Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Milo James Fowler

  Mara joins us as she signs off. "Carry on, Enforcer Chen. And be quick about it. You don't have much time." She taps her temple, restoring her focus on her present surroundings. "Your man is in place?"

  "On it." Bishop activates the handheld device he received from Captain Mutegi and contacts Drasko, telling him to move into position outside the Dome 2 maglev tunnel. There he'll watch and follow at a safe distance but not intervene. Because, like Luther said, the goal is to find all twenty.

  That's right, I'm a team player. But I've been feeling antsy for a while now. I haven't been able to use my speed or flight skills out in the open since we boarded the Argonaus all those years ago. Grounded for too long, I've got a bad case of the jitters.

  Stealing Hawthorne's snuff box was the most fun I've had in recent memory.

  Want to take a tour of the Domes? I ask the Julia-spirit.

  You understand what martial law means, right?

  I shrug it off. Nobody will catch me. I'll be a blip on their radar. Nothing more.

  Somehow I don't think you've run this past Luther, she says.

  I glance at him, deep in conversation with the Bishop trio. Grizzled father, shell-shocked son, commanding daughter. She inherited all of her dad's military demeanor, but she also has a calm center. When she looks at her brother, there's a warmth that radiates toward him. In their parents' absence, she's been father and mother to him.

  Luther's got plenty to keep him busy, I reply. So how about it? You point me in the direction of the nearest dust addicts, and we'll introduce them to their permanent special abilities. I pause, realizing I've assumed something. You can do that, right? Use your ethereal dust-locator to find every citizen with particulate matter in their lungs?

  Julia hesitates. Yes.

  That's why you hitched a ride, right? To show these people the truth—that they're more than just zombies going to their government-assigned jobs every day and plugging into virtual reality in their little cubes every night. You have superhuman gifts for them, available for the taking!

  But Milton, you're forgetting something very important. As long as their augments are functional—

  That's why we'll ignore the law-abiding citizens for now, and only seek out the dust addicts right in the middle of their snorting sessions. Their augments will be offline, and you'll show them how their fleeting abilities can be lifelong gifts. My pulse pounds at the thought of it. We can make a real difference here. Set off a chain reaction that will flip this authoritarian regime upside down!

  Her response is slow in coming. Have you considered how many people you'll have to kiss?

  About that. You're sure there isn't another way?

  The air here is purified and sterile. The ground is a synthetic material. There is no way for us to move outside of bodies with dust in their lungs.

  The Argonaus has a whole lot of dirt on board, and it's being unloaded onto the Dome 10 docks at this very moment. If we could get a ton of the stuff and dump it into the air recyclers—

  "Dome 10." Bishop's voice interrupts, holding up the communication device in his hand. "That's where they're headed. Drasko is keeping his distance. He's got a tracker on a surveillance drone in their vehicle."

  Luther nods. "Then we'll meet at the rendezvous point. Samson and Shechara should be on their way." He faces Mara. "I know it's asking a lot."

  "Not at all." She tilts her head toward the cube with Hawthorne inside. So far, the Chancellor hasn't attempted to leave. The door's unlocked. "What about her?"

  "Let her deal with her demons."

  Nobody has a problem with that.

  "This way." Mara leads us to the stairwell and then up to the roof where her aerocar sits on the well-manicured lawn.

  The vehicle looks like any kid's dream-come-true of a flying car. Aerodynamic with sharp, rocket-like angles, painted white and sporting black accents. Sensing our approach, the cockpit doors rise like wings, as does the door to the cargo compartment. Mara climbs into the pilot seat, and her father drops in next to her, both of them buckling on their harnesses like it's second nature. The rest of us file into the cargo area, sliding across the bench seats and strapping in. As Mara ignites the engines, a powerful hum resonates throughout the interior. The doors drift shut, locking into place.

