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

by Milo James Fowler

  Probably sticking his neck out for somebody. Or boring some unsuspecting survivor with quotes from his holy scriptures. More likely, he's trying to sneak onto a freighter bound for Eurasia, a place just as unwelcoming to our kind as Eden, but much more bountiful where food and other necessities are concerned. Rumor has it, the domed cities are as much like life prior to D-Day as you can imagine—and then some. The most advanced human civilization ever in recorded history, contained inside ten massive, self-sustaining biospheres. Millions of all-natural human beings who've never breathed the contaminated air of the outside world.

  Or seen sun-bleached skulls like these, spiked into the lifeless sands on lengths of rebar. New territorial markings by the local marauders. Cannibals, if I'm to believe the rumors. Their dominion must be spreading.

  As if we need any more dangers out here.

  Daylight passes into evening, and the only sound is the rhythm of my boots. By the time dusk falls, I'm still drenched in sweat. I take a few gulps from a hydropack every now and then, just to keep myself coherent. It's already twenty degrees cooler than it was a couple hours ago. As soon as darkness claims the night, it will be even colder, and I'll be shivering with my teeth-chattering like crazy. Something to look forward to.

  "She should have waited and traveled in the cool of the evening," Mother Lairen says. Of course she returns to make me second-guess myself. "Then she wouldn't be soaked like this. Her constant movement would have kept her warm. Now she'll get chilled and make herself sick."

  Like she cares at all. But if I have to pick an evil ghost to haunt me, I'd choose her over Willard any day of the week.

  Too bad I have no say in the matter.

  "It would have been difficult for her to find her way after dark," Rehana replies. "She's almost there. She'll be fine."

  I curse out loud, bringing them up short. "What do you want from me? Why won't you leave me the hell alone?"

  "We care about you, Daiyna—"

  "Worry about yourselves. After we're dead and gone, you'll still be floating around this hellscape with nobody left to annoy." I shake my head, depressed by the prospect. "Don't you miss it? Being what you were?" The countless animal species that once filled this planet with life.

  Rehana nods. "We yearn for what it was like. In the beginning, the Creator intended for us to be companions of humankind—"

  "And look what we did to you." I scoff. Why would they ever want to have anything to do with us after that? Maybe the evil spirits have had it right, all along. "We should be obliterated."

  Mother Lairen smiles like a proud mother. "She's beginning to see reason."

  Now that's a scary thought.

  Almost there. Maybe a kilometer or two to go. Then I'll reach the pile of shipping containers repurposed as a post-apocalyptic trading post.

  Stack has grown over the years, from only three of those seven-meter-long containers to over a dozen. The last time I stopped by, not sure exactly when that was, the original trading post had expanded to include a hotel and a bar. There was also a machine shop, apartments for the permanent residents, and storage for goods and materials to be traded. The standing army of twenty gifted guns keeps Stack safe from marauders, and as of yet, the UW raiders haven't seen a need to plunder their stores.

  I'm sure that will change once the Sector ruins run dry. For now, those of us without a death wish keep out of their way, steering clear of their regular routes, and the raiders don't bother us.

  But as I climb the last hill and approach Stack, even from a distance, I can tell things may have changed. The place looks different.

  It's on fire.

  3 Hawthorne

  22 Years After All-Clear

  The sun shines through the blue-tinted surface of Dome 1, a warm, radiation-neutralized light that reflects from the mirrored glass of forty-three high-rise buildings and brings to life the lush, green leaves of every tree lining the streets. Sunlight glints from aerocars in mid-flight, hundreds of them floating by serenely in their well-organized lanes of aerial traffic, crisscrossing without incident, ascending and descending to and from various rooftop landing zones.

  It's a new day in Eurasia's central hub, the largest of the Ten Domes, and from what I can see, we are starting out strong.

