The Legacy

the world was not the same either. Doom-mongers had been warning of the end of the world for as long as he could remember and he had always brazened it out, carrying on just as he liked. His room, after all, was warm, secure and sterile and kept at a constant temperature, triple glazing ensuring that any sound or gust of wind was kept safely on the outside rather than encroaching on the sanctity of his workspace. He loved the control he felt every time he closed his window, shutting Nature out, proving yet again that he reigned supreme over his empire.
    People used to speak of Nature as if it were a good thing, as though ‘natural’ conferred upon something a worth, a value. The truth, Richard knew, was that Nature was a tyrant who killed and maimed without a thought, to whom survival of the fittest wasn’t an ideology but a requirement. Nature did not favour the weak; Nature took no prisoners. If Nature hadn’t been Richard’s sworn enemy he might even have felt some kind of respect. Like knows like, he thought to himself from time to time.
    ‘Richard, are you listening to me?’
    He looked over at Hillary Wright and for a moment was tempted to tell the truth: that he hadn’t slept in days, that he was terrified, that nothing was under control, that for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. Instead he forced a smile. She had no idea, and if he told her the truth what good would it do? His own scientists didn’t even get it; they might not argue openly with him but he knew that their view was the same as Thomas’s – that it was the virus that had mutated, not Longevity. But Richard knew they were wrong; he felt it in his bones. This was Albert Fern’s legacy, the ticking bomb that he had left behind. Richard would find the combination – he would triumph just as he always had. But to explain this to Hillary? Hopeless. She was a bureaucrat, not a politician – the Authorities had long given up on the notion of democracy since voting numbers had virtually evaporated and the same politicians had stood year after year. Now everything was run by civil servants who wrote lists and policy documents that organised and managed with tick boxes and regulations. Hillary knew how to chair a meeting, how to run the country in an ordered way, but she had no vision, no imagination. She thought that a few people had become ill after taking their Longevity incorrectly. And still she was reacting as though this were a major national crisis. If she knew the truth she would implode. Far safer to keep it from her.
    ‘I’m sorry, Hillary. Please go on,’ he said.
    ‘I had finished,’ she said pointedly. ‘I was waiting for you to say something.’
    Richard nodded slowly, his default action when caught on the hop.
    ‘What would you suggest, Hillary?’ he said, playing for time. For weeks now he had avoided this meeting, brushing her off with the line that a rogue virus was only affecting a very few people, that those affected were being examined and treated, that Pincent guards were taking those affected in the night so as to prevent any further panic. And she’d believed him – why wouldn’t she? But the few bodies had become many, and those who had seen the Pincent vans taking their loved ones away had started to demand answers. Conspiracy theories were beginning to spread up and down the country.
    And now Hillary wanted answers. Wanted reassurance. She sat forward in her chair. ‘It can’t go on, Richard,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘The virus has spread. To America, to China, to the rest of Europe. People are dying, Richard. I’ve just been on the phone to Saudi. They say that bodies are stacking up.’
    ‘They are exaggerating,’ Richard said, his hand moving to his collar, which suddenly felt very tight. ‘I told you, if people take their drugs correctly . . .’
    Hillary looked at him furiously. ‘They say it has affected people on the correct dosage. You said the virus wouldn’t spread, Richard. You said it would be contained. A few people taking their drugs incorrectly, you told me. A few people .’
    Richard took a deep breath, tried to calm himself. The bodies. The vile, twisted bodies, their faces full of horror even in death. They filled his dreams and their stench seemed to follow him wherever he went. They were mocking him. Taunting him. You lied to us. You said we would live for ever. We didn’t. You won’t either. ‘They are lying,’ he said, his voice