  Then we're off. Not nearly as fast as I can fly, but this aerocar is something else. We soar through the air, swooping over the top of the cube complex and diving between two skyscrapers—which I've learned are called domescrapers here. Hurtling a couple dozen kilometers across vacant streets cleaner than any I've ever seen, we reach the train station. Nine underground tunnels radiate outward, leading to the outlying domes. Hovering in midair, we rotate clockwise, lining ourselves up with the one marked 10. Then Mara hits the accelerator, throwing us back in our seats as we dive headlong into the dark tunnel.

  Less than a minute later, we emerge inside the same dome where we disembarked from the Argonaus. The train station security guards wave us through without much interest, much like the Dome 1 personnel did. Of course Mara's law enforcement vehicle would have the right of way during a crisis. By this point, with no update from their superiors or the Chancellor herself—and no further acts of terror to be quelled—they must be wondering what the hell is going on.

  As far as aesthetics go, Dome 10 resembles Dome 1 about as much as a hole in the ground resembles sunlight. A city whose primary responsibilities are waste management and water recycling, not to mention being the only Eurasian port on the polluted Mediterranean, should be expected to have more of a grungy vibe, I suppose. Unlike Dome 1, the streets are congested with people in vehicles and on foot. Obviously, martial law isn't in effect. Maybe because no government buildings were targeted by terrorists here.

  There's no other air traffic that I can see, and more than a few folks on the ground stare up at us as we pass overhead. Not the most inconspicuous arrival, but then again, we're in a police vehicle, so they might assume it's just a flyover. Keeping the peace in a very busy dome.

  Drasko, our main contact, informed us about the thriving underworld beneath Dome 10's gritty surface: dust smuggling, weapons trading, human trafficking, clone hacking, and political corruption. Most of Eurasia's intermittent terrorist threats have come from Dome 10 citizens, and who can blame them? They live and work in the cesspool of Eurasia, assigned their roles by the government, with no hope of ever breaking free of the Domes' rigid class structure. It makes sense the current patriot resurgence would be born here. They're at the very bottom of the food chain.

  With the most dust in circulation of any dome in Eurasia.

  This is where we'll start, I tell Julia. The revolution will begin here.

  You identify with them, she replies. You grew up in Sector 43, a trade sector populated with unskilled laborers. Sterilized, forced to work long hours in a factory. When you were chosen for the bunker, you felt a glimmer of hope that your life would take a different path—a better future, after the bombs fell. She pauses. But Jackson made you his hangman. After you killed him, it took time for you to grow into the man you are today. With a heart for the downtrodden, and a desire to share your supernatural abilities with others.

  I nod. Sounds right to me.

  The abilities we gave you were for your survival, Milton. These people...they don't need us. They have clean air to breathe and plenty to eat and drink. They are safe here. Any dangers they experience are their own doing. We are not interested in their political struggles. Only the struggle to survive.

  You had no problem revealing yourself to their leader, I retort.

  That was Jackson. He promised to leave the rest of Eurasia alone as long as he could torment the Chancellor, perhaps even drive her insane. The two of them may never leave that little room.

  And you're okay with that.

  She hesitates before answering. Perhaps without her, the people of Eurasia will find a better way to govern themselves.

  Thought you weren't into politics, I counter.
>
  Instead of answering, she says, You remember when all Jackson wanted was the destruction of your species?

  I nod. Something like that is difficult to forget.

  Then it should seem strange to you that he would agree to limit his destruction to a single life.

  I frown. So you're saying...we made a big mistake by bringing him along. But I couldn't take one without the other, as much as I would have preferred it. They are inseparable, two sides of the same ancient coin.

  We need to find something to occupy him after the Chancellor expires, Julia says.

  That sounds like a plan. Got any ideas?

  I imagine her shaking her head. Not at the moment.

  Bishop shows his daughter the coordinates on the screen of his handheld device, and she adjusts the aerocar's course. Our destination is a warehouse two hundred meters north of the port airlock. Its main purpose is to store crates of dust from the Argonaus prior to their dispersal to various suppliers and low-level dealers. As a side job, it's working as our base of operations.

