Hugh Howey: First Shift: Legacy

“What’s up?” he asked.

But he thought he knew. The Senator had included Mick in his other project, the one that had filled Donald’s head with nuttiness and had driven him to the doctor. Donald thought of the thick book he had largely memorized, the last years spent reading little else. Mick had been doing the same. And he’d brought him there not just to let him see what they’d accomplished, but to find a spot of perfect privacy, a place where secrets could be divulged. He patted his pocket where he kept his pills, the ones that kept his thoughts from running off to dangerous places. He considered offering one to Mick.

“Hey,” Donald said, “I don’t want you saying anything you’re not supposed to—”

Mick looked up, eyes wide with surprise.

“You don’t need to say anything , Mick. Assume I know what you know.”

Mick shook his head sadly. “You don’t,” he said.

“Well, assume it anyway.” He waved his hands like an umpire calling a runner safe at the plate. “I don’t want to know anything.”

“I need you to know.”

“I’d rather not—”

“It’s not a secret, man. It’s just… I want you to know that I love you like a brother. I always have.”

The two of them sat in silence. Donald glanced toward the door. It was uncomfortable, that moment, but it somehow filled his heart to hear Mick say it.

“Look—” Donald started.

“I know I’m always hard on you,” Mick said. “And hell, I’m sorry. I really do look up to you. And Helen—” Mick turned to the side and scratched at his cheek. “I’m so damn happy for the two of you.”

Donald reached across the narrow space and squeezed his friend’s arm.

“You’re a good friend, Mick. I’m glad we’ve had this time together, the last few years, running for office like idiots, building this—”

Mick nodded. “Yeah. Me too. But listen, I didn’t bring you down here to get all sappy like this.” He reached for his cheek again, and Donald saw that he was wiping at his eyes. “I had a talk with Thurman last night. He—a few months ago, he offered me a spot on a team, a top team, and I told him last night that I’d rather you take it.”

“What? A committee?” Donald couldn’t imagine his friend giving up an appointment, any kind of appointment. “Which one?”

Mick shook his head. “No, something else.”

“What?” Donald asked.

“Look,” Mick said, “when you find out about it, and you understand what’s going on, I want you to think of me right here.” Mick glanced around the room. There were a few breaths of complete silence punctuated by drips of water from the bathroom sink.

“If I could choose anywhere to be, anywhere in the coming years, it would be right down here with the first group.”

“Okay. Yeah, I’m not sure what you mean—”

“You will. Just remember this, all right? That I love you like a brother and that everything happens for a reason. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. For you or for Helen.”

“Okay—” Donald smiled. He couldn’t tell if Mick was fucking with him or if his friend had consumed a few too many Bloody Marys from the hospitality tent that morning.

“All right.” Mick stood abruptly. He certainly moved as though he were sober. “Let’s get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

Donald laughed. Mick threw open the door and flicked off the lights.

“Wimping out, eh?” Donald called after his friend.

Mick punched him in the arm as the two of them headed back down the hallway. The young man from earlier passed by with a tub in his hands. Behind them, they left the small, random apartment in darkness, its little sink dripping. And Donald tried to sort out how he’d gotten turned around, how the Tennessee tent where he’d cut the ribbon had become the one from South Carolina. He almost had it, his subconscious flashing to a delivery of goods, to fifty times more fiber optic than he needed, but the connection was lost.

Meanwhile, containers loaded with supplies rumbled down the mammoth shaft. And empty trays rattled up.

Troy woke up in a fog. He lifted his hands and groped in front of his face, expecting to find the chill of icy glass, the press of domed steel, the doom of a deep-freeze. Instead, his hands waved in empty air. The clock beside his bed came into focus. It was a little after three. The PM light was unlit. He had the grogginess and headache of a hangover, the midnight confusion of sleeping with the flu, the hours meaningless in the wake of some sudden fever.

He sat up, the springs of his bed squeaking. He had on a pair of gym shorts, couldn’t remember changing the night before, couldn’t remember going to bed. There was something else he needed to remember and couldn’t. Planting his feet on the floor, he rested his elbows on his knees, sunk his head into his palms, and sat there a moment. His entire body ached. There was something he was supposed to be doing.

After a few minutes slipped by, he dressed himself in the dark, buckling up his coveralls. Light would be bad for his headache. It wasn’t a theory he needed to test.

The hallway outside was still dimmed for the evening, just bright enough to grope one’s way to the shared bathrooms and not a watt more. Troy stole down the hall, not needing to pee, and headed for the lift.

He hit the “Up” button, hesitated, wasn’t sure if that was right. He pressed the “Down” button as well.

It was too early to go into his office, not unless he wanted to fiddle on the computer. He wasn’t hungry, but he could go up and watch the sun rise. The late shift would be up there drinking coffee. Or he could hit the rec room and go for a jog. That would mean going back to his room to change.

The lift arrived with a beep while he was still deciding. Both lights went off, the up and the down. He could take this lift anywhere.

Troy stepped inside. He didn’t know where he wanted to go.

The elevator doors closed. It waited on him patiently. Eventually, he figured, it would whisk off to heed some other call, pick up a person with purpose, someone with a destination. He could stand there and do nothing and let that other soul decide. He could just go along for the ride.

Running his finger across the buttons, he tried to remember what was on each level. There was a lot he’d memorized, but not everything he knew felt accessible. He had a sudden urge to head for one of the lounges and watch TV, just let the hours slide past until he finally needed to be somewhere. This was how the shift was supposed to go. Waiting and then doing. Sleeping and then waiting. Make it to dinner and then make it to bed. The end was always in sight. There was nothing to rebel against, just a routine, until the now faded into the past, and the future wilted and died.

The elevator shook into motion before he could decide. Troy jerked his hand away from the buttons and took a step back. The elevator didn’t show where they were going. It felt like they had started down.

Only a few floors passed before the lift lurched to a halt. The doors opened on a lower apartment level. A familiar face from the cafeteria, a man in reactor red, smiled as he stepped inside.

“Morning,” he said.

Troy nodded.

The man turned and jabbed one of the lower buttons, one of the reactor levels. He studied the otherwise blank array, turned, and gave Troy a quizzical look.

“You feeling okay, sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.”

Troy leaned forward and pressed sixty-eight. The man’s concern for his well-being must’ve had him thinking of the doctor, even though Henson wouldn’t be on shift for several hours.