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

by Milo James Fowler

"Okay." Samson crosses his metal arms, and they glint in the sun. "I won't."

  "We didn't know how else to install the new operating system," I offer.

  "You might as well have hit it with an EMP." Erik slaps the panel closed and shuts the engine cover with a clank. "No way you'll get it to run. You removed its brain, and now you want to replace it? Not happening."

  "No reason it shouldn't work," Samson insists. "I've worked on machines more complicated than this—"

  "But you haven't worked on these machines." Erik faces him. It's impossible not to notice the similarities in their posture, their coloring, the profiles of their faces squared off against one another. "My father designed them, wrote the code himself. They won't work with another operating system. They'll just…" He gestures at the machines. "...sit here."

  Samson nods, clenching his jaw. He hates being wrong, particularly when he's already invested time in a project. But he wants to build trust with this young man, and I can tell he sees this moment as an opportunity.

  "Okay. So where do we get another copy of the original operating system?"

  Erik glances at him. "I've been trying to convince my mom to upgrade for years. There's no reason to have three machines when one of the new models can do the same amount of work in less time."

  "Is your dad…?" Samson leaves it unsaid, his brow furrowed.

  "Passed away when I was fifteen. His artificial lung gave out. Crazy, right? We've come so far as a species—technological and medical advancements our forebears never would have dreamed of. But doctors can still make mistakes."

  "Was something wrong with the lung replacement?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "My dad was misdiagnosed. His lungs weren't the only problem. He'd suffered other maladies from the plague, and they interfered with the lung he was given. Kept it to himself until it was too late."

  "He was allowed to live here—not sent to Dome 6?" Samson watches Erik closely.

  "I may have...had something to do with that."

  "Let me guess. You're good with computers."

  Erik shrugs. "Machines in general."

  Just like his biological father.

  "Sounds like you know your history, too." I look up at him. "Most Eurasians live in the moment, ignoring the past. And no one mentions the plague."

  He glances from me to Samson, guarded now. "So what?"

  "Neural implants keep citizens focused on the present. But we don't have any." I tap my temple and motion toward Samson. Then I let my hand drift toward Erik. "Neither do you, it would seem. Unless you've managed to switch yours off."

  He's scowling at us, backing away from the harvester and retreating toward the farmhouse one step at a time. "Were you sent here to spy on me? To derail my career? Because if you think you have that kind of power, think again. I'll get you carted back to Dome 6 faster than you can—"

  "The past is important, Erik," Samson says, his deep voice powerful and authoritative. I've never heard him sound more like a father. "And so is the future. There's a lot you don't know about yourself. About the Twenty. But we can show you the truth."

  Erik widens the gap between us. "Who are you people?"

  "We're survivors," I tell him. I've never shared this with anyone in Eurasia. "We've been living in Dome 6 for almost fifteen years. But we are originally from the North American Sectors."

  Erik stops in his tracks. "There's nothing left out there. Nobody could survive that."

  "We did." Samson shrugs. "Then we came here. To find you."

  "Me..." His eyes dart back and forth between us. "Why?"

  "You're a smart guy. We'll let you figure it out." Samson steps forward, retrieving a pair of blood samples from his pocket. A drop from each of us on a single slide. "Compare it to your own. See what you find out."

  At first, it doesn't look like Erik will take the slide. He looks ready to run. But then he reaches forward and snatches it from Samson's metal fingers. "What's this supposed to prove?"

  "Let us know what you discover. We heard you're leaving tomorrow morning." I smile at him. "If you'd like to discuss anything with us before you go, we'll be in the bunkhouse."

  I rest my hand on Samson's arm. There's more that he wants to say, but it's better to leave matters as they stand, with Erik calling the shots. If he turns us in to the authorities, so be it. Fifteen years of waiting have led us to this moment, with one of our ten offspring holding the future in his hands. What happens next will depend on his curiosity and the impression we've made on him.

