So much for sticking with me.
"Follow him!" I order the clone and hold onto the handgrips mounted beside the open doorway. The door itself continues to shake. It won't close until we land, emergency protocols being what they are.
I squint into the wind as the aerocar makes its descent. Hard to believe, but Erik has landed on his feet half a block from the maglev train entrance. He takes a moment to steady himself against the wall of a nearby restaurant, closed for the day. Then, with a glance up in my direction, he staggers onward, moving slower than is customary for him. If I had to guess, I'd say he sprained something during that impossible touchdown.
All the better for me to catch him.
The aerocar sets down in the middle of the deserted street fifty meters from the maglev entrance. The gates are locked, and no one appears to be on duty. Even the automatic kiosks are dim, not welcoming any commuters today. The dark tunnels beyond are far from inviting, but Erik doesn't seem to mind. Despite whatever minor injuries he sustained after throwing himself from a moving aerocar, he manages to scale the three-meter-tall gate with minimal effort—half leaping, half scrambling over it. I can't see where he's headed on the other side, but I have a feeling he's planning to take a tunnel to one of the outlying domes. On foot.
"Contact Commander Bishop at HQ. Tell her I am in pursuit of a suspect." I step out of the passenger compartment and into the street. The aerocar kicks up a torrent of air like a miniature windstorm emanating from underneath the vehicle.
"Enforcer Chen, according to the Chancellor's records, you are not authorized to pursue suspects. Nor are you authorized to wield lethal ordnance." The clone swivels in its seat to face me. "Additionally, it appears that your augments are offline. You will not be able to see inside that tunnel. All things considered, I should accompany you."
I remove the magazine from the rifle I'm leaving behind, tossed onto my seat. Slipping the spare mag into one of the pockets along my pant leg, I point at the gate, choosing to ignore everything the clone said. "Open that for me."
The clone exits the vehicle, leaving it idling, and approaches the train station. Taking a moment to size up the locking apparatus, it reaches with both hands and grips hold of the ironwork. The armored suit whines as it powers up, and the clone trembles in place like a strongman at the circus lifting weights just a bit too heavy for him. But the gate doesn't stand a chance. With a metallic crack, it swings open.
"Secure this position." I head straight for the nearest tunnel, leading to Dome 2.
"Yes, Enforcer Chen."
I activate the tactical flashlight mounted on the assault rifle and sweep the powerful beam side to side, cutting a white swath of light through the darkness. There's a walkway along the right side of the maglev track, and I leap onto it, not bothering to keep my boots quiet as I run. No idea how long I can maintain this pace without an exo-suit to provide that extra boost. But unless Erik's a fast healer, I should overtake him in a matter of minutes.
"Erik Paine, halt!" My voice echoes with confident-sounding authority. I hear only my own footfalls, not his. So either he didn't take this tunnel, or he's in stealth mode.
If I had Wink and Blink with me, I could send them to scout ahead and relay back everything they see. If my augments were functioning, I could call up blueprints of this entire substructure and overlay them in real time. Instead, I have memories bubbling to the surface that make no sense whatsoever.
Erik mentioned two names that meant nothing to me before: Tucker and Margo. But now I sense some kind of connection to them both. I don't see any faces in my mind's eye, but I feel something. Friendship? Loyalty? Directed toward me from each of them. They cared about me and Erik. They cared what happened to us.
"Enforcer Chen," the security clone's hollow voice calls after me. By the sound of it, holding position at the gate was not a priority. It's following me instead. "I cannot allow you to continue along this course of action. You are placing yourself in danger. Please stay where you are, and I will join you. Together, we will apprehend the fugitive and escort him to police headquarters."
A dark figure lands on the walkway right in front of me, one hand gripping my assault rifle and forcing the muzzle toward the ground, the other pulling me into a tight side-embrace.
"So I'm a fugitive now," Erik says into my ear.
