"We're glad to have you and your husband, Shechara. With Erik living over in Dome 1 now, acting on the Linkstream and making himself rich and famous, we can honestly use the help." A matronly woman with a kind face, Mrs. Paine pats her son on the shoulder.
"Acting, yes," Erik acknowledges. "Rich or famous? Not so much. I'm just in ads, Mom. No leading roles yet, but that might change." He shrugs. "Someday."
"It may indeed," I murmur, careful not to stare at him for too long.
I don't want him to feel uncomfortable in his own house. He hasn't lived here for the past year, according to Mrs. Paine, but she has kept his room the same as when he left it. She says his bed is always waiting for him to spend the night, whenever he likes.
He arrived half an hour ago, and he will leave first thing in the morning. That's all the time Samson and I have to find a way to meet with him in private.
It has taken so long to reach this point: first contact.
Fifteen years have passed since Captain Mutegi promised that he would get us into Dome 6. The locals were not required to be augmented, since they were already augmented enough. They had survived the plague from decades ago, but they'd lost parts of themselves in the process. Prosthetics filled the gap where limbs, eyes, and other organs had been taken by illness, and many carried scars similar to burns on their ravaged skin.
Mutegi's contact had family in Dome 6 and flew an aerocar for Dome 1 law enforcement. He was also a dust smuggler on the side, using the proceeds to provide for his relations. He met us at the Dome 10 port authority airlock, right on time.
"Drasko," he introduced himself gruffly, his scarred hand outstretched.
Samson's metal hand clasped his in a firm shake. "You our ride?"
Drasko nodded, lowering his voice as he shook my hand next. "I hear you're the first wave of an impending invasion."
"Two by two," I said with a slow smile, not ready to trust this stranger, not sure how much he knew. I glanced up at Samson, his face a guarded mask.
We'd learned to be careful in the Wastes. To look and listen, feel out any given situation before putting ourselves in danger. But here, on this bustling port with so much activity and so many people moving about—all seemingly on-mission with places to be and cargo to offload—I found it difficult to focus.
Sometimes I wish I could dial down what my eyes are able to see.
Drasko led us to his waiting vehicle, parked outside the port terminal. It was strange to stand in full sunlight knowing the dome's plexicon shell was shielding us from the harmful rays. Samson and I paused for just a moment, basking in it with our head coverings loose around our shoulders and our eyes closed. Enjoying the warmth that tingled across our exposed skin.
Three local law enforcement officials converged on our location, their uniforms grubbier than Drasko's. He quickly took them aside and spoke with them. Their eyes darted our way repeatedly as if they didn't believe the story they were told: that we'd been working aboard the Argonaus. They didn't seem to like the looks of us.
My paranoia was very real during those first few days. I kept expecting someone to realize we didn't belong in Eurasia and expel us forcefully out of the Dome 10 airlock, headfirst into the Mediterranean.
Drasko shook hands with the three law enforcers, and they parted company without a glance back.
"You trust them?" Samson nodded toward the retreating figures.
"Not really." Drasko climbed into the cockpit of his aerocar and gestured for us to file into the cargo compartment behind him, where a pair of bench seats waited for us. "But we all speak the same language around here." He held up one hand and rubbed his fingers together.
Samson stooped, ducking his head as he entered. "So, this thing really flies?" He reached out for me, and I clasped his arm, allowing him to swing me up next to him. As the doors dropped into place and locked automatically, the vehicle's engines started vibrating.
"Affirmative." Drasko's hands flew across the dashboard console as he prepared to take us aloft. "You don't get airsick, do you?"
Samson and I looked at each other. Then we shrugged.
"Guess we'll find out," I said.
"Strap in."
Seeing the city from the air was enough to take my breath away. But when Drasko told us this dome was the least-maintained of any in Eurasia, that it was borderline filthy, we had no idea what to make of that—or what we would witness next. For there to be buildings intact with paved streets running between them, and no dust, no cratered wasteland, no blackened city ruins with skeletal remains… A city with people going about their business, both on foot and in vehicles that appeared to be stuck in actual traffic… It was like traveling back in time and hitting the reset button.
It was wonderful.
But nothing could have prepared us for our emergence from the underground tunnel into Dome 1, a celestial city of light and pristine mirrored glass. Awe-inspiring buildings soared overhead, appearing to scrape the interior of the dome's ceiling half a kilometer above us. This dome was twice the size of Dome 10, with more air traffic and less congestion along the tree-lined streets below.
We didn't linger there long. Drasko banked the aerocar in a tight curve and took us into another tunnel identical to the first. He said he had to time these trips just right; otherwise, we'd find ourselves plowing into a maglev train. As long as we were behind the train or in between scheduled departures, everything was all right, he assured us. Even so, I didn't see any other aerocars attempting to do what we were doing.
Dome 6 was nothing like 10 or 1. They were built up and crowded with people going about their business, but the first impression given by 6 was of a sleepy village. Plenty of open space covered by grass and trees with walking paths; no high-rises, no flying vehicles or heavy traffic of any kind. There were paved roads and one-story buildings with two or three-story exceptions scattered here and there. While Dome 10 and Dome 1 were centers of industry and technological advancement, Dome 6 was neither. It was quiet, designed for simplicity. The word hospice came to mind, as if this was where Eurasia sent its aging and infirmed population, a final staging area prior to whatever afterlife awaited them.
