I shove open the door and hold it, keeping it from clanging against the hull. The chieftains’ faces inside squint, wincing in the light. I throw off my cloak and grab hold of Lemuel’s collar.
“Out.”
The youth releases a short, garbled cry as he is thrown through the doorway, landing in the shaded sand outside. Before he can collect himself, I shut the door without a word and give the wheel a spin, locking it into place.
“What I am about to say will not leave this hold.” I approach the poker table. Dumbstruck faces stare back, eyes gleaming in the yellow light. “Understood?”
The chieftains nod, glancing at one another first in bewilderment, then in a conspiratorial manner. They lean forward, listening. I plant my fists on the large crate, the muscles of my biceps twitching as I look at each man in turn.
“I need our best swimmers, those who can hold their breath and stay under, out of sight. I have an important mission for them.”
“How many?” Justus speaks up.
“As many as you can spare.”
“This wouldn’t...” Theseus—a short, broad-necked fellow with a long beard—clears his throat. “Does this have something to do with those nomads? They—”
“Reconnaissance,” I cut him short. “That is all.”
“You mean to send our people out to sea? To one of those warships out there?”
I nod. Half-muted gasps answer me.
“What makes you think we will even get close?”
I narrow my gaze, sensing the man’s racing heart, feeling his fear. But I do not share it. “They will not see us coming.”
3 Margo
15 months after All-Clear
I watch over them like I’m a brooding hen and they are my own offspring, taken from my body and planted in these foggy incubation chambers to grow and mature. I move down the aisle between them with my hands out to the sides, fingertips drifting across the translucent glass hatches that bulge outward like pregnant bellies. Out of habit, my eyes scan the digital display at the head of each chamber. The steadily blinking lights tell me the vital signs are within acceptable parameters. Better than adequate; they are exceptional.
Six months since their inception, when ova from the two Sector 50 females in captivity—Daiyna and Shechara—were artificially fertilized by sperm from the Sector 51 males—Luther and Samson—the growth and development of these twenty fetuses have been inexplicably ahead of schedule. Perhaps it is due to the synthetic environment or because of the genetic makeup of their parents. Regardless, as I look down at one particular male beneath the glass, I find it completely reasonable to assume he will be ready to emerge from his chamber in a matter of days.
Three months ahead of time.
Willard won’t be happy about that. I sigh at the thought, my fingers splayed across the warm glass. The miniature face engulfed in gelatinous nutrients, eyes closed, tiny fingers curled into wrinkled pink fists, turns slowly in its artificial uterus. Somehow, he seems to sense my presence. If necessary, the incubation chambers can keep the young ones in stasis long after they would rather be greeting the world.
“You don’t care about timetables, do you, little one?” I whisper. My lips struggle to create a smile that is warm and nurturing. I hope I’m not frightening him—and immediately chide myself. He cannot possibly see me standing here. “You’ll let us know when you’re good and ready to come out of there.”
It doesn’t matter that the UW scientists aren’t scheduled to arrive for another few months. These fetuses are ready to hatch.
Eden’s only hope of survival.
How are we going to care for so many? My palm slides from the glass and drops heavily to my side. I stare at the face of this defenseless innocent. It is difficult to imagine the wails of young ones echoing throughout these catacomb-like chambers. There have never been children here before. These substructures were not designed with them in mind. Then again, they were not originally intended to house the thirty-odd engineers who now reside within their concrete walls.
Engineers-turned-soldiers. The men of Arthur Willard’s Eden Guard.
They finally have something worth protecting. These unborn test-tube children, rows of them, oblivious to the world outside their incubation chambers. Ignorant of their own value. They will continue to develop until the time is right to harvest them from their secure cocoons.
Will the cold concrete welcome them?
I sweep my gaze over the perimeter of the room, across the large generators that hum a rhythm with no melody, and follow the plastic hoses piped along the low ceiling and plugged into the fetal chambers, providing nourishment and carrying away waste. I close my eyes for a moment. This should be a nursery. I can almost imagine the walls painted with smiling cartoon animals and mobiles dangling above cribs with fresh linens. Again, my lips want to smile. But as I open my eyes, I see the room for what it is.
A factory with one purpose: manufacturing the future.
“They’re looking healthy, Margo.”
I stiffen with a short gasp. But I recognize the voice.
“You’ve got to stop doing that.” I exhale irritably and run my fingers through my tangled hair.
“What? Sneaking up on you?” Tucker sniffs. “Can’t really help it, things being the way they are.”
He is invisible—a weird side effect of his extended contact with the surface, breathing in the dust up there. But invisible does not mean he is transparent. From what I have been able to tell, his ability is similar to that of the chameleon, an animal extinct for over two decades. Somehow, his skin is able to blend into its surroundings. It seems to be an involuntary response; try as he might, he cannot revert to a visible form. And while the fluorescent bulbs cast no shadow from his figure, sunlight is a different story.
He can see his own shadow when he is on the surface. I am at a loss to explain that.
As for my own bizarre ability—
“What do you want?” My tone is sharp, perhaps more so than I intended. There was a time when I related better to others socially, knew how to employ vocal inflections to convey specific nuances of meaning. But that was long ago.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
Yes. He is. I treasure my time alone with them—these little ones. But I would never tell him this, nor anyone else. It is part of my secret inner life that I guard jealously, sharing with no one.
“Of course not.” I take a step toward his voice. Blink. And in the moment it takes for my eyelids to meet and part, I have already probed his thoughts. “He has sent for me.”
“Damn it, Margo.” He chuckles. “I can’t keep anything from you.”
“No. You can’t.” My tone is matter-of-fact. “Where are they?”
He shuffles his feet. “The apartment.”
I glance in his general direction without bothering to pretend I know where his face is. With a nod, I leave the room, calling back, “Keep an eye on them for me.” I gesture toward the chambers.
“What should I be looking for?”
“You’ll know.” If anything goes wrong, the alarms will deafen us all.
The fetuses will be fine in my absence. But this way, it appears that I expect Tucker to assume my post. It gives me control of the situation. A power play, perhaps; but he will have to get used to following my orders.
I will need him to, without question, when the time comes.
The apartment is located across the main floor of Eden’s central dome—a massive underground water reservoir once upon a time, but now the continent’s last bastion of all-natural humanity, untainted by the mutagens running rampant on the earth’s surface. For the thirty-odd men who remain just the way God made them, it is home. Willard’s Eden Guard, resplendent in their blue fatigues, fetching black berets, and the best weaponry hard-earned credits would have been able to buy prior to D-Day.
Sometimes it is difficult to imagine what these men were before: a bunker-full of brainy engineers itching to get out and build things, to
make the world on the surface better than it was before all the bombs started falling.
But that was prior to the demon dust. Before the dogs and the sand freaks. Now these engineers make a habit of playing soldier, and they’ve gotten pretty good at it. They defend Eden with their lives. And whether or not they like Willard’s orders, they obey their commander without question. A few months back, they welcomed an invisible man and a mind-reading female into their ranks, despite serious reservations, despite the way of things at the time: a zero tolerance policy for mutos. Just because Captain Willard said so.
I climb the ladder to the steel catwalk above and the living quarters suspended from the dome’s soaring concrete wall. Two armed guards stand outside the unit’s door. They were talking, laughing even, before they saw me. Now they’re more subdued, eyes set straight ahead, avoiding any chance of contact. They seem to cringe inward as I pass, as though I am somehow contagious. Maybe they’re afraid I’m probing their minds.
Maybe I am.
“At ease,” I mutter, but they pretend not to hear me. I stand before the solid steel door. Neither one of them moves to open it. “You mind?” I gesture at the guard who makes the mistake of glancing my way.
His eyes dart away, but he realizes too late that I’ve caught him. Something human beneath his soldier facade causes him to turn in resignation and heave the door open, shoving it aside.
“Thank you,” I say icily, stepping into the apartment’s plush interior.
“Shut up,” the guard snaps at his snickering comrade as he hauls the door back into place.
I stop in the middle of a warm, simply decorated living room with thick carpet and comfortable sofas. An artificial fire flickers in the hearth, fueled by natural gas. I know this place well. It was my home, once.
Willard and I were lovers then.
“You got here fast.” Willard paces in front of the bookshelves. He locks his beady eyes on me like he’s some kind of predator who isn’t finished playing with his food. “Did you know?” He catches himself. “Of course you did.” His upper lip twitches, but he doesn’t scratch at the narrow mustache. “You know everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything.” I stare back at him, my arms limp at my sides.
“What’s she doing here?” The block-jawed man sprawled out on the sofa fixes me with a hideous glare. “Waltzing in like you own the place. Mutant bitch.”
“Knock it off, Perch.” The slender, sandy-haired fellow with a boyish face rises from the adjacent cushion. “Margo—” His intentions are noble as he offers me his seat, but he doesn’t know what more to say. He stands there with a vacant look in his eyes.
“Sit down, Jamison.” Willard leans back against the bookcase, folding his arms now and pinching the bridge of his nose. He grimaces with another headache. He’s been having a lot of those lately. “You too, Margo. If you don’t like it, Perch, you can leave.”
“I just might.”
“You want out?” Willard fixes him with a direct look. “Just say the word. You can spend the rest of your miserable life underground, while the rest of us are living it up in Eurasia. You like the sound of that?”
Perch crosses his arms and curses under his breath. “I’m good, Captain.”
Willard shifts his line of sight to me, seated rigidly on the edge of Jamison’s armrest. “How are they?”
I don’t have to ask for clarification. I know his mind. “Healthy. Developing well.”
“On schedule?”
Ahead of, actually. But I won’t tell him this; it would spoil everything he’s planned so carefully from the start. “Of course.”
“No problems?”
I shake my head. “None.”
“Five kids.” Perch curses again. “You think that’s enough for each of us?” He glances at me again, and there is nothing but disgust for me in his eyes.
“The UW isn’t getting squat until we’re guaranteed safe passage out of here. That’s the deal.” Willard nods resolutely. “Even if we have to lock up the incubation chambers and hand over the key code once we’re well on our way into Eurasia.” He strokes his stubble-covered chin. Neglecting to shave is a rare occurrence for him.
“This is the next generation,” Jamison says. “Our next generation. But we’re talking about them like they’re chattel to be bartered. Like currency!” He throws his hands up as though he’s the only sane person in the room. “Doesn’t that bother any of you?”
Perch curses again. “Get off your high horse. Things have changed. We’re not responsible for the survival of the human species anymore—that burden’s been lifted off our backs.” He shifts his weight. “The way I figure, all that fetal tissue we’ve got growing in those test tubes is a real godsend. It’s sure as hell going to pay our way. The UW gets what they want, and we get off this diseased continent. Win-win for everybody.”
Jamison shakes his head. “Human life. That’s what we’re talking about here. Valuable enough in its own right, particularly now. There haven’t been many births in Eurasia lately.” He faces Willard. “Isn’t that what she told you, the Supreme Chancellor—?”
“Persephone Hawthorne.” Willard nods once. He smooths down his mustache and stares glassy-eyed at a point midway down the far wall. I recognize the look and know he is deep in thought, barely listening to what’s being said.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve tuned-in to his mind, sensing each of his private thoughts:
Should I tell them? What difference would it make? Clones. Genetically engineered life forms. Take that route, and the UW wouldn’t even need our infants. I should move up the timetable, say the incubation process has gone faster than anticipated, that the newborns will be ready for pickup within a matter of days, not months. They would have to scramble a team together and send them over here ASAP. We’d sure as hell get their attention, and they wouldn’t need to pursue cloning—
“Is that what she told you?” I bring him back to the moment. He stares hard at me, his reverie broken, defiled by my intrusion. “They have other options now?”
“Did she just—?” Perch curses, knowing the truth. “Stay the hell out of my mind, freak!”
Nothing in there worth the trouble.
“What does she mean, Captain?” Jamison frowns at Willard. “What kind of options?”
Willard sighs, sliding both palms down his face as if trying to wipe away his exhaustion. He forces a taut grin. “I only know what Hawthorne tells me. I’m no mind-reader, and that’s a fact.” He casts a withering glance at me. “Chancellor Hawthorne has been candid regarding our arrangement from the start. Once she tabled the plan to nuke Eden, things between us have gone smoothly every step of the way, and I have no reason to believe that she—”
“Queen Bee of the UW,” Perch mutters.
“Would you shut up?” Jamison snaps.
“Make me.” Perch winks up at him, puckering his lips.
Willard looks briefly amused. “She’s been under some pressure from her advisors—her cabinet. They want results. They’re saying they might not need the tubers we’ve got. There’s one genius in particular: Solomon Wong. He’s pushing for genetic-cloning, says it’s the best way to uphold the status quo over here while, at the same time, fixing the Eurasian infertility problem.”
“He’d be dead wong about that.” Perch glowers for a moment, then guffaws at his own stupid joke. He’s the only one laughing, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Status quo,” Jamison clarifies. “The quarantine, you mean. Hawthorne’s advisors don’t like the idea of breaching the blockade.”
“Can you blame them?” Willard raises an eyebrow.
Perch shares a few choice expletives. “Those UW mucky mucks won’t be the ones getting their hands messy. They’ll send expendables over to do the dirty work. It was the same before D-Day, and I sure as hell doubt it’s changed any. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. They’ll risk their lives picking up the tubers from us, and what’ll they find wa
iting for them back home? A firing squad. No way their superiors would risk contaminating the rest of the population over there.”
“If we don’t kill them first,” Willard mutters.
“What?” Jamison starts.
“Just thinking out loud is all.”
Jamison shakes his head as if to clear it. “Will Hawthorne go for it? This cloning option?”
“She would be a fool.” My fingers tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears. The three men stare at me. “The United World’s population is sterile now. Their only hope of survival as a species is a new generation of offspring capable of reproduction. The concept of copying themselves and hoping the clones will be able to reproduce—” I shake my head. “It’s a ridiculous solution to their problem.”
Jamison’s frown deepens. “How so?”
“You remember copy machines?” Perch butts in. “Back in the old days?”
“Make your point,” Willard says.
“I’m no expert geneticist like our resident sand freak here,” he points at me with his middle finger. “But I’d assume it’s the same principle. You start making copies, right? Then all the originals are lost—they die. And all you’ve got left are the copies—clones—who are going to have to clone themselves if they want another generation. So, eventually, you’ve got copies of copies of copies—clones of clones—and I don’t even want to speculate on the kind of mutants those sorry sons of bitches would produce.” He coughs into his fist.
“You’re assuming the clones wouldn’t be able to reproduce. Sexually, that is,” Jamison adds.
“No clone ever has.” My shoulders rise and fall. “Unless this Dr. Wong has advanced the procedure beyond what was possible twenty years ago.”
“Anything is possible.” Willard laughs harshly. “I reckon that’s something we should take into consideration. The rest of the planet didn’t take a time-out while we were in deep hibernation. We’re playing catch-up here, and that’s a fact. Two decades behind the times. That about sums up our place in the world.”
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 42