  I glance at Luther. Hard to believe this devout man of God is now a drug runner. But according to him, the dust we're smuggling is the same stuff the Creator used to form the first man and woman, all those millennia ago. Only it's since been nuked to death and somehow has entrapped the spiritual essence of the entire animal kingdom. Not crazy at all. Life as we know it.

  More of us should look as stunned as Emmanuel, sitting beside me and staring slack-jawed out the side window.

  "Ever been here before?" I offer, trying to be sociable.

  "First time." He shakes his head. "It's nothing like Dome 1. How can these people live in such...squalor?"

  I shrug. "It's all they know. Dust and the Link keep most of them from rising up against the status quo." I give him a nudge. "Maybe the next Chancellor can change that."

  As Hawthorne's aide, he's seen how it's done. Who else would be better suited to take her place?

  Luther would probably say I'm being too simplistic. The political gears have turned a certain way for decades, and change cannot happen overnight. But I have to wonder: why not? If the underclass were to rise up with a plethora of superhuman abilities, the ruling elites would be powerless to stop them.

  "The way you move," Emmanuel says, frowning as he weighs his words. "How is that humanly possible?"

  I grin. "It's really not."

  "These spirits of the earth…" He glances at the back of his father's head. "They helped you over there." He waves vaguely toward the Mediterranean, glistening under the sun outside Dome 10. "They kept you alive."

  "Some of us." My smile disappears. "The rest of us are determined to reunite our friends with their children."

  "The Twenty."

  He's been paying attention. Another trait of a good leader. "That's right."

  "For what purpose?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Why is Luther intent on meeting his biological offspring? Does he plan to usurp the role of their parents? Upset their families?"

  That question has crossed my mind from time to time. Yet neither Luther, Daiyna, Samson, or Shechara seem interested in insinuating themselves where they don't belong.

  "You were lied to, Emmanuel. The government told you that your father had died."

  "They told us he was a hero." He raises his chin. "That much was true."

  Maybe I was wrong about him. He's been around politicians so much that he can't help smelling like them.

  "But you deserved to know the truth. To see your father again. And he sure as hell deserved to see you." I pause, knowing the next part will be tough to hear. "Your government's lie broke your mother's heart."

  He clenches his jaw but doesn't disagree. "And now Luther is determined to break the hearts of twenty more mothers. Each one was carefully selected and partnered with a spouse to raise a member of the Twenty. Their well-functioning households have produced twenty-year-old citizens who've contributed greatly to our society. You seek to threaten their cohesion, and in so doing, the cohesion of Eurasia itself."

  I give him a moment to listen to himself. Then I reply, "You haven't had long to process what's happening. And you don't know Luther very well. The man's had everything taken from him—even his gift from the spirits—yet he remains hopeful for the future. The world out there, what remains of it, never broke him. He's damaged—hell, we all are. But he'd never go out of his way to damage anybody else. So if you think he plans to wreak havoc here in Eurasia, you're dead wrong." I pause. "He wants you to know the truth, so it will set you free."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I shrug. "Maybe that you've been living a lie, forced upon you by your government. But once the truth gets out, things are going to change around here. At first, it might not seem for the better..." I take a different tack. "Aren't you glad to finally know the truth about your dad?"

  Emmanuel nods slowly, watching his father. He doesn't say anything more.

  "Change of venue." Bishop shows Mara a new set of coordinates on his device. "Drasko needs an evac, and he's got company. Two of the Twenty."

  The aerocar pitches toward the starboard side—I learned that bit of lingo on the Argonaus—and Mara takes us north in a sharp trajectory, leaving the sea at our backs.

  "Not the best area," she says, keeping her eyes on the windscreen and the glowing display. "Are any of you armed?"

  "Negative," Bishop says, "but Milton—"

  "Last resort." She glances over her shoulder at me. "Things are unstable enough right now without adding a superhuman to the mix."

  "Understood." I get it.

