"Samson? Been a while." I recognize Barrett, the leader of the pack, by his voice and build. Like Shechara and me, he's got his head and every other patch of skin covered. Unlike the Wastelanders, he doesn't sport any bones, armor, or feathers. "You got something to trade?"
He approaches my door and waves amiably at Shechara parked behind me.
"Believe so." I nod over my shoulder. "You wouldn't happen to have a scanner on you?"
He signals one of his compadres, and the sentry retrieves a device from under his jacket. As I figured, they make a habit of examining anything headed into Stack. Without a word, he holds the scanner out toward the tractor-trailer and starts walking along the side, headed toward the back.
"You got one of 'em." Barrett nods toward my passenger.
"His choice."
"Thought you might lead his friends our way?"
"Figured you could take 'em."
Barrett leans his head to one side, weighing my answer. "Or we could turn you away."
"Fifty-fifty chance, as I saw it."
The trailer reverberates with thuds from the sentry's boots as he hops inside, hunting for that tracking device. I have a feeling Shechara is keeping her eye on him. And her 9mm, just out of sight. Can't be too careful with anybody these days.
I make out the faint, high-pitched beep of the scanner as it closes in on its target. Hidden somewhere underneath all those crates back there.
"Maybe you don't like the arrangement we have with the raiders?" Barrett says.
"Figured you had some kind of deal."
"Fifty-fifty." There's a smile in his tone. "Half of everything we scavenge goes to them. In return, they leave us alone to scratch out our existence." He turns as the sentry with the scanner approaches. The guy holds a tracker in the palm of his hand. "Deactivated?"
The sentry nods. Then he tosses the device up to me. I catch it in my left hand, metal clinking against metal. Keeping my goggles trained on him, I crush the thing to pieces and let them rain onto the ground. Now there's no doubt about it.
"Here's how you're going to proceed," Barrett says. "Drive that shipping container into Stack and drop it off. You're welcome to take whatever you can carry in your jeep. The rest stays with us."
"Fair enough." It's not, but I don't plan on whining about it. Anything we scavenge is more than we had before.
"Then you drive this rig as far away from us as you can, drive it until you run out of fuel. I don't care where. You leave it there. Got me?"
I give him a slow nod. It's understandable that they wouldn't want any trouble with the UW. Eurasia. Sounds like they're enjoying a fragile truce. I don't want to spoil that for them. Peace is as rare as water these days.
Barrett steps back, and his sentries clear the way. He waves us through, and I give the accelerator a nudge, crossing the last kilometer of ragged terrain before we reach Stack. Shechara follows close behind.
It's hard to miss, even half a klick out. A dozen corten shipping containers—some single-story, some piled two-high—tend to be noticeable on a dust-covered moonscape. Barrett must have radioed ahead that we were on our way, because by the time I pull up into the center square, half the townsfolk have gathered in the dusk light to welcome us.
Stack-style hospitality.
Before I've even thrown open my door and stepped out, they've got a crane in motion and are disconnecting the shipping container from the trailer. Half a dozen Stackers with crowbars are already inside, and the rest have arranged themselves into a line, passing packages of supplies and foodstuffs from one person to the next.
Shechara climbs out of her jeep and joins me. We stand there watching, not sure whether we're expected to lend a hand in the unloading process.
"Talk about a well-oiled machine," I mutter.
"Yes, you are." She nudges me.
I reach an arm around her and gently pull her close. "Now about that tryst…"
She giggles. I'll never get tired of that sound.
Darkness falls by the time the locals have finished doing what they do best: stacking things. But as they reach the very last crate in the far corner of the shipping container, one of them lets out a hoarse yell.
"Tracker!"
Barrett's sentry already found one earlier. So there must have been another. Somehow, he missed it.
Damn.
Everybody scatters, running in every direction—away from the shipping container, away from all the good stuff it held, away from Stack. I've got Shechara on my back like a pilot riding a battle mech as I outpace them all, hurling myself into a sprint, pounding my metal legs into the earth and lunging, straining for longer strides that will carry us both to safety.
When the missile hits, everything around us is fire and blinding white.
5 Sera
22 Years After All-Clear
Too many voices.
I can't shut them out, no matter how hard I try. Loud music, pillows stuffed against my ears, even screaming—nothing helps. I hear them inside my head, thoughts that aren't mine. A maelstrom of desires, worries, hopes, and fears that I don't share.
It's dark in my cube. Lights out, window set to opaque. Dawn must be breaking. People are waking up. That's why I'm hearing so many voices, so many thoughts. Because my neighbors are greeting the day.
I never reported to MedTech. My augments are still offline. Or are they? Did that EMP change them somehow? Turning me into a…telepath?
When I heard Commander Bishop's thought pass through her mind, in that instant I knew something weirdly familiar was going on. The same thing happened with that jumper: Goodnight, Enforcer! he called up to me. But I didn't hear his voice, not with my ears. He was inside my head, just like these voices are now.
It's brought back memories I haven't thought about for years. Of being a little girl, before I was old enough to have my augments implanted. Of hearing my mom and dad's thoughts, knowing what they were going to say before they said a word.
