watching, not to mention the asshole in the corner, was stronger than his abject terror of the oversized lozenge packed with its invisible machines. He wilted and found himself ducking through the small hatch, his throat constricting with panic.

Why didn’t they give him a mask? They should’ve given him a mask. Or would the nanos pass right through it? How small were they? He tried to remember how many zeros there were in a nanometer as the door behind him thumped shut, leaving him in a small curved space hardly big enough for two. The locks behind him clanked into the jamb. There were tiny silver benches set into the arching walls on either side of him. He tried to stand up, but his head brushed the ceiling. Donald reached for the handle on the inner door, torn between seeking the larger space inside the pill and his fear of the tiny machines that awaited him there.

An angry hum filled the chamber—the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The air around Donald felt charged with electricity. He wondered if it was to kill any strays. He looked for an intercom, some way to communicate with the Senator through the door so he didn’t have to go any further. It felt like he couldn’t breathe; he needed to get out . There was no wheel on the outer door. Everything had been taken out of his control—

The inner locks clanked. Donald lunged for the door and tried the handle. Holding his breath, he opened the hatch and escaped the small airlock for the larger chamber in the center of the pill.

“Donald!” Senator Thurman looked up from a thick book. He was sprawled out on one of the benches running the length of the long cylinder. A notepad and pen sat on a small table; a plastic tray held the remnants of dinner.

“Hello, sir.” He said this with the minimal parting of his lips.

“Don’t just stand there, get in. You’re letting the buggers out.”

Against his every impulse, Donald stepped through and pushed the door shut, and Senator Thurman laughed. “You might as well breathe, son. They could crawl right through your skin if they wanted to.”

Donald let out his held breath and shivered. If he’d been alone, or with anyone else, he would’ve performed his where-did-the-insect-go? dance, which entailed flapping his arms and stomping around the room until he was sure the creature was no longer on him. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he felt little pinpricks all over his skin, bites like Savannah’s no-see-ems on summer days.

“You can’t feel ’em,” Senator Thurman said. “It’s all in your head. They know the difference between you and me.”

Donald glanced down and realized he was scratching his arm.

“Have a seat.” Thurman gestured to the bench opposite his. He had the same color scrubs on and a few days’ growth on his chin. Donald noticed the far end of the capsule opened onto a small bathroom, a showerhead with a flexible hose clipped to the wall. Thurman swung his bare feet off the bench and grabbed a half-empty bottle of water, took a sip. Donald obeyed and sat down, a nervous sweat tickling his scalp. A stack of folded blankets and a few pillows sat at the end of the bench. He saw how the frames folded open into cots but couldn’t imagine being able to sleep in this little coffin.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” He tried to keep his voice from cracking. The air tasted metallic, a hint of the machines on his tongue. He could picture them there with their little legs and claws, roaming about.

“Drink?” The Senator opened a small fridge below the bench and pulled out a bottle of water.

“Thanks.” Donald accepted the water but didn’t open it, just enjoyed the cool against his palm. “Mick said he filled you in.” He wanted to add that this meeting felt unnecessary.

Thurman nodded. “He did. Met with him yesterday. He’s a solid boy.” The Senator smiled and shook his head. “The irony is, this class we just swore in? Probably the best bunch the Hill has seen in a very long time.”

“The irony?” Donald pressed the cool plastic water bottle against his wrist, where his mind was playing tricks on him with imaginary bug bites.

Thurman waved his hand, shooing the question away. “You know what I love about this treatment?”

Practically living forever ? Donald nearly asked.

“It gives you time to think. A few days in here, nothing with batteries allowed, just a few books to read and something to write on, it really clears your head.”