***
Jared Farnes clicked off the television after the president’s first few words. He didn’t need to hear any more. Despite his perjury on the stand, he knew the American people were too weak to do anything but wail about how they were mistreated and betrayed. Once the stomachs of the nation were full again, this would be nothing more than a distant memory.
Plans and schematics lay across the desk in his study, and he returned his focus to what his mind was better than anyone else’s at: making weapons. The conflict with the Soil Coalition had given him so many questions to answer, and he’d spent the past month trying to find the solutions to them. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice his son was in the room until he tapped on his desk.
“Hello, father,” Sydney said.
Jared gave a curt nod then returned to his work. “I see you’re healing up nicely.”
Sydney rotated his shoulder and glanced over at the stitches still underneath. The air between them was filled with nothing but empty silence. The only reprieve from the lack of sound was the sporadic scribble of Jared’s pencil. Finally, once Jared realized Sydney wasn’t leaving, he set his pencil down and looked up at his son. “Well? What is it?”
“I’ll most likely be called as a witness once the president’s tried,” Sydney answered. “I may be asked questions about what I did for the Coalition. And what I did for you.”
Jared raised his eyebrow. His son’s tone had the heightened sense of a threat but with the shaking voice of a man who hoped he wouldn’t have to deliver it. “And what do you plan on telling them?”
“The truth.”
Jared gave a few short bursts that resembled a laugh but were closer to grunts as he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the back of his head. “The president giving you a spat of courage, boy? Well, you do what you have to do, but in the spirit of truth, know that I have no qualms about ordering a hit on any person in my organization who betrays me. Including you.”
“Goodbye, father.”
Sydney closed the door behind him, and Jared returned to his work, smiling at the sketches on his table. Odd structures and outlines of machines covered the papers, and at the top, scribbled in sloppy cursive, was “Genetic Defense.”