  I stand at the glass wall of my office, fifteen square meters perched atop the highest skyscraper in the dome. One hundred fifty floors below, citizens smaller than ants travel on foot, going about their morning routines. This is my daily ritual. I gaze out over my favorite city and bask in the sunlight. My augments are turned off. I rely on biologic with a warm mug of coffee sitting cradled in my hands. I inhale the aroma, and I exhale any concerns I have about the day ahead.

  Perhaps I should not have a favorite, but I can't help it. Dome 1 was the first, the biggest and boldest architectural design of its time. A self-sustaining artificial biosphere able to house millions indefinitely. Decades old now, but barely showing its age. The construction of Domes 2 through 10 followed in quick succession as D-Day approached, each connected via subterranean tunnels with maglev trains running between them. Each special in its own way, of course, with a specific purpose; but none of the others was designed to be the nucleus of Eurasia. Dome 1 is the heart, pumping life into every other dome. It is the biggest by far—half a kilometer high, covering over 780 square kilometers of urban cityscape—symbolizing all that humanity still has to offer.

  Surrounded by the Wastes of another age.

  I seldom look beyond the dome walls. The two-meter-thick reinforced plexicon protects us from the old world. Another world, where things that were once human somehow manage to survive to this day. Strange, alien things. Our missile strikes have failed to eradicate them. Like cockroaches, they scramble about, living in ruins or caves or derelict storage containers. Hiding themselves from the dangerous sun that we, here in Eurasia, have no reason to fear.

  We are protected; we are alive, and we are thriving.

  We live only now, never looking back. The credo we live by.

  I slip my fingers into the front pocket of my tailored vest and withdraw the silver snuff box. It shines in my hand, the morning sun striking its polished, filigreed surface. Popping it open, I take a pinch of the dust inside and inhale it gently, first with one nostril, then the other.

  I keep my augments off during these quiet moments to myself, so the effects are stronger. No distractions.

  Instantly, I hear a conversation taking place down the hallway from my office. It is Emmanuel, my aide, speaking via audiolink with someone. Thanks to the effects of the dust, I can hear long-distance, tuning in to whatever sound I choose; but this early in the morning, only Emmanuel's voice comes through loud and clear. Perhaps the other support staff have not yet reported for duty. I am an early riser, after all.

  I cannot hear whomever Emmanuel is talking to, but I can infer who it is. Other than myself, there is only one person he would be speaking to so earnestly at this point in the workday: his sister, Mara.

  "I don't know what you're up to, but this has to stop," he says. "You might be able to fool an analyst once or twice, but not this many times. And you can't expect me to cover for you when you get flagged. The Chancellor will want to know what's going on."

  Intriguing. Is Commander Mara Bishop keeping secrets? Does it involve that young enforcer she dotes on, one of the Twenty?

  I send my supernatural hearing on a sweep of the other offices on this floor, but they're silent. Good. Perhaps it will be a quiet morning. I'm about due for one of those. I drink my coffee. I enjoy my view. I listen to Emmanuel until the dust's effects eventually wear off.

  By the time he knocks on my door, I've lost track of the time. I'm not even sure what I've been thinking about. As I get older, I find a certain peace in allowing my mind to go blank—sometimes unintentionally.

  "Enter." I set down my coffee and seat myself in the ergonomic chair behind my desk, a black faux-leather model that adjusts itself to support me while, at the same
time, squeezing and relaxing various pressure points. At my age, it's quite wonderful.

  Not that anyone can truly tell how old I am, thanks to Dr. Wong's regular gene therapy sessions.

  The glass door, tinted grey, swings open silently as Emmanuel enters, tapping his temple to end the call with his sister. He is the same age his late father was when I sent him to the North American continent two decades ago. If that version of James Bishop were to walk in at this moment, I would be hard-pressed to tell them apart. But of course their appearance would be the only similarity. Sergeant Bishop was a military man who saw life in terms of mission objectives. Emmanuel is an intellectual in a tailored suit. His sister Mara is an amalgam of the two. I never met their mother.

  When James was unable to return from North America a hero, I made it my mission in life to ensure that his two children would be well provided for. They wanted for nothing as they grew up, and once they were adults, I made sure Mara and Emmanuel received career assignments well-suited to their personalities. Prestigious, as well, guaranteeing that the Bishop name will never be forgotten.

