Second Shift - Order(31)

Dr. Erskine paid his final respects. Only four of them present to mourn this man who had killed billions. Donald felt Anna’s presence beside him and wondered if maybe the lack of a crowd was in fact due to her. Here were the four who knew not only that a man had taken his life, but that a woman had been woken. Her father knew, Dr. Henson, who had performed the procedure, Erskine, whom she spoke of as a friend, and himself.

The absurdity of Donald’s existence, of the state of the world, swooped down on him in that gathering. He did not belong. He was only there because of a girl he had dated in college, a girl whose father was a senator, whose affections had likely gotten him elected, who had dragged him into a murderous scheme, and had now pulled him from a frozen death. All the great coincidences and marvelous achievements of his life disappeared in a flash. In their place were puppet strings. He was a pawn being shoved around a board while marveling at his great adventure. There was no coincidence at all, nothing to be amazed by, just dangerous affections.

“A tragic loss, this.”

Donald emerged from his ruminations to discover that the ceremony was over. Anna and her father stood two rows of pods away discussing something. Dr. Henson was down by the base of the pod, the panel beeping as he made adjustments. That left Donald with Dr. Erskine, a thin man with glasses and a British accent. He surveyed Donald from the opposite side of the pod. Donald had been introduced to him earlier as he stepped off the elevator, but he’d been in a mournful haze.

“He was on my shift,” Donald said inanely, trying to explain why he was present for the service. There was little else he could think to say of this man whom he had known as Victor. He stepped closer and peered through the little window at the calm face within.

“I know,” Erskine said. This wiry man, probably in his early to mid sixties, adjusted the glasses on his narrow nose and joined Donald in peering through the small window. “He was quite fond of you, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Donald blurted out, unable to censor himself. “I mean . . . he never said as much to me.”

“He was peculiar that way.” Erskine studied the deceased with a smile. “Brilliant perhaps for knowing the minds of others, just not so keen on communicating with them.”

Donald studied this Dr. Erskine. He tried to remember what little Anna had told him about the man. “Did you know him from before?” he asked. He wasn’t sure how else to broach the subject. The before seemed taboo with some, freely spoken of by others.

Erskine nodded. “We worked together. Well, in the same hospital. We orbited each other for quite a few years until my . . . discovery.” He reached out and touched the glass, a final farewell to an old friend, it seemed.

“What discovery?” He vaguely remembered Anna mentioning something.

Erskine glanced up. Looking closer, Donald thought he may have been in his seventies. It was hard to tell. He had some of the agelessness of Thurman, like an antique that patinas and will grow no older.

“I’m the one who discovered the great threat,” he said. It sounded more an admission of guilt than a proud claim. It was said with sadness. At the base of the pod, Dr. Henson finished his adjustments, stood, and excused himself. He steered the empty gurney toward the exit.

“The nanos.” Donald remembered; Anna had said as much. He watched Thurman debate something with his daughter, his fist coming down over and over into his palm, and a question came to mind. He wanted to hear it from someone else. He wanted to see if the lies matched, if that meant they might be the truth.

“You were a medical doctor?” he asked.

Erskine considered the question. It seemed a simple enough one to answer.

“Not precisely,” he said, his accent thick. “I built medical doctors. Wee ones.” He pinched the air and squinted through his glasses at his own fingers. “We were working on ways to keep soldiers safe. Until I found someone else’s handiwork in a sample of blood. It wasn’t long before I was finding the little bastards everywhere.”

Anna and Thurman headed their way, Anna with her cap donned once more, her hair in a bun that bulged noticeably through the top. It was little disguise for what she was, useful perhaps at a distance.

“I’d like to ask you about that sometime,” Donald said hurriedly. “It might help my . . . help me with this problem the silos are having.”

“Of course,” Erskine said. His accent made him sound cheerier than he appeared.

“I need to get back,” Anna told Donald. She set her lips in a thin grimace, like a scar on her face, a wound from the argument with her father, and Donald finally appreciated how powerless and trapped she truly was. He imagined a year spent in that warehouse of war, clues scattered across that planning table, sleeping on that small cot, not able even to ride up to the cafeteria to see the hills and the dark clouds or have a meal at the time of her own choosing, relying on others to bring her everything.