  As Erik turns toward the farmhouse, staring at the slide in the palm of his hand, Samson calls after him, "So, about these harvesters…"

  "I'll get you a copy of the original OS," Erik says without looking back.

  Once he's halfway across the field, I turn to Samson, "What do you think?"

  He faces me with a sad smile. "If Luther was here, he'd be praying right now."

  "That bad, huh?"

  Samson exhales. "We did the best we could, considering. Way to blow our cover, though." He gives me a wink.

  I couldn't lie to Erik. "So now we wait."

  Wait to see if Erik reports us. Wait to see if he scans our blood or throws the slide into the recycler. Wait to find out if we're ever going to see him again.

  Just before sunset, we finish our shift repairing and maintaining various machines and computer systems around the farm. There is enough work here to keep us busy through the end of summer, should we stay that long.

  The bunkhouse was originally designed for a full complement of twenty farmhands, but Samson and I have had the place all to ourselves. Upon arriving in Eurasia, we didn't take long acclimating to real food instead of ration packs, but nothing has tasted as good as the fresh fare from the Paine farm. Tonight we're enjoying potatoes and corn, applesauce, fresh bread, and soy protein patties, all piping hot and delicious with tall glasses of cold orange juice to wash it down. Comfortable in each other's quiet company, we're too tired to say much, when a knock sounds at the door.

  We look at each other, daring to hope. Samson gets up, his mechanical parts clanking and his heavy feet thumping across the bare floorboards. He swings the door open wide.

  Erik stands outside with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't seem to know where to look.

  "Hey," Samson greets him.

  Erik's hand shoots forward, holding a disk. He doesn't meet Samson's gaze. "Here's the OS."

  "Thanks." Samson takes it, turning it end over end. "I'll get this installed tomorrow. If your mom decides to upgrade at some point—"

  "I've got a whole lot of questions." Erik steps forward, looking first at Samson, then at me with an earnest gleam in his eyes

  Samson grins. "You ran the DNA scan."

  He nods.

  I rise from the table. "Come in, Erik. Are you hungry?"

  Samson steps aside, making way for our son to enter. He claps Erik on the shoulder. "Guess we've got a lot to discuss."

  But Erik doesn't start out with a question we could have predicted:

  "So, can either of you hear people's thoughts?"

  22 Luther

  22 Years After All-Clear

  Chancellor Hawthorne remains calm and reserved as I lead her down the interior hallway to the unit I rented earlier today. The cube complex is dark and quiet, as most citizens have been ordered to remain indoors while martial law is in effect. Glowstrips run along the floor on both sides, providing enough light to guide us. Emmanuel Bishop and his sister Mara trail behind the Chancellor.

  Once we reach the cube, I knock twice on the door and then step aside, waiting to see the reactions when James Bishop answers.

  He's twenty years older than he was when Mara and Emmanuel saw him last. They were merely children, taken from his home by the authorities and held in a government prison to ensure his cooperation. Every member of his team was killed on the North American continent, but he survived. The only thing that got him through was the hope that he would see his f
amily again.

  But his wife passed away shortly after news broke that Sergeant Bishop was killed in action. The government's lie broke Emma's heart. Her children were well looked after by the Chancellor, who provided them with opportunities not afforded to most citizens. Mara is now the commander of Dome 1 law enforcement, and Emmanuel is aide to the Chancellor herself. Both are accustomed to shouldering more than their share of responsibilities.

  Both melt at the sight of their father.

  The years make no difference. They recognize each other instantly, and after only a moment of stunned silence that freezes them where they stand, they rush toward each other, the adult children nearly toppling Hawthorne against the wall as they race past her, their grey-haired father bolting out of the cube with tears glistening in his eyes. They embrace, their arms clasped tightly around each other and their heads together, voices murmuring both joy and confusion.

  Chancellor Hawthorne looks shocked at first. Then she backs away with a hand covering her nose and mouth, worried that an infected man like Bishop is sharing the same air she is.

  "I wouldn't be concerned about contamination, Ms. Hawthorne." I approach her and make it clear that she's not going to escape. She has been brought here for a reason.

