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

by Milo James Fowler

  The device in my hand bleeps. I tap the green icon on the screen.

  "Luther?" I speak into it.

  "He's not here," says an unfamiliar voice. "To whom am I speaking?"

  "Who is this?" I demand. Samson, Shechara, and Victoria gather around me.

  "My name is Emmanuel Bishop."

  "Where are you?"

  "On a rooftop in Dome 10. Where are you?" He sounds completely out of his element.

  "What are your coordinates?"

  He rattles them off, and I repeat them to Samson, who nods with a grim look of determination on his face. He heads out of the warehouse on foot with Shechara and Victoria close behind.

  I follow, keeping Emmanuel on the line as I shut and lock the warehouse door and order the two clunky security bots to secure the perimeter in our absence. Florence and Boaz know to hide in the cellar beneath the warehouse floor until we return. Victoria will keep in contact with them telepathically, ensuring that they keep busy studying their math and science lessons. They'll do their best, but they're both worried about Milton—their adoptive father.

  "Emmanuel, I'm a friend of James Bishop." I keep the device close to my ear as we hit the streets.

  We couldn't have timed things worse. It's a shift change, so the sidewalks and streets are packed with people either leaving their jobs for the day or heading in for their share of the workload. I can't believe how easy these people have it: only 6-hour shifts. Yet there are still malcontents all across the Domes stirring up the masses in a nebulous fight for equality. The way I see it, once you've mastered the art of survival, there really shouldn't be much to complain about. But these people have always had it easy. For them, there's a very different definition of hardship.

  Dome 10 workers stare openly at us as we pass each other, and for good reason. Nobody else around here is a large cyborg or has eyes like Shechara's. And nobody uses outdated tech like this device I'm holding against the side of my head. They all have fancy neural implants—even the lowest citizen on the totem pole.

  "My name is Daiyna. Did Sergeant Bishop and two other men enter that building?"

  "Yes, and my sister went with them. They're looking for someone—a friend of theirs, in need of assistance." He pauses. "But it's been close to an hour, and no one has returned. Do you think I should...go after them?"

  "Are you armed?"

  "No."

  "Stay put. We're on our way."

  I pocket the device and nudge Victoria as we follow Samson, who navigates our course through the press of bodies. The workers in their grubby coveralls see him coming and give him a wide berth.

  "Any news?"

  She looks concerned. "They're in trouble. Their hearts are racing."

  "They could be running back to the warehouse." And we won't be there to meet them.

  She shakes her head. "They're not moving, Daiyna."

  The implication is clear. Someone is holding our friends against their will. Hurting them, maybe.

  Samson is always armed with his mechatronic limbs. Neither Shechara nor I were able to smuggle our weapon of choice—a Colt 9mm—past security at the Dome 10 airlock. Citizens here aren't allowed to carry guns that fire lethal projectiles, but Drasko provided us with a small arsenal of the type reserved for the upper echelon of law enforcement. About the same size and weight as a semiautomatic pistol, they fire armor-piercing rounds from a pressurized chamber—utilizing the same anti-gravity tech that makes aerocars fly.

  We reach the nondescript building twenty minutes later. Extricating ourselves from the mass of foot traffic outside, we step past a pair of smudged and cracked sliding glass doors stuck halfway open. Inside the lobby, everything's quