The Darkest Legacy

IT TOOK ABOUT A HUNDRED miles for me to trust that Priyanka’s device was working, and a hundred more to feel confident I could keep us away from the major cities and towns that would have aerial-drone crime-monitoring support. The drug weasel’s cash dwindled down as fast as Priyanka had predicted, just buying enough gas ration cards to keep the tank half-full.

Priyanka napped on and off during the twelve hours it took to get to Ohio, snoring faintly in the backseat, her long legs bent up toward the roof of the car, but Roman never let himself drift off. Not even for a second.

At midnight, we finally stopped for a break. I parked the car across the street from a little diner, far enough from it to remain unnoticed but close enough to keep watch of everyone on the other side of its glowing windows. A man in a little white hat was wiping down the counter, chatting with two tipsy-looking patrons who were happily sharing a plate of pancakes. Behind them, a TV flashed a news report about Europe.

“She’s really taking her time…” Roman said, looking slightly on edge. His eyes darted between the diner and its bathroom, which was situated on the right side of the building, outside like a gas station’s would be. That setup was the only reason we’d deemed it safe enough to stop and use.

“It’s all right,” I said. “She should take her time. She didn’t get a chance to wash up at the motel.”

I really did not have the emotional bandwidth to listen to news reports about the incident and my supposed involvement. I reached to turn it right back off, but Roman’s quiet words stopped me.

“I know it might be painful to hear what they’re saying, but we should stay on top of the news and monitor their investigation.”

He was right, but the memory of the explosion, of what had happened to Mel and the others, was still so close to the surface. I was already replaying it in my head on a near-constant loop, trying to figure out what I could have done differently to save them; the thought of hearing someone else discuss those last, horrible seconds made me want to bolt from the car.

Roman hit the scanner and let the stations fly by, counting up and down as they searched for this zone’s primary radio channel.

The static poured in and out of my ears, broken up by weak channels and fragments of half-forgotten songs. When Roman finally found the right station, it was so strong that the broadcaster all but screamed at us. He flinched, fumbling with the knob to turn the volume down.

“—don’t disagree with Mr. Moore, and, in fact, we’ve tentatively agreed to work with him in a more meaningful way on his Personalized Independent Training Facility program. The reports that his company has sent on the results at the pilot facility have been very encouraging. It’s no secret that I’m not entirely sold on PPS, but I remain open to it so long as his pilot facility passes government inspection next month. As you know, we have not had access to it—Yes, next question—”

I had recognized President Cruz’s voice at her first word, but I’d also recognized her tone. It was an exhausted reluctance, the kind that came with finally being trapped in a corner after years of narrow escapes.

“Privatized Psi Schooling,” I said, trying to focus on what President Cruz was saying. She must have gone in front of the press pool that morning. Brave, considering the news. “Sort of like a boarding school for Psi, with the focus on getting them better reintegrated into society by giving them skill sets they can use in the workforce.”

“I thought there was supposed to be…independent living communities? Didn’t you do a presentation on them?”

Irritation buzzed through me—not at Roman, but at what had happened to squash those plans. “That was voted down because they were deemed too expensive for the recovering economy. A few companies, including Moore’s, put in bids to finance different school and living projects, and his got picked.”

If kids were being taught valuable skills in a safe, clean environment, then I couldn’t really complain. Especially when the original idea—one still startlingly popular with a number of Americans—had been setting aside remote stretches of land, building a few structures, and trapping the Psi inside its electrified borders.

“No, George, I agree, both with you and him,” Cruz continued. “These programs could be a great option, especially for the unclaimed Psi. Twelve volunteered to make up the pilot facility’s first class, and we’re hoping to be able to move another fifty out of foster situations and group homes into the school. But, again, it’s only after Mr. Moore finishes his initial testing and submits the program to more thorough inspection.”

“One thousand, one hundred and twelve,” I said. “Most are in foster homes, but a lot of the older Psi live together in group homes. The government monitors all of them, and they have special caseworkers checking in constantly.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…I’m surprised you aren’t more against them. You were in a camp.”

After the interview I’d given years ago that went out to the world, and the talks I’d participated in since then, it had seemed like there wasn’t a person on earth who hadn’t heard the story. So many people knew the details, it had stopped feeling wholly mine.

“I thought you’d hate him because what he’s proposed could be seen as similar to them,” he clarified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up—”

“It’s fine.” I was fine. “The kids in Moore’s program volunteered to go, and they’re guaranteed to get out. The images of the facility I saw make it look like the height of luxury compared to what we had.” I hadn’t thought to ask before now, but I was curious. “I take it you weren’t in a camp, then?”

He shook his head. “No. We survived on the outside. We weren’t ever in the camp system.”

“How?” I asked. I’d lived rough with the others for a time, and it had been nearly impossible to stay ahead of skip tracers and PSFs. Even civilians looking to make a rare quick buck by reporting a sighting were a threat to us. I wondered if the government had any official record of Roman and Priyanka at all.

“We found a vacant house and stayed there,” he said, rubbing the back of his scarred hand with his other thumb. The words were remote. Practiced. “A neighbor brought us food.”

“What’s there to know that’s not already out there?” I asked. “It was a prison in every sense of the word. They controlled everything about our lives, including when we slept, and when and what we ate. They had us work to keep busy. It was like walking through hell soaked with gasoline and trying to avoid being set on fire.”

The churlishness left a bitter taste in my mouth, and an uncomfortable silence between us. After a moment, I said, “It was like living with your heart in a cage. Nothing escaped. Nothing got in.”

At home, before Caledonia, before the Collection, before I’d ever manifested my power, I’d grown up hearing stories passed down from older relatives about their time in internment camps here in America during the Second World War. I’d known the government had forcibly imprisoned Japanese Americans and seized their property, subjecting its own citizens to a harsh existence simply because of the belief that anyone of Japanese descent was dangerous by default. And still, when the bus that took me and a number of other kids to Ohio had rolled through Caledonia’s gates, I’d been naïve enough—young enough—to hope that this “rehabilitation center” would be everything they promised on the news: a medical program to keep us alive, an isolated school, and a place where we could live without fear.

The experiences weren’t the same, and there was no real comparison to be made between them. I only wished I had listened to the stories more carefully, that I could have somehow made that history feel more immediate to me, because I think knowing not to hope for the best, recognizing that the government and the president weren’t always paternal figures that wanted to care for us, would have saved me some small bit of pain.

“I’m sorry you were made to go through that,” he said in that quiet voice of his. “I understand why you work so hard for the Psi.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because I didn’t want to agree. I didn’t want there to be anything shared between us.

Priyanka appeared at the door to the bathroom, carefully shutting it behind her. She glanced toward the diner, checking to make sure the people inside had their backs turned, before crossing the street.

The pressure in my chest had built to the point of exploding. “Actually,” I said, opening the door, “I think I’m ready for a little break.”

I shut it behind me, not making eye contact as I passed Priyanka. She turned, tracking my path to the bathroom. As I neared the building, the server walked out from behind the counter and moved toward the windows to start cleaning the tables.

I ducked down and crawled forward until I was just under them, waiting. Warm, damp air filled my lungs and smoothed against my skin.

“Suzume Kimura, the Psi responsible for the horrific attack at Penn State, worked in her office!”

Every muscle in my body tightened at the sound of my name in Joseph Moore’s silky voice coming from the television inside.

“Interim President Cruz was never elected to her position, but was instead appointed by her UN puppet masters. Every bad deal she accepts from them attacks the interests of everyday, hardworking Americans. She has lined the pockets of our foreign overlords and, instead of shaping the generation of Psi, she’s only managed to nurture their radical elements. How can her judgment be trusted? How can she be impartial on the subject of Psi, when her very daughter, Rosa—who, by the way, has yet to make a single public appearance since her mother’s campaign began—is one of them?”

I wanted him to take my name and Rosa’s name out of his filthy mouth. The girl was living in Canada, attending school there after someone had tried to kidnap her on her way home.

“We don’t need a new American dream—we need to reclaim the one that was stolen from us the day we agreed to allow the rest of the world to solve our problems. The first step is the loyalty oath—” The cheer that followed made me shudder. “Yes! Exactly! And—let me finish, let me finish—the second is to ensure an attack like the one Kimura and her fellow degenerates pulled off can never happen again.”

Fury ate at me. All that work…all the speeches…every emotional lashing I’d taken and responded to by simply turning the other cheek…it was one step forward and a thousand steps back.

The broadcaster returned, noting, “Though the Cruz administration has repeatedly dismissed the Liberty Watch Party’s demands for a loyalty oath as being unnecessary, the attack at Penn State seems to have prompted a change in that policy.”

I crawled forward, rising only when I reached the bathroom door. From this angle, I could see the images on the television reflected in the front window.

The press secretary stepped up to the briefing room podium. Her words were tight with suppressed emotion. She and Mel had been close friends. She had known many of the reporters covering the event. “To ensure the safety of the public and the continued cooperation of the Psi, we will be implementing two new policies beginning Monday. First, all Psi, even those in the custody of their families, will be assigned a local government counselor who will process any requests to travel across zone lines as well as other legal paperwork. Second, at their first meeting with these counselors, all Psi will be asked to sign a document agreeing to not commit acts of violence or treason in any form against the United States.”

So, a loyalty oath. I took a step forward in disbelief, needing to see the screen itself, just to prove that I wasn’t trapped in a nightmare.

This was going to be nearly impossible to walk back, even after I proved my innocence.

The broadcaster returned with, “That may not satisfy Liberty Watch and other organizations who have voiced fears that not enough is being done to control the Psi population in America, as well as their desire to see them in mandatory military service—”

Across the street, the car’s headlights flashed. Startled, I turned toward them, only to see Priyanka slam her fist down on the steering wheel, letting the horn blare out through the night.

I spun back toward the inside of the diner. The white woman at the counter was shouting into her cell phone, and the man who’d been sitting next to her was already on his feet, coming toward the side door—toward me. The server reached beneath the counter, pulling out a shotgun and aiming at me through the glass.

There was no time to think it through. I seized the white-hot current of power flowing through the ceiling lights and fluorescent signs and pulled. They blew out in a roar of glass, leaving the people inside screaming.

The car’s brakes squealed as it skidded to a stop along the road. I ran for it, ignoring the pounding footsteps behind me, keeping my eyes on where Roman had rolled down the window. He aimed the handgun just over my shoulder.

I pulled the back door open and dove inside, letting the force of Priyanka’s acceleration slam it shut at my feet.

No one said anything. I curled onto my side, breathing hard as shudders of adrenaline and delayed fear rocked me.

I pushed myself up, too embarrassed to meet Roman’s worried gaze. Stupid…So stupid…

It was a minute, maybe more, before Priyanka’s phone blared out a familiar tone. The Emergency Alert System.

Roman didn’t read the message aloud, but I could see it clearly over his shoulder.

FUGITIVE PSI SUZUME KIMURA SEEN IN AREA.

SILVER TOYOTA LICENSE PLATE ENDING WITH D531

STAY ALERT. DO NOT APPROACH IF SEEN. CALL 9-1-1

A drone appeared in the dark sky, rocketing over us with a scream as it headed in the direction of the diner. And a minute after that, sirens. They were distant, but their wailing stayed trapped in my head, even as miles and hours passed. Even after we were far enough away for me to release what had happened to memory.

But I couldn’t. Inside me, the past was colliding with the present, and the only thing I could do was just stay awake long enough to survive the nightmare it created.