There were a lot of people like Samson and me, with prosthetics. Apparently, they were not qualified to live with the perfect people in Dome 1—or any other dome, for that matter. Eurasia followed a strict caste system, and the mechanically enabled, while allowed to work outside Dome 6 on night shifts during the enforced curfew, were not permitted to reside anywhere else.
"The motto is looking forward, never back," Captain Mutegi explained to us aboard the Argonaus before we disembarked. "Citizens with scars and prosthetics remind the populace of the plague, and they'd rather forget that period in their history. Or any history, for that matter. The neural implants and VR keep citizens focused on the present, always looking toward an ever-brighter future."
Samson had grumbled at that. "You know what they say about forgetting the past."
Perhaps they were indeed doomed to repeat it. Captain Mutegi warned us about terrorist threats from the outlying domes, an underground movement of citizens dissatisfied with their assigned stations in life. But he said Dome 6 didn't suffer from such dissent. The citizens here accepted their lot. It was the way of things, and no one questioned it. For the most part, none of the sicks had any desire to leave their peaceful dome in search of a better life. They were already living it.
Dome 6 was lovely, but it was not our intention to remain there. Our mission, as explained by Luther and Sergeant Bishop, was to blend in and become a valuable part of our community. By doing so, we would be eligible to participate in the exchange program where the Dome 6 Governor chose outstanding citizens to live in one of the other outlying domes for a couple months.
Meanwhile, we had research to do.
Using our own DNA samples, we were to track down our ten offspring; using Luther's and Daiyna's, we would track down the other ten. Posing as veterans from the Argonaus afforded us a certain l
evel of immediate respect, and we were provided with all the necessary tech we required to get online. They called it the Linkstream, and even citizens without neural implants could access it via older consoles that still worked—thanks in no small part to the older citizens in Dome 6. Those with the mental capacity to work did so, repairing and maintaining devices that had become all but obsolete.
This is where Samson and I immediately began contributing to the community. He's always been good with machines, and I tend to be a quick study.
Over the years that followed, we discovered that our children from Eden were referred to as the Twenty, an honored segment of the population. They were the only citizens to be born a decade after the Terminal Age generation, thought to be Eurasia's last due to infertility plaguing the entire population.
The Twenty had been placed with adoptive families throughout Eurasia—with the exception of Dome 10—and as they grew and matured into young adults, they were assigned important roles in education, law enforcement, science, healthcare, agriculture, government, oxygen generation, and technological advancement. None of the information we gleaned was common knowledge. We had to rely on our tech-savvy abilities to navigate the Linkstream's hidden tributaries undetected, always disabling the devices we used after obtaining the information we sought. We masked our point of origin with a vacillating receiver that made it appear as though we were in multiple locations at the same time—in various domes.
Years later, longer than we ever thought it would take, by which point we seriously began to doubt whether Luther's plan or our part in it would ever come to fruition, we were chosen by Governor Hallsley to transfer to Dome 9. He'd had his eye on us for a while, noting our positive contributions to the community, but there were others ahead of us in line and only a few openings each summer. Dome-transfer was not popular; many saw it as a threat to the class system. But Hallsley made it clear that every citizen who participated in the short-term transfer would remain in his or her caste. Samson and I were responsible for maintaining and repairing technological and mechanical equipment in Dome 6, and we would have the same job in Dome 9.
There were two male members of the Twenty located in this agricultural center. One of them was related to us. We requested to be sent to the Paine farm, which had extended a welcome to the next Dome 6 transfer. Much to our delight, the Governor honored our request.
But the delight quickly turned into anxiety for both Samson and me. We lay awake at night, asking each other questions neither of us had the answers to.
"What should I say to him?" Samson's deep voice rumbled in the dark. He stared up at the ceiling, lying in our four-poster bed. Tomorrow, we would take the maglev train to Dome 9 and meet Mrs. Paine for the first time.
"We'll have time to figure that out. Erik isn't scheduled to return home for another week." I curled up beside my husband, his metal arm around me. He had it heated to just the right temperature, perfect for snuggling. "You'll do fine. You always know what to say."
"Glad it appears that way." He kissed the top of my head. My long hair fanned out across his shoulder. "I don't want to scare him off. It's taken us so long to have this opportunity, to meet with one of them in a way that shouldn't raise any red flags. Hopefully he won't report us to the authorities."
Captain Mutegi warned us that if we were found out, we could be executed. A worst-case scenario, right next to being banished from Eurasia. After all this time and effort, for it to come to nothing? Neither of us wanted to go back to life as we knew it in the Wastes. Nor did we want to serve aboard the Argonaus. Below decks, Samson nearly went mad avoiding claustrophobia. Our people who were still on board were waiting for us to make the first move, and this was it.