  As far as I know, neither child remembers being held in that prison during their father's mission. It is the Eurasian way, after all, to live only now. Our augments help to keep us in the moment—as long as we remain online.

  "Chancellor, forgive me." Emmanuel's voice echoes in the expansive room, the heels of his shoes hitting the obsidian tiles in a hurried rhythm. His eyes have the glazed look of someone referring to information displayed on ocular implants. "I have your morning briefing ready, whenever you would like to begin. I'm afraid there isn't much good news to share, besides the usual updates."

  So much for my quiet morning. "Forgive you for what?"

  He blinks, restoring his vision of my office—and me, seated before him. "Pardon?"

  "You requested my forgiveness a moment ago." I tilt my head to one side. "Explain."

  "Oh. It's just that I…" He trails off. Restarts. He's not usually flustered like this. The conversation with his sister must not have ended well. "You look like you've been waiting for me. And I didn't mean to keep you."

  "The reason we do not have a set time for these morning briefings is because I have full confidence in you, Emmanuel. You always arrive on time." I grace him with a grandmotherly smile that says I find him endearing as well as entertaining. "Shall we begin?"

  He nods, and his eyes glaze over again, as if staring out the window behind me without focusing on anything in particular. Beginning with the regular updates, most of which are strings of statistics, he shares how well crops are growing in the agricultural domes, the percentage of water recycled and purified as well as desalinated from the Atlantic haulers, in addition to waste management, oxygen generation, carbon dioxide diffusion, and other aspects of life that are always important to monitor in a network of self-sustaining artificial biospheres.

  Catching his breath, he proceeds to the areas of concern. "Threats in the outlying domes are increasing. The complaints haven't changed, but they seem to be gaining traction among the laborers. Dome 10, in particular, remains the most vulnerable to attack."

  I nod. Dome 10 is located closest to the Mediterranean, where our freighters dock to offload the plunder they've taken from the Wastes and the haulers bring in thousands of gallons of ocean water from the Atlantic for processing. If terrorists were to blow the maglev tunnel connecting Dome 10 to Dome 1, nothing from those freighters would make its way in. Dome 10 would become a city of riches while the rest of us languish without access to raw materials, supplies, and saltwater.

  "Have these so-called patriots—" I cannot mask my disgust at the term. Who do they think they are, naming themselves after the fiends who instigated the events leading to D-Day all those years ago? These people are amateurs. They don't know how good they have it. "—made any specific demands?"

  He shakes his head. "The usual rhetoric regarding class structure, unequal pay and representation, labor disputes, and quality of life. They claim the outer domes are peopled with second-class citizens whose sole purpose is to provide for the needs of Dome 1."

  Much like the North American Sectors did prior to D-Day. Perhaps they have a point.

  "We all must do our part to ensure Eurasia continues to function as well as it has for these past decades. Did someone promise them paradise? A life of leisure? I don't think so."

  He almost smiles. "In other news, we have illegal religious protesters stirring up citizens in Dome 6."

  Illegal on two counts: being religious and protesting. "Let me guess. They want us to invite the diseased back to live among us, to spread them out among the Ten Domes so we can share their illnesses?" I curse under my breath. There is a reason we keep them isolated. When they show signs of improvement, their level of isolation is reduced until we can welcome them back into society. "Next?"

  "One last item," he says, blinking again to restore his focus on the here and now. Apparently, he knows this news item by heart. "Underworld activity. There appears to be a new ringleader calling himself Trezon—"

  "Treason? Fitting."

  "—and dust usage is on the rise. Addicts are becoming a nuisance in certain areas. One led a local enforcer on a rooftop chase just last night. There's video footage I can show you, if you're interested."

  The snuff box in my pocket seems more pronounced. But that's just my imagination. As far as I know, paranoia is not a side effect of consistent use.

  I clear my throat. "Yes, please."