I twist the rifle, shining the flashlight up into his eyes. He flinches, and I drive my boot into his shin. With a garbled cry, he releases both me and my weapon and stumbles away.
"Enforcer Chen, are you in danger?" The clone approaches, its boots smacking the pavement as it jogs my way.
"Halt!" I yell at it, and it does what I say. What a concept. I shine the light at Erik's chest. "Were you hanging from the ceiling?"
He shrugs. "Impressed?"
Exasperated is more like it. "If I have to put you in shackles, I will."
"Think back to the person you were twenty-four hours ago. Before we met."
Before my life became an incomprehensible mess. "Why?"
"Imagine eighteen other people out there, exactly the same age as us. Nine of them your brothers and sisters, nine of them mine. All of them with no idea who they really are or where they came from." He takes a step toward me. "Don't you think they deserve to know? What they're capable of? What our government has been using them for?"
You know where they are...and you're going to find them, I think at him. To turn their lives inside out, like you did mine.
"To introduce them to the truth." He gives me half a grin. Join me, Sera.
I glance over my shoulder at the clone, silent and still in the darkness. Then I lower my voice as I turn back to Erik.
"First tell me about Tucker and Margo."
9 Samson
5 Years After All-Clear
Dawn breaks behind us as we race across the desert, going as fast as the jeep can manage along this uneven terrain. Best to stay off the raiders' well-beaten path, and if any Wastelanders want to follow us, they'll have to work for it.
Shechara hears them first and turns around in her seat to look back, her eyes doing that thing they do when she zooms in on details too far away for anybody else to see—without binoculars. Those metal spheres in her sockets are made of overlapping parts that swivel and slide across one another, glinting under the sun.
I keep my foot on the accelerator and glance into the rearview mirror, squinting through the screen of dust in our wake. Morning light glows across the eastern horizon, scaring off the stars and painting the sky twilight's violet-indigo. Worth stopping and admiring if you're not on the run from a pack of desert freaks.
The grinding motors of their dirt bikes reach my ears before I see their dark forms emerge from the gloom, a dozen of them riding full-speed after us. Some of them take the opportunity to jump their bikes into the air and pose with an arm or leg outstretched before landing. They sure know how to have a good time while hunting their prey.
If I had to guess, I'd say they finished off Stack and got bored. Raping, killing, and pillaging provides only so much in the way of entertainment. They needed something else to keep their hopped-up minds busy. That charred monstrosity formerly known as Cain—not sure what to think of that yet—must have told them about our escape, and they all decided to track us down.
So here we are. With morning on the way and too many Wastelanders for my liking about to overtake us.
Half a dozen, we could deal with. But I'm not optimistic about our current chances. Particularly if these freaks are well-armed. The missiles that hit Stack could have come from a Stinger. If any of the dirt bikes at our six are carrying a Wastelander with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, and if they're able to lock onto us with its guidance systems, then we are toast.
But I'm not about to give up. This jeep still has some juice, and I'm squeezing the batteries for all they've got. Shechara and Daiyna are both armed, and I've got the Uzi I took off that Wastelander—not to mention a few tricks up my metal arms. If push
comes to shove, we'll take out half of them and then see how we do with the ones left over.
"Thirteen bikes," Shechara reports, her 9mm in hand and pointed at the floorboard.
"Lucky thirteen," I mutter.
"You've had trouble with these guys before, I take it?" Daiyna has drawn her semiautomatic as well.
"You haven't?" I glance at her in the rearview.
She looks different than the last time I saw her. Skinny, unhealthy, pale. Her eyes move around a lot, and she has trouble sitting still. Her short hair is choppy; looks like she hacked at it with a knife. Shechara's overjoyed to see her, to be with her. I hope Daiyna has the presence of mind not to break her sister's heart by disappearing from her life again anytime soon.
"I've been living like a hermit," she explains, "doing my best to avoid people like this."
"Good idea." Shechara's eyes are focused on our pursuers. "Two hundred meters and closing." She rests her hand on my shoulder. "We should swing back toward the main road. Include the raiders in this little meet-up."