  Her eyes flash angrily at me, but she drops her hand from her face—which should look as old as mine. Yet it doesn't, thanks to the age regression therapy upper-caste citizens of the Domes receive on a regular basis. Everyone who can afford it looks like they are still in their prime.

  "Who the hell do you think you are?" she demands, pointing angrily at the Bishop family reunion. "He'll infect us all!"

  "Not how it works." Milton appears in a blur of speed, rushing out of the cube's open door and snatching the Chancellor's snuff box before she realizes what's happened. Her hand drifts toward the pocket in her vest as she stares at the box in Milton's grasp. He flips the lid open and pours the dust onto the hallway floor, where a thick cloud rises and dissipates. "But inhaling enough of this should do the trick."

  She sputters, failing to string comprehensible words together.

  "So our illustrious Chancellor is a dust freak." Mara Bishop is not impressed.

  "I'm no addict!" Hawthorne hisses through clenched teeth. "Do you know how much that cost?"

  "Overpriced, I'll bet. The ground's covered with it where we're from." Milton shrugs. "I could show you."

  She stumbles backward, glancing from the Bishops to Milton to me.

  "You're from the…" She can't bring herself to say it, to make it real. "The Sectors?"

  "Yes." I nod and offer her a reassuring smile. "But we're not here to harm you."

  "How did you get inside?" she gasps.

  "That's a long story," Milton says with a grin. He snaps the snuff box shut and pockets it like a memento. "Twenty years long. Almost enough time to make you lose what's left of your mind. Living and working on a raider ship, waiting until the moment was right. The Argonaus—ever hear of it?" He palms his forehead. "Of course you have. You're the Chancellor!"

  He's rambling. He does that when he gets excited. But I cannot blame him; there is much to be excited about.

  "You were true to your word." Mara Bishop looks at me with glassy eyes, remaining in her father's embrace. "I'll help you any way I can."

  Months ago, when I was first put in contact with Mara through Captain Mutegi's connections inside Eurasia, she seemed resistant. She did not believe I was from the Sectors, and she refused to believe her father was still alive—until I convinced her via a holographic transmission, showing James Bishop standing beside me. She demanded to see him in person, and we agreed on a meeting. But she would have to escort Chancellor Hawthorne to this predesignated cube complex, where her father would be waiting.

  All of the residents are support staff for various office buildings in Dome 1, and none of them have any official government associations. Even so, we are too exposed standing in this hallway.

  I gesture toward the open door. "Let's go inside. We have much to discuss."

  James cups the back of his daughter's bald head with one hand. "What happened to your hair, Sweetie?" He doesn't seem to notice her uniform with its high-ranking insignia. "It was always so pretty." He catches himself. "My beautiful girl. You look so much like your mother…"

  Mara kisses his cheek.

  "You told us he was dead." Emmanuel stares at the Chancellor in disbelief, everything he thought he knew about the world unraveling around him. "A Eurasian hero, that's what you called him. And our mother, she never knew the truth… You lied to all of us!"

  "I would be very careful, if I were you." Hawthorne's voice is sharp with an undeniable edge of authority. "Both of you." She looks only at Emmanuel and Mara. For the moment, the rest of us do not exist. "If it were not for me, you would never have enjoyed your current stations in Dome 1. Unless you no longer wish to continue serving Eurasia as you have for the past decade, you would do well to remember that." She points at James, then sweeps her arm toward Milton and me without deigning to give us eye contact. "These men are infected. They have come from outside the Domes to destroy our way of life. There is only one thing for you to do here, and that is to contain the situation until we can summon a troop of security personnel to take them into custody." She lowers her voice. "Remember who you are and whom you serve. Extricate yourselves from these men, and I will forget any minor transgressions that may have occurred—including this moment."

  Expressionless as stone, Mara nods toward the cube's interior. "After you, Chancellor. Let's hear what they have to say."

