Donovan
Donovan concentrated carefully as he straightened a crayon drawing on a magnetic board. He used an old-fashioned bubble level as he arranged each magnet over the paper. The edges needed to be straight so that the optimal surface area could be leveraged while also ensuring the best parts of each image remained visible in the ever-growing tapestry of his child’s scrawling artwork.
It was the perfect way to start his Monday. The extreme effort he placed into the act elevated his mind to another plane of existence where thought and magnets and crayons met, an intersection of the mundane. So well-walked, so incredibly domestic, it had a Zen universalism to it.
Donovan was certain this was bliss. It was the enlightenment he had heard so much about. The love he felt for his family was the greatest thing he had ever known, even if it was also the hardest thing he had experienced to date. Now and then the crying or the screaming or the hitting drove him nuts; no one warned him having a kid was a full-contact sport. Nevertheless, it was always the sweet things that stuck with him: the first time his son wrapped his little arms around his neck and said “hug,” Donovan thought his heart would burst. He might have died happy in that moment, because he was sure no greater joy could come after. Still, he eagerly awaited the first, “I love you,” with growing anticipation.
He knew he could resign and spend all of his time with his kid. But, James Donovan believed that man needed work to be fulfilled—and what better work than to support the advancement of science in the greatest institution the galaxy had known? Donovan knew the sacrifices he made today would help build a greater future for his child. That was the gift he most wanted to endow his son with: peace, prosperity, and plenty.
He would miss some moments, like he did his son’s first step and word, for a greater good. This was James Donovan’s singular motivation in life and he was doggedly determined to succeed. Without it, what was left? A middle aged, out of shape man who took almost twenty years to make full Lieutenant? A middle manager who wasn’t even important enough to be invited to conferences, whose superiors undermined his authority by promoting the most capable out of his department, just when he managed to get a stride?
He dropped a magnet and it rolled defiantly away under his desk somewhere. He bent low, careful not to tear his trousers again, and looked for the small, black metallic bead. It was while in this awkward position he heard a quick knock followed by the door opening. Only one person on the staff was so impatient and disrespectful. He sighed, counted backwards from five, and peaked over his desk.
“What is it, Miss Webber?” he asked, not bothering to hide the irritation from his voice. It was too early to deal with Amanda. It was always too early.
“Um, good morning LT,” Amanda said. She looked flush and kept looking back through the open door. “Is Zaliel in?”
“Don’t you two live together?” he couldn’t understand why she was asking. Wouldn’t she know better than him? It was, in his opinion, the only topic she might know more than him on.
Amanda answered or at least that’s what Donovan thought she was trying to do. She talked so quickly he couldn’t keep up.
“Wait! What’s this about a bag and a Danish?”
“So, the other day she was asking all these existential questions and then she slept through a whole weekend, and I thought she was better but—“
“Amanda, you have been standing there, speaking to me for,” he made a show of checking the clock, though he wasn’t sure how long it actually had been, “eight minutes and I still have no idea why you’re in my office or what this is about. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on but slowly.” Just saying it made him feel old. He saw his reflection in his terminal’s blank monitor. While maintaining eye contact, he folded the monitor into his desk.
Amanda took a deep breath, arranged her thoughts. “I think Zaliel is missing,” she said mercifully plainly.
Missing people he understood but he also knew Amanda had a habit of not thinking things through. It was probably nothing, but he should humor her—just in case. “When did you see her last?”
“Uh? Thursday? I left that night and was out Friday—you remember?”
He did remember. It was a gloriously quiet day. Donovan nodded once and gestured for her to continue. She took it to mean she should sit and he sighed inwardly as he settled in to what was already feeling like a long, long Monday.
“Anyways, I got back late last night and didn’t see her before bed.”
“So you saw her in bed?”
“What? No! Why does everyone think we’re a couple!” she cried rather loudly.
He was surprised, both at her volume and the revelation that Zaliel and Amanda were not, in fact, sleeping together. Whenever he hosted a barbecue, they would appear, hang around together, then leave early. Then again, it could be a lie—but why? Eh, not important right now, James, stay focused. “Apologies, so you saw her—?”
“Last Thursday.”
“And you were gone all weekend?”
“Yeah, was she, you know, normal—for Zaliel, that is?”
“She was out Friday. Said she needed a mental health day because of burnout.”
“So,” Amanda said slowly, thoughtfully, “you haven’t seen her since Thursday, either?”
Donovan sighed. It was a deep sigh that came from somewhere in his soul and snaked its way through the maze of organs that supported his existence. “Amanda,” he began slowly. “It’s not even,” he glanced again at the clock, this time actually reading it. “It’s not even nine. Maybe she stopped for coffee? Or breakfast?”
“Zaliel doesn’t eat breakfast and she drinks the same coffee from the replicator every morning—how don’t you know this?” she asked rhetorically. “But the fact is she isn’t responding to her communicator.”
“Oh,” Donovan replied plainly. Not answering comms was unusual and, while he didn’t know about Zaliel’s eating habits, he did know Zaliel as a reliable colleague who typically answered quickly.
Amanda made a face and said, “Yeah!” in a way Donovan might have read as sassy if not for the growing knot in his stomach. “So, come on, let’s raid the armory and go find her—or something, I don’t know.”
She really is distraught, Donovan thought. “Okay, okay, but before we declare martial law and raid every building from here to Seattle, maybe let me try her first?”
“Yeah, but she’s not answering!” Amanda said again.
Donovan tapped on his monitor and used the desk’s conference system to place the call. He gave his name and recipient to the computer and waited.
And waited.
And waited. Each passing second, he became more worried and sweat started to form on his brow and neck. Amanda’s constant shifting and sighing only making it worse. He was just about to close the channel when a frantic voice cut in:
“Lieutenant, sir! It’s Zaliel! Is everything okay?” he heard Zaliel say breathlessly.
Donovan immediately decompressed, like the inflatable river raft that he’d much rather be floating on. “It’s getting on nine here in the office; are you coming in?”
“Wait—is it Monday already?”
Donovan chuckled. “All day, Lieutenant.”
“Shi—I have to go! No! It’s not yo—it’s Monday! I have work! I’ll call you tonight when I—shit! Lieutenant, sir?” Zaliel was talking to someone else. His guess was that person also lost track of the time. This was becoming way too personal. Barbecues were one thing, intruding on personal business was another. “Do you mind if I come in around lunchtime, sir? I need to, uh,” but he cut her off.
“Just…take the day and be on time tomorrow, thanks.” He closed the channel quickly. “Okay, she’s alive and you’ll see her tonight, can we please get to work?” he begged Amanda.
But she had already left, the chair she had been sitting in twirled slowly around and around. Donovan had a bad feeling—the kind he got when he knew something bad was going to happen, or he ate too much beef. He touched his stomach.
It was the beef.