Or were those just dreams? My childhood is blurry, always has been. They say it's common for most Eurasian citizens, that memories tend to be cloudy prior to augmentation. The mind itself is so malleable during our early years; it's only once we've reached maturity that our brains have settled in their growth and development and are able to handle the neural implants.
With my augments offline, you'd think I would feel lost, exiled from the data stream. Lonely. But not at all, thanks to this storm of voices crowding my mind.
I roll over in bed and hurl my pillows across the cube. They weren't helping. I sit up, hands clasped to my head, squeezing.
"Go away," I murmur. "Please, go away..."
I really should report to MedTech. Something is seriously wrong. But I make no move to get dressed. I just sit here in the dark, the noisy silence, as if I'm waiting for something.
They're not your parents, Enforcer Chen, the jumper said. Trace your DNA…
They love me more than anything. I've always known that. They raised me, providing for me and protecting me, and they supported me as I grew up, guiding me to make my own decisions and live my own life. They're my parents, as much as two people could be. But are we biologically related?
I've often wondered about that. My dad being Chinese, my mom Anglo, you'd think I would display an equal ratio of Eurasian characteristics. But when I look in the mirror, I don't see a resemblance. Honestly, except for my dark hair, I don't look like either of my parents. I sound like them in the cadence of my speech, and I catch myself moving like them sometimes. But that could be due to nurture instead of nature.
Then there are those fuzzy, dreamlike memories. Knowing their thoughts as they looked at me and smiled with pride and affection. They longed for me to be their own. They felt like they were my caretakers, that no matter how much they loved me, they wouldn't be allowed to keep me. I would be taken from them someday. Maybe all parents feel that way at times, but this was a constant, deep-seated sadness that festered behind every smile.
Could
I really read their minds? Is that what's happening now? If it has nothing to do with a glitch in my augments, then maybe this is an ability I was born with. And once my neural implants were installed, they kept me from being able to fully access my—
"Stop." I grit my teeth, clench my hands into fists and pound them against my mattress. "Get a grip!"
I have to silence the voices. Somehow. I can't go through another minute of this.
"Shut up!"
My voice hangs in the silence, sounding like it belongs to a crazy person. Good thing these cubes are soundproof, or my neighbors would have reason to worry. I can hear their thoughts, but they can't hear me scream. That's not fair at all.
Growling, I get up and stomp over to the window. With a swipe of my hand, the black tinting fades, allowing the morning light inside. It's a sunny day in Dome 1, and the air traffic outside is already on the move, aerocars casting brief shadows across me as they glide past. I glance down at the street, twenty floors below. Plenty of ground traffic as well.
I pull the single chair out from my dinner table and sit. The faux-wood seat is cool against my bare legs, giving me goosebumps. But the sun is warm here by the window, and I close my eyes as I bask in it. The voices haven't diminished any, but they haven't gotten worse. So that's something.
It's easy to dismiss them as garbled gibberish. But if I really focus...I can make out individual thoughts:
Can't be late...What will she think?...I don't remember that being there before...What's the point?...I am so happy...This pain will never end...They're never going to forget this...I don't know what to do…
On and on, narrowed down from hundreds of thoughts to dozens, then to only a few, then—
It's working. They're quieting down.
How am I doing this? It feels like I've activated a dormant skill; I must have had to do this before, a long time ago, just to be able to function. I cull the stampeding herd until all I'm left with are my own thoughts. The voice in my head is the welcome traveling companion I know best. The interior monologue of one Sera Chen, Law Enforcer.
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tight muscles in my neck and shoulders start to relax.
The console on my dinner table bleeps. The search is complete.
If my augments were working, I wouldn't have to use this outdated device. These clunkers are usually reserved for senior citizens with no desire for implanted tech but who still want to access the Linkstream on occasion and ride the current.
My DNA search found multiple results, citizens located in just about every Eurasian dome. I have quite a few relatives, apparently.
But my parents are not listed among them.
Not sure how I feel about that. Am I surprised? I've had an inkling for a while; I just chose to stuff it in a deep, dark recess of my mind that I refused to visit. Now I understand their unspoken heartache, and it hurts me, too. They were my parents; they will always be my parents. Even though we're not related by blood.
I don't feel lied to, not by them. I could never blame them for this. They were allowed to adopt me because they've always been model citizens. But someone deceived me.
Squinting at the sunlit screen, I scan the rows of faces. These people share my DNA, but I have no idea who they are. I dig a little deeper into the search results. Nine of them are my age. Exactly my age. The rest…
Are children.
Dozens and dozens of children, ranging in age from a few months old to a few years. My birth parents have been busy, it would appear. And they must still be out there, whoever they are. Somewhere in the Domes, reproducing like nobody's business.
I frown at the results. No, that can't be right. The nine citizens my age—they're the oldest in the search results. There's no one listed who's old enough to be my birth parents.
I'm beginning to recognize some of these faces. Sort of. As if the children I grew up with had their images age-progressed to adulthood. Are these nine members of the Twenty? I haven't seen them in so long—
A sudden alert flashes across the screen. My first thought: one of the analysts has caught me snooping around where I shouldn't be, using my enforcer retrieval code for data I have no business retrieving, since it's not work-related. But that's not it at all.