Not a bad idea. The enemy of our enemy is someone who may not try to kill us right away. Or something like that. I adjust our course toward the southwest.
"You still in touch with the spirits?" I ask Daiyna.
"Whether I want to be or not," she replies, sounding more exhausted than ever.
"Mind asking them to contact Milton?"
"You expect him to save the day?" She leans toward me, holding onto the back of my seat. "Is that how it works now? You and Shechara go off on your own, hijacking raiders and whatnot, and when you get into some trouble, you cry for help? Scream for the local superhero to rescue you?"
Her tone is bitter, her voice ragged around the edges. Like she's been drinking hard liquor day and night for a few years. Trying to dull the pain, quiet the ghosts. For her, those ghosts are literal, thanks to the spirits of the earth showing up as people from her past.
Glad I'm not somebody blessed by their presence.
"Prior to last night, we've managed to cross paths with the Wastelanders without killing any of them," I explain, taking the jeep across a rough patch that jostles all three of us fiercely in our seats. "They're not easy to get along with, but it's never gotten violent."
"Then you had to go and skewer that guy," Daiyna says.
"Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."
"Usually does." Daiyna exhales loudly. "Alright. So what are we looking at here? Territorial biker gang? Sexual deviants? Cannibals?"
"All of the above," Shechara says. "They've been building a reputation for over a year now. Filling the vacuum left by the daemons." Shechara glances at me. We both had a hand in their extermination.
"The Wastes needs its freaks," I offer. "Difference is, you can reason with these guys. Sometimes—when they aren't high as kites."
Daiyna takes that at face value, and we cut the chatter, bracing ourselves for what's to come. Shechara updates us on how close the Wastelanders are. A hundred meters, then fifty, but no missiles fired yet, not even an RPG. Maybe they don't want to kill us outright.
They want to have fun with us first. Probably Cain's idea.
So he didn't die when those UW planes rained fire down on his warriors and the collared daemons outside Eden. He was inside that Hummer at the time, riding in style. Maybe it sheltered him somewhat. But the burns he endured left him looking like some creature from an old, twentieth-century horror movie. And he didn't sound exactly sane back there in Stack, screaming something about fire and brimstone. Or judgment—that was it.
I thought he died years ago, and he hasn't crossed my mind since.
Shechara nudges me, and I glance into the rearview. The dirt bikes are spreading out, the ones at the edges speeding up as if they've been holding back until now, toying with us. They're planning to flank us on both sides before they close in. Then they'll get in front of us and start shooting.
I clench the steering wheel and swallow a curse. No sign of any raiders as we approach the main thoroughfare, almost as flat as a graded road in comparison to the rugged country we've been bouncing through. Of all the times for those UW scavengers to be nowhere in sight.
According to the battery gauge, we'll have enough power to continue at these unsafe velocities for the next five minutes, maybe ten. After that, we'll drop to impulse speed while the sun rises and the solar panels soak up as much energy as they can.
But impulse might as well be a dead stop. We'll be surrounded by Wastelanders, and we'll have nowhere to go.
The ground in front of us erupts with a sudden explosion—a rocket-propelled grenade fired over our heads. I swerve to avoid the crater as sand splashes against the windshield and side windows, raining down on top of us as we cringe in our seats.
There was no time to put the roof on when we stole this thing. Had to drive it as-is. Of course, the roof would have included a few more solar panels in addition to what's mounted on the hood and doors, and that might've given us a little more juice. Live and learn.
"Warning shot," Shechara observes, and I nod.
No reason to return fire. Yet.
We've got bikers flanking our jeep now, their bleached skull-masks grinning at us instead of watching where they're going. Daiyna looks ready to send a few shots their way, but Shechara shakes her head. Daiyna shrugs, leaning back in her seat to enjoy the ride. She seems strangely detached, as if she's already made her peace with death. Almost like she welcomes it.