  He swipes his hand through the air over my desk, and the screentop comes to life, projecting a three-dimensional holographic image of the Dome 1 skyline. Two small figures run across the tops of one domescraper after another. The enforcer chases someone obviously high on dust, able to leap from one building to the next without an exoskeleton to aid in either jumping or landing. When the criminal reaches into his jacket and tosses something over his shoulder, the holo-image collapses. My desk returns to its gleaming obsidian surface.

  "An EMP grenade." I steeple my fingertips. "They have stepped up their game."

  Emmanuel's brow wrinkles. "The dust addicts?"

  "The patriots. Who else would have access to such contraband? A mere addict? I think not. No, there is more to this story…" I rise to my feet. "Contact your sister immediately. We need to get a handle on this situation before it spirals out of control. No citizen should have access to a weapon like this, and particularly not an unstable dust freak."

  He reaches for his temple to link up with Mara, but he pauses, his hand hovering there. "I don't understand how it continues to breach our walls."

  "What?"

  "The dust. It doesn't seem to matter how many smugglers we exile. The stuff keeps getting through." He shakes his head. "As long as there's a demand for it, I suppose the supply will continue. And the Wastes are covered in it."

  Yes, they are. And as long as I'm Chancellor, there will be no end to the dust trade. It's a harmless diversion. And a lucrative one.

  "The priority right now is capturing that addict and quarantining him. Once law enforcement has him in custody, we can find out where he obtained that grenade—and who his dust supplier is." I give Emmanuel a short nod. "Now get Mara on the line."

  "Yes, Chancellor." He taps his temple.

  Once the audiolink is established, he flicks his hand toward my desk, and another hologram is projected upward. This time, instead of a skyline, the face of a severe-looking woman in a black, high-collared uniform rotates my way. Her head is clean-shaven, her eyes dark and intelligent.

  "Chancellor Hawthorne," she greets me without a hint of emotion on her stoic face. A beautiful woman, if she cared to nurture that aspect of her appearance. "A pleasure, as always."

  "Commander Bishop." I fold my arms. "Tell me what you're doing about our enhanced terrorist."

  She doesn't ask how I already know. "He has been identified, and my operatives are closing in on his location. I will contact you personally as soon as we have him i
n custody."

  "You do that. And delete the footage of his rooftop acrobatics. I don't want it leaking onto the Linkstream and inspiring more of his ilk."

  She nods. "Already done, Chancellor."

  "That fool wanted us to see him in action..." I tap my chin with an index finger. "We must assume he has associates in the city."

  "If the sun smiles on us, we'll catch them all in the same den."

  "I'll leave you to it." But I don't disconnect. I watch her for a moment, and she looks right back at me. "The enforcer who chased him down. Was it Sera Chen?"

  Mara dips her chin. "Yes."

  "I want her on desk duty until further notice."

  "Yes, Chancellor." No expression. No alteration in tone.

  I nod to Emmanuel, and he ends the transmission with a wave of his hand. Mara's image dissolves like mist under the sun.

  "Delete your copy of that footage as well, Emmanuel." We can't be too careful. Such enhanced physical abilities are unheard of among dust users. I should know. "Send out a notice on all channels reminding citizens of the consequences for buying, selling, or using dust. Include images of their fellow citizens enjoying all that VR has to offer."

  Why put themselves in danger when they can have the same experiences in a safe, virtual environment? Because it's artificial. The power isn't real, and the human brain knows the difference. VR is nowhere near as exhilarating.

  And nothing is more tantalizing than an illicit substance.

  It's unclear how the dust works exactly, why it endows its users with a variety of abilities—yet only one per person. I have never been able to breathe underwater, see in the dark, or leap from great heights. As Chancellor, the dust-enhanced ability to overhear any conversation is indeed helpful, and if I believed in a higher power, I might wonder if this ability was tailor-made specifically for me. If so, then the terrorist that Sera Chen failed to apprehend must have appreciated his personalized ability as well, necessary to elude such an ambitious enforcer.