  But depending on the situation, nothing's going to stop me from doing what I do best.

  We land on the roof of a nondescript building where a blue and white aerocar sits, powered down with two bullet holes punched through its windscreen and a dead clone slumped over in the passenger seat. A single bloody headshot gapes from the front of its helmet.

  "Can you fly?" Mara glances back at Emmanuel as she steps out under her rising door.

  "I'm a little rusty," he admits, but he ducks his head and climbs into the pilot seat anyway.

  "Good enough." Mara draws her sidearm and grips it in both hands, pointed at the ground. "Keep the engine warm and be ready to gun it as soon as we're aboard."

  Her brother nods.

  I hit the door release for the cargo compartment and leap out of the vehicle, floating until my boots make contact. No one seems to notice. Probably for the best; nobody likes a showoff. Luther follows me out, and Bishop is already at his daughter's side.

  "Stay behind me. This could be one of those roving dens we hear about." She looks at her father and frowns. Wishing he was armed, probably worried that he's putting his life in danger. But with his military training, he's a real asset right now.

  "Roving den," Luther echoes. "Criminals who migrate their base of operations, I take it."

  Mara nods with a glance toward the shot-up aerocar. On the backseat sit two surveillance drones that look like miniature flying saucers. "Not sure what happened here. We may be too late."

  Bishop points at the stairwell door. "Only one access point. We didn't spot them on the street. My bet: Drasko and the kids are still somewhere inside."

  He's always referred to them that way. The kids. Luther and Daiyna's kids, Samson and Shechara's kids. Doesn't matter to him that they're adults. Guess we're all somebody's kids. My parents worked hard, long hours, then they weren't chosen for the bunker—the government's way of showing its appreciation for their years of service. But their kid survived.

  Mara leads the way down the silent stairwell, and we do our best to keep quiet as we descend floor after floor. The jittery lights and stained walls remind us we're in the filthiest of the Ten Domes. Which doesn't make sense, when you think about it. Why wouldn't these people keep their dome as clean as Dome 1? Unless this is intentional—their way of showing appreciation for the government assigning them waste duty. In that light
, the grime is almost respectable.

  As we arrive at each floor, Mara steps into the hallway and gives it a quick scan for life signs with her visual augments. Then she shakes her head at us, and we continue downward.

  I could search every floor below us in the time it'll take to descend the next flight of stairs. I whisper as much to Luther, who reminds me that this is Mara's world, and she's calling the shots.

  Dome 1, city of the future, may be Mara Bishop's world. This desolate building? It's what I've been used to since All-Clear: searching ruins.

  So I blast downstairs in a blur of speed that sends Luther, Bishop, and his daughter staggering against the wall of the stairwell, and I hurl myself up and down the hallways of every floor, busting doors open and finding nobody behind them—

  Until I reach the second floor.

  Halfway down the hallway, a door stands open. Inside, I find the dregs of what may have been the swankiest party in town. Half-drunk glasses, half-snorted lines of dust abandoned in great haste. Chairs and tables overturned, knocked over by a stampede of revelers.

  A holographic wall glitches in and out of existence. Acting like a mirror one second to expand the room's size, then revealing a hidden chamber where a plasteel chair sits alone. Broken restraints and a pool of blood lie on the floor.

  Mara storms in glaring at me, but her weapon is down at her side.

  "Nobody here." I shrug.

  "I can see that. And I thought I gave you a direct order."

  "I don't take orders from you, Commander. We were wasting time. Now we know the entire building is deserted."

  "You checked the first floor?"

  Right.

  I blast by her in a blur of speed and return a few seconds later. If there were any hairs on her head, they'd be waving crazily right now.

  "All clear," I report with a crisp salute.

  "Whose blood is that?" Sergeant Bishop steps past us into the semi-hidden room.

  Mara scans it with her ocular implants. "Erik Paine. One of the Twenty." She faces her father. "Any further communication from Drasko?"

  He shakes his head.