Well, good for her. I just hope she doesn't do anything stupid to put Shechara's life in danger. Or mine.
By the time the Wastelanders encircle us, keeping a good ten-meter buffer zone around our vehicle, the jeep's battery decides it's time to sleepwalk. No matter how hard I smash the accelerator into the floor, we won't go faster than a crawl. The dirt bikes slow down, matching our speed and maintaining their oblong circle around us. Thirteen bikes, three of which carry Wastelanders riding double, the ones in back holding shoulder-mounted missile launchers.
I brake, slowing the jeep to a stop. The bikes in front of us and at our flanks pivot, skidding their chunky tires through the dust to face us. The one nearest my window carries the scorched remains of Cain. Flamethrower nowhere to be seen, he carries a Stinger proudly on his thick-muscled shoulder.
"Samson!" he cries, his voice a frayed imitation of the zealous warlord I remember. He climbs off the back of the bike, one hand gripping the shoulder of the smaller man steering the thing, pushing down on him. "It has been too long. Where have you hidden yourself all these years?"
I lower my window and rest a hand on the Uzi in my lap. "Nobody's been hiding. It's a big continent, Cain. But I'm surprised we haven't crossed paths sooner."
"Admit it." He grimaces and wheezes between each sentence. "You are surprised. That I am alive."
"It's unexpected."
He chuckles, sounding like he's gargling gravel, and pats the Stinger. "My friend and I have been in touch. More than once." He nods slowly as a cold heaviness weighs down my insides. "Yes, you see it now. After what we did to Stack. The truth has dawned on you: it was never the UW. Not there, and not at Luther's Homeplace. It was me. It was always ME!"
The hoarse scream at the end is uncalled for, but he has our undivided attention.
"So you've made it your mission in life to attack fellow survivors," I reply. Why seek to destroy those enclaves where folks are trying to make a life for themselves? Where a little bit of civilization is finally returning to these wastelands? "And you've found some new recruits to take up the cause." I look a few of the Wastelanders over. Psychos tend to gravitate toward one another. "I sure hope Cain's not your leader." No response from the skull-faced freaks. "You do realize he led all of his people to their deaths, right?"
Cain curses, loud and foul. "They died gloriously! It was the will of Gaia!"
"I see." My slow nod is intended to show that I'm paying attention. And I am, noting every detail: which Wastelander has both hands on his bike versus t
he assault rifle dangling from a shoulder strap; which one defers to Cain with every glance versus attempting to stare me down; which ones haven't taken their eyes off Shechara or Daiyna since we started this insightful conversation. "So, Gaia told you to blow up Stack? And the Homeplace?" I shake my head at him. "You're still blaming a spirit of the earth for all the stupid things you do?"
There's a quiet intake of breath from Shechara and an equally quiet chuckle from Daiyna. Half the Wastelanders rev their bikes and lurch toward us with menace. The other half just keep on staring daggers.
Cain grins broadly, not even bothering to cover his face as the harsh morning sunlight washes over us all, scorching the dusty landscape as far as the eye can see. He probably figures the damage has been done.
"Judgment is upon us, Samson. Fire and judgment. I am the emissary of Gaia's wrath!"
Interesting. "Your wives were in the Homeplace, Cain. Your children."
He frowns at me like I'm speaking gibberish. "This is not the time for new life. This is the end of all we know. We are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse." The Wastelanders rev up their bikes, all thirteen of them, in a deafening display of solidarity. "We must burn this world to the ground to make way for what is to come!"
Daiyna leans toward my ear. "He's out of his mind."
"Possessed?" I ask in a low tone.
"This is all Cain." No evil spirit necessary.
Good to know. "So, how'd you all meet?" I nod toward his riding companions. No reason not to be neighborly—until the shooting starts.
Another big smile from Cain. But instead of answering, he asks, "Where is Victoria?"
"No idea. You probably should've asked before you fired that missile at the Homeplace."
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 91