This is a dome-wide emergency alert. Hawthorne Tower has been attacked. A massive EMP burst has knocked out the power on all 150 floors. Every Dome 1 enforcer, even the lowly curfew-type, is to report for duty on the double.
I swipe my hand across the console screen, clearing its history, and launch out of my chair, kicking it over accidentally. As it clatters across the faux-wood floor, I grab my uniform off the wall hook and pull it on.
My neighbors have seen the civilian version of the emergency alert via their neural implants. How do I know? That's right. I can hear their thoughts spiraling out of control.
In a situation like this, your average citizen is to remain indoors, either at work or home, to avoid clogging the streets and air with traffic, leaving those transit zones free for enforcers to patrol. Except there has never been a situation like this. Not in reality. We've trained for it, working through various scenarios in VR, but it's never happened. No one has ever attacked a government building in Eurasia.
Patriots.
That word keeps cropping up in my neighbors' thoughts. Many of them are happy they won't have to go to work today and can wile away the hours in virtual reality instead. But most are worried. If Hawthorne Tower—the most secure government structure ever built in the heart of Eurasia—is vulnerable to terrorist attack, then how can anyone be safe anywhere? Even at home in their cubes?
There's a knock on my door as I finish getting dressed. My holster is empty, and I don't have a spare shocker. I'll have to requisition a replacement at HQ.
Another knock. Probably Drasko or one of the other retrievers sent to pick me up. No way Bishop would allow me to walk to work on a morning like this. Gotta keep Sera Chen safe, after all.
"Open," I give the voice command for the door, and it slides aside, revealing a stranger standing in the dim interior hallway.
Strange, but familiar. The last time I saw him, he jumped off a very tall building.
"Hold it!" My hand drops instinctively to my holster. Then it freezes there.
"Enforcer Chen." He smiles, hands raised shoulder-high in mock surrender. "Thought you might be home."
"How'd you know I live here?" He's obviously stalking me.
"Everything's on the Link—if you know where to look." He wiggles his right hand. Clasped against his palm is an old phone, another antiquated device favored by the senior citizen demographic. But this guy is close to my age. "You really should do a better job of covering your digital tracks. I'd expect more from an enforcer." He chuckles all of a sudden. "But then again, you're just the curfew variety. Low on the totem pole, I assume?"
I keep one hand on my holster, that hip pivoted away from him. If I'm lucky, he hasn't noticed that it's empty. I point the index finger of my other hand at his face. "Turn around, put your hands behind your head, and interlock your fingers. Right now."
His smile fades. Confusion clouds his eyes. He thought he was having fun. Sorry to disappoint.
"You ran the search." Another wiggle from his phone hand. Then something worse: They don't share your DNA.
I stumble back a step at the intrusion—his voice in my mind. Not like when I overheard my neighbors' random thoughts. Instead of a bizarre fluke, this is intentional, like last night. He projected the words into my head in lieu of speaking them out loud.
"I'm sorry." He holds a hand toward me, his brow knitted with concern. Not a bad act. "But you heard me just now, right?" He taps his temple. "In here?"
"You a dust freak?" That would explain it. He's high on the stuff, and in addition to jumping skills, the dust has given him the ability to speak telepathically. And I get to be on the receiving end of his parlor trick, as Commander Bishop called it.
Lucky me.
"I've never inhaled the stuff." He's rocking the sincere look now. Guy must have taken some acting lessons. "Never needed to. Once I had my augments removed, my abilities manifested themselves all on their own."
"Why are you telling me this? What are you doing here?"
He takes a step through the doorway into my cube. Bad move.
"Stop right there. Turn around and—"
Instead, he slides the door shut behind him and gives me an apologetic look. "Don't want your neighbors getting curious."
So now I'm trapped in here with him. He's taller than me by half a meter, stronger by a few kilos of muscle. No idea whether he's had any combat training. But if he's been snorting dust, there's no telling what else he might be able to do.
I take my chances and drop to the floor, sweeping out both my legs in a scissor-kick that sends him toppling forward. Like an idiot, he tries to catch himself with his hands, exposing his ribs—which I plow an elbow into as I roll over, dropping him onto his chest with an agonized exhalation of air. He doesn't resist as I straddle his back and snake my arms around his throat in an unforgiving headlock.
"Answer me," I grate out, my lips close to his ear. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Like old times, eh Sera?" he manages hoarsely. "At Camp Hope—remember those days?"
"You don't know me. You don't know anything about me. You're a dust freak and a terrorist." I cut off his air supply. "Now tell me about the Hawthorne Tower incident."
He slaps the floor like a wrestler tapping out. I let him breathe. Just a little.
"I didn't have anything to do with that," he manages.
I curse. "So you just happened to have an EMP grenade last night, and now, less than twelve hours later, patriots hit the Tower with a massive EMP burst. You're saying there's no connection?"
"I have a feeling you'd like there to be one." He clears his throat. "I assume your augments are still out? If so, we're in close enough proximity for you to notice I'm unarmed."
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 85