400 miles meant 400 chances to get shot at or run off the road. 400 ways to die. But that much had always been true, ever since the day a much younger and much brighter-eyed Troy Myers had signed up for the RSA and been assigned to Zulu Company.
Maybe the accumulated years, the weight of all those miles travelled, weighed down on his shoulders even as the army asked him to make one more climb. His last climb, as it turned out. It seemed such a steep one, at that.
400 miles of hell to pave their way to Resurrection.
And Troy felt so damn tired.
But by no means was he ready to retire anytime soon. Fuck anyone who thought he was going to accept an honorable discharge now. He’d show the brass what he was made of.
As he stood there, one of Hector’s granddaughters skipped over and offered Troy a handful of tiny strawberries, the kind he used to find growing on the lawn. Back in Dunwoody, Georgia. Around about the year 2027.
The girl couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve.
He turned the strawberries down with a gentle smile.
When he looked away from her beaming face, he found himself locking eyes with Dara Meadowlark.
“Think we’ll make it?” she said.
He scratched the back of his neck. “To Resurrection?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
Troy thought about it.
“Yeah,” he told her, at last. “Yeah, I think we will.”
Christopher Troy Myers
August 26th, 2069
New Sacramento, R&D Quad, Health & Wellness Building
The light-skinned woman in front of Troy barely reached his chest, but she bore herself with authority and poise. Clearly, she was used to demanding respect.
“Hi, Christopher. Can I call you Chris? It’s good to meet you, at last. I’m Mary Jones, your appointed psychologist.”
“I go by Troy, actually. Um. Sorry. I’m a bit confused. I thought I was meeting with Dr. Byrd. Like I always do.”
“Oh, gosh, nobody told you. Oh, no.” Dr. Jones’ face became a mask of empathy. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Dr. Byrd passed away three days ago.”
“Jesus.” Troy fell onto the couch so hard his ass bounced. “How did he die?”
Dr. Jones seemed to be appraising him. “Easy lie or hard truth?”
Troy subjected her to the same level of scrutiny. “Hard truth.”
She smiled, warmly. “I like a man who can face anything.” She slid into her chair behind her desk and folded her hands over her notepad and pen. “Dr. Byrd was shot three times in the chest, and once in the head, after which point he was collected and submitted for incineration.”
Troy choked. “Byrd was a Sleeper?”
Dr. Jones pursed her lips. She nodded.
Troy’s gut flipped around like a dolphin doing tricks for chum. His gaze drifted, slowly, slowly, to the pitcher of water set on the table in front of him. The pitcher that Dr. Byrd had kindly made available to all of his patients, including Troy. The pitcher Troy had drunk from every visit since the beginning.
“Troy, should we get started?” Dr. Jones waited for him to answer. “Something the matter?”
“No,” said Troy, reaching for the pitcher. “Everything’s fine.”
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