  The cube is cramped, but we manage to squeeze inside in a semblance of a circle. The Chancellor wrinkles her nose with disgust but sits on the bed; Mara takes the only chair; Emmanuel, his father, Milton, and I seat ourselves cross-legged on the floor. It escapes no one's attention that Mara is the only one armed. Her hand remains within reach of her holster at all times. As the cube door slides shut and locks itself automatically behind me, I give Milton a look, and he nods. Despite the warm family reunion, we should remain cautious. Mara is not one of us, not yet.

  "How many of you are there?" Chancellor Hawthorne demands, glaring at me. "What is your purpose here?"

  Milton and James defer to me; Mara and Emmanuel watch everything closely, noting every subtle cue. They are being cautious as well.

  "Hundreds of us were sealed inside underground bunkers while the powers of the world destroyed our planet," I begin. "For twenty years we lived beneath the surface, trapped between cold concrete walls, floors, and ceilings. We read, and we studied, exercising our minds and our bodies. We prepared ourselves for All-Clear, when we would be released to rebuild and start a new life together. We would rise from the ashes and repopulate the Sectors, and again our continent would provide everything the United World needed in order to live in the luxury they had grown accustomed to. Or so we were told."

  "Eurasia," Hawthorne snaps. "There is no United World."

  "When we saw what had become of the Sectors, we assumed there was no world left at all. We thought we were the last human beings in existence, and that our daily fight for survival against the elements—and against mutants intent on devouring us—was necessary to safeguard humankind." I pause, glancing at Milton. "But we were not alone in our struggle. A supernatural presence made itself known to us shortly after our return to the surface: spirits of the earth that moved through the dust, empowering us with amazing abilities from the animal kingdom once we breathed the particulate matter into our lungs. We were changed, and these changes aided us in our survival."

  Hawthorne scoffs, glancing at Emmanuel and Mara. "Why are you subjecting us to such a ridiculous fairy tale? Obviously you're out of your mind—as is anyone who gives credence to your ramblings."

  I had a feeling she would respond this way. Long ago, my talons would have been proof enough of a supernatural gift. But we have another powerful visual aid.

  "Milton." I give him a nod.

  "Rig
ht." He sits up straight, assuming a very serious expression. Even though there is some grey at his temples now and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he overflows with as much youthful vigor as when I first met him. "So, these spirits of the earth can appear to some of us as people from our past. No idea why they choose certain individuals to reveal themselves to. Honestly, I kind of wish they'd leave me alone. But anyhow, here we are." He clears his throat, glancing at the Chancellor. "You asked how many of us there are, and of course we're not going to tell you that. But you should know that I smuggled somebody along inside me."

  Hawthorne stares at him in the silence. "What?"

  "The spirits. They wanted to hitch a ride into Eurasia. They've never been able to get through all the plexicon and plasteel—human-made substances. Even your dirt isn't real dirt, not from the earth outside. But quite a few citizens, including yourself, have been inhaling dust over the years—recreationally, of course—and we think the residue might be just enough." He closes his eyes, sitting very still. "Wait for it," he murmurs.

  The Chancellor curses foully. "You people are insane if you think—"

  "Persephone," Milton says with a cadence that is unfamiliar, "do you remember the first time we attempted to sail across the Mediterranean?"

  She freezes, her lips parting without a sound. Her eyes unblinking, glistening.

  "Neither one of us with more than an hour or two of lessons under our belts, yet there we were, learning from every failed attempt. Nothing could stop us in those days. Two kids in love against a whole world we planned to fix. No more war or sickness." Milton pauses. "In many ways, you've realized our dreams."

  Hawthorne rises, trembling with fury. "Stop this at once. It's a parlor trick, nothing more. A cheap medium's ploy to—"

  "Milton is no medium," I tell her. "Trust me on this. The Creator has made it abundantly clear that his children should not consort with those who contact the dead. I would never be party to such a thing."

  Another curse from the Chancellor, this time more vehement. "So you're one of those followers of the Way. That explains everything. You're all a bunch of lunatics."