We'd singled out the one member of the Twenty who seemed to have a mind of his own. He'd abandoned his original assignment as an agricultural engineer to pursue a career as an actor; he had a habit of hanging around wealthy dust addicts; and he had connections with a few underworld types in Dome 10 who specialized in supplying dust, along with other illegal items. It was rumored they sold weapons, but that was impossible to verify, even employing the code we used to see behind the Link's thick curtains.
"Let's hope we have enough dirt on him to avoid that."
A deep chuckle resonated in Samson's chest. "First time meeting our son, and we're already planning to blackmail him."
"What do you think he'll be like?"
"We already know—"
"Not looks. Who he is. Bold and brash like his father, or quiet and intelligent like his mother?"
"Wait a minute. You think I'm brash?"
"You know you are, Strongman."
He gave me a gentle squeeze. "I'd say all of the above, based on what we've learned about him. If we can convince him to join the cause, he'll be a real asset. Hell, he might even take point on Operation Awakening."
"That's what we're calling it?"
He nodded. "Unless you've got a better name for it."
Sounded right to me.
Now as I glance up at Erik—nearly as tall as Samson—I hope with all my heart that we're able to get through to him. That somehow we can make him understand who he really is, and the truth will set him free, as Luther said. But part of me balks at the idea of turning this young man's life upside-down. And not only his, but every member of the Twenty, if we're able to do so.
Because Eurasian society has been built upon lies, and it's time to crack the glass walls they've made for themselves.
"Would you like to meet Samson?" I smile but try to keep it casual, as far from over-eager as possible. "He's working on the harvesters at the moment. They've been refusing to function correctly in tandem. It's almost as if they know they're being difficult, and they enjoy causing the inconvenience."
"Oh, Erik knows all about those cantankerous machines. Wasn't that your job, son, before you left us in search of fame and fortune?" She's teasing him, but there's an undertone of hurt beneath the surface. Of course she expected her adopted son to remain in Dome 9 when he grew up.
Erik grunts, nudging the recycler open with his toe and tossing the apple core down the chute. "Don't miss it one bit. Those clunkers are the worst. Why haven't you upgraded?"
"That's what Samson's trying to do," I offer.
"We couldn't afford brand-new machines, but we thought the programming could be tweaked," Mrs. Paine says. "Overwrite the operating system with—"
"You want them to sit out there like dumb clucks? That'll do it." Erik shakes his head and wipes his face, both hands rubbing downward in an exasperated swipe. Then he exhales. "I'll go take a look."
"This way." I lead him out of the kitchen.
"I know my way around," he grumbles, but he follows me anyway.
"Even after being gone for so long?" Mrs. Paine feigns astonishment. "That's impressive!"
"I've always had a good memory, Mother," he calls over his shoulder, stepping outside into bright sunlight and fields that stretch for acres in every direction.
"That's why you'll make a great actor!" Mrs. Paine matches his volume.
The door swings shut behind us. He catches me looking at him.
"She loves you very much." I look away and keep walking, out between the rows of wheat toward the large trio of harvesters sitting in the distance.
"Moms do that," he mutters, his long strides overtaking mine.
It's a surreal experience to walk beside my biological son. Mrs. Paine raised him and deserves the distinction of being called his mother, but his genes, his DNA, his eyes… They all came from me and Samson more than two decades ago.
It's difficult to believe so much time has passed, that we've now been out of the bunkers longer than we were trapped inside them. The United World government chose us for our genetic makeup, our intelligence and potential. We were to be their designated breeders, ushering in the next generation of North Americans expected to do the UW's bidding.
Except that glorious future never showed up.
The spi
rits told Milton they intend to enter the domed cities; they just haven't figured out how yet. When they do, there will be chaos across the Domes. The well-structured society they invented for themselves will collapse. The class divisions will shatter. They will require new leadership, and the Twenty could be that governing body. But they will need to understand the past so they don't repeat it.
Erik and those like him are the future—not only for Eurasia, but for the world. Samson and I just have to open his eyes to the truth.
At the same time, I have to accept the fact that, while he shares my DNA, I will never be Erik's mother. Not really. I'll just be an oddity from Dome 6 married to a cyborg, working for a couple months on his family farm where he stopped by for a weekend and had his world turned inside-out.
Assuming he believes anything we have to say.
I wave to Samson as we approach, and he drops back from the control panel of the harvester he was scowling at. His eyes brighten at the sight of me, and then he sees Erik. He takes a deep breath and steps toward us.
Erik can't help staring. It's not every day one sees a man as large as Samson with a great bushy beard and mechatronic arms and legs. I take a moment to introduce them, and they nod to each other. They don't shake hands.
Erik points at the harvester and makes a good guess at the problem Samson's been having with it—something to do with the propulsion sequence being out of alignment. The goal is to have all three harvesters working simultaneously. These unmanned machines have to be programmed for that, and the updated software is not doing the trick.
"Mind if I take a look?" Erik steps forward, and Samson backs away.
"Go for it," he rumbles with a glance at me.
Keeping his eyes to himself, Erik approaches the panel. It's welded to an arm that swings outward from the engine cover on the side of the machine. He mutters something, tapping the display with a growing frown.
"Please don't tell me you wiped its memory." His focus doesn't leave the screen.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 109
