Third Shift: Pact (Shift #3)

39

The hardest part was making her wait to eat. Donald knew what it felt like to be that hungry. He put her through the same routine he’d endured a number of times: made her drink the bitter concoction, made her use the bathroom to flush her system, had her sit on the edge of the tub and take a warm but not hot shower, then put her in a fresh set of clothes and a new blanket.

He watched as she finished the last of the drink. Her lips gradually faded to pink from pale blue. Her skin was so white. Donald couldn’t remember if it’d been white like that before orientation. Maybe it’d happened overseas, sitting in those dark trailers with only the light of a monitor to bathe in.

“I need to go make an appearance,” he told her. “Everyone else will be getting up. I’ll bring you breakfast on my way back down.”

Charlotte sat quietly in one of the leather chairs around the old war planning table, her feet tucked up under her. She tugged at the collar of the coveralls as if they itched her skin. “Mom and Dad are gone,” she said, repeating what he’d told her earlier. Donald wasn’t sure what she would and wouldn’t remember. She hadn’t been on her stress medications as long or as recently as him. But it didn’t matter. He could tell her the truth. Tell her and hate himself for doing it.

“I’ll be back in a little bit. Just stay here and try to get some rest. Don’t leave this room, okay?”

The words echoed hollow as he hurried through the warehouse and toward the elevator. He remembered hearing from others as soon as they woke him that he should get some rest. He was usually on the other side of that advice, thinking those dispensing it were out of their minds. Charlotte had been asleep for three centuries. As he scanned his badge and waited for the elevator, Donald thought on how much time had passed and how little had changed. The world was still the ruin they’d left it. Or if it wasn’t, they were about to find out.

He rode up to the operations level. The express was anything but. It stopped twice to pick up four others with sleep in their eyes and a shuffle in their step. They rode in silence, all in coveralls of various hues, like men in a factory from the olden days heading to another Monday morning. Always Mondays in that place. Six months of Mondays. No weekends to look forward to.

The lift spilled them into the hall. Donald felt a chill from the thought that his sister was down below, awake and alone. He felt an impatience like bugs beneath his skin, urging him forward faster than he could go.

He checked with Eren, knocked on his doorframe. The Ops Head was already at his desk, surrounded by files, one hand tangled in his hair, his elbow on piles of paperwork. There was no steam from his mug of coffee. He’d been at his desk a while.

“Thurman,” he said, glancing up.

Donald startled and glanced down the hall, looking for someone else.

“Any progress with 18?”

“I, uh …” Donald tried to remember. “Last I heard, they’d breached the barrier in the lowest levels. The Head over there thinks the fighting will be over in a day or two.”

“Good. Glad the shadow is working out. Scary time not to have one. There was this one time on my third shift I think it was when we lost a Head while he was between shadows. Helluva time finding a recruit.” Eren leaned back in his chair. “The mayor wasn’t an option; the head of Security was as bright as a lump of coal; so we had to—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Donald said, pointing down the hall. “I need to get back to—”

“Oh, of course.” Eren waved his hand, seemed embarrassed. “Right. Me too.”

“—just a lot to do this morning. Grabbing breakfast and then I’ll be in my room.” He jerked his head toward the empty office across the hall. “Tell Gable I took care of myself, okay? I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Sure, sure.” Eren shooed him with his hand.

Donald spun back to the elevator. Up to the cafeteria. His stomach rumbled its agreement. He’d been up all night without eating. He’d been up and empty for far too long.

40

He was pushing the time limit by letting her eat an hour early, but it was hard to say no. Donald encouraged her to take small bites, to slow down. And while Charlotte chewed, he caught her up. She knew about the silos from orientation. He told her about the wallscreens, about the cleaners, that he was woken because someone had disappeared. Charlotte had a hard time grasping these things. It took saying them several times until they became strange even to his ears.

“They let them see outside, these people in the other silos?” She chewed on a small bite of biscuit.

“Yeah. I asked Thurman once why we put them there. You know what he told me?”

Charlotte shrugged and took a sip of water.

“They’re there to keep them from wanting to leave. We have to show them death to keep them in. Otherwise, they’ll always want to see what’s over the rise. Thurman said it’s human nature.”

“But some of them go anyway.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, picked up her fork, her hand trembling, and pulled Donald’s half-eaten breakfast toward her.

“Yeah, some of them go anyway,” Donald said. “And you need to take it easy.” He watched her dig into his eggs and thought about his own trip up the drone lift. He was one of those people who had gone anyway. It wasn’t something she needed to know.

“We have one of those screens,” Charlotte said. “I remember watching the clouds boil.” She looked up at Donald. “Why do we have one?”

Donald reached quickly for his handkerchief and coughed into its folds. “Because we’re human,” he answered, tucking the cloth away. “If we think there’s no way to see what’s out there—that we’ll die if we go—we’ll stay here and do what we’re told. But I know of another way to see what’s out there.”

“Yeah—?” Charlotte scraped the last of his eggs onto her fork and lifted them to her mouth. She waited.

“And I’m going to need your help to get there.”

They pulled the tarp off one of the drones. Charlotte ran her hand down its wing and walked around the machine like a jockey circling a horse before a race. Grabbing the flap on the back of a wing, she worked it up and down. Did the same for the tail. The drone had a black dome and nose that gave it something like a face. It sat silently, unmoving, while Charlotte inspected it. Donald noticed that three of the other drones were missing—the floor was glossy where their tarps used to drape. And the neat pyramid of bombs in the munitions rack was missing its top cheerleader. Signs of the armory’s use these past weeks. Donald went to the hangar door and worked it open.

“No hardware?” Charlotte asked. She peered under one of the wings where bad things could be attached.

“No,” Donald said. “Not for this.” He ran back and helped her push. They steered the drone toward the open maw of the lift. The wings just barely fit.

“There should be a strap or a linkage,” she said. She crawled behind the drone and wiggled in beneath the wing.

“There’s something in the floor,” Donald said, remembering the nub that moved along the track. “I’ll get a light.”

He retrieved a flashlight from one of the bins, made sure it had a charge, and brought it back to her. Charlotte hooked the drone into the launch mechanism and squirmed her way out. She seemed slow to stand. He gave his sister a hand, remembering when they were young.

“And you’re sure this lift’ll work?” She brushed hair, still wet from the shower, off her face.

“Very sure,” Donald said. He led her down the hall, past the barracks and bathrooms.

Charlotte stiffened when he led her into the piloting room and pulled back the plastic sheets. He flipped the switch on the lift controls. She stared blankly at one of the stations with its joysticks, readouts, and screens.

“You can operate this, right?” he asked.

She broke from her trance and stared at him a moment, then nodded her head. “If they’ll power up.”

“They will.” He watched the light above the lift controls flash while Charlotte settled behind one of the stations. The room felt overly quiet and empty with all those other stations sitting under sheets of plastic. The dust was gone from them, Donald saw. The place was recently lived in. He thought of the requisitions he’d signed for flights, each one at considerable cost. Eren had stressed the one-use nature of the drones. The air outside was bad for them, he’d said. Their range was limited. Donald had thought about why this might be as he dug through Thurman’s files.

Charlotte flicked several switches, the neat clicks breaking the silence, and the control station whirred to life.

“The lift takes a while,” he told her. He didn’t say how he knew, but he thought back to that ride up all those years ago. He remembered his breath fogging the dome of his helmet as he rose to what he had hoped might be his death. Now he had a different hope. He thought of what Erskine had told him about wiping the Earth clean. He thought about Victor’s suicide note to Thurman. This project of theirs was about resetting life. And Donald, whether by madness or reason, had grown convinced that the effort was more precise than anyone had rights to imagine.

Charlotte adjusted her screen. She flicked a switch, and a light bloomed on the monitor. It was the glare of the steel door of the lift, lit up by the drone’s headlamp and viewed by its cameras.

“It’s been so long,” she said. Donald looked down and saw that her hands were trembling. She rubbed them together before returning them to the controls. Wiggling in her seat, she located the pedals with her feet, and then adjusted the brightness of the monitor so it wasn’t so blinding.

“Is there anything I can do?” Donald asked.

Charlotte laughed and shook her head. “No. Feels strange not to be filing a flight plan or anything. I usually have a target, you know?” She looked back at Donald and flashed a smile.

He squeezed her shoulder. It felt good to have her around. He thought of their parents and Helen and everyone else he’d let down. She was all he had left. “Your flight plan is to fly as far and as fast as you can,” he told her. His hope was that without a bomb, the drone would go farther. His hope was that the limited range wasn’t programmed somehow. There was a flashing light from the lift controls. Donald hurried over to check them.

“The door’s coming up,” Charlotte said. “I think we’ve got daylight.”

Donald hurried back over. He glanced out the door and down the hall, thinking he’d heard something.

“Engine check,” Charlotte said. “We’ve got ignition.”

She wiggled in her seat. The coveralls he’d stolen for her were too big, were bunched around her arms. Donald stood behind her and watched the monitor, which showed a view of swirling skies up a sloped ramp. He remembered that view. It became difficult to breathe, seeing that. The drone was pulled from the lift and arranged on the ramp. Charlotte hit another switch.

“Brakes on,” she said, her leg straightening. “Applying thrust.”

Her hand slid forward. The camera view dipped as the drone strained against its brakes.

“Been a long time since I’ve done this without a launcher,” she said nervously.

Donald was about to ask if that was a problem when she shifted her feet and the view on the screen lifted. The metal shaft he remembered climbing up vibrated and began to race by. The swirling clouds filled the viewscreen until that was all that existed. Charlotte said, “Liftoff,” and worked the yoke with her right hand. Donald found himself leaning to the side as the view banked and the ground came into view.

“Which way?” she asked.

“I don’t think it matters,” he said. “Just straight.” He leaned closer to watch the strange but familiar landscape slide by. There were the great divots he had helped create. There was another tower down in the middle of a depression. The remnants of the convention—the tents and fairgrounds and stages—were long gone, eaten by the tiny machines in the air. “Just a straight line,” he said, pointing. It was a theory, a crazy idea, but he needed to see before he dared say anything. There was the danger of making it not true by voicing his most cherished hope. The world seemed to sense these things from him. He had learned to guard his wishes, just to be safe. Thinking them was like shining a light out to sea, and Donald lived among reef and rock. Drawing good things toward him was unwise.

The pattern of depressions ended in the distance. Donald strained to see beyond when Charlotte let go of the throttle and reached for a bank of dials and indicators. “Uh … I think we have a problem.” She flipped a switch back and forth. “I’m losing oil pressure.”

“No.” Donald watched the screen as the clouds swirled and the land seemed to heave upward. It was too early. Unless he’d missed some step, some precaution, some way of turning off other, smaller, flying things. “Keep going,” he breathed, as much to the machine as to its pilot.

“She’s handling screwy,” Charlotte said. “Everything feels loose.”

Donald thought of all the drones in the hangar. They could launch another. But he suspected the results would be the same. He might be resistant to whatever was out there, but the machines weren’t. He thought of the cleaning suits, the way things were meant to break down at a certain time, a certain place. Invisible destroyers so precise that they could let loose their vengeance as soon as a cleaner hit a hill, reached a particular altitude, as soon as they dared to rise up. He reached for his cloth and coughed into it, and had a vague memory of them scrubbing the airlock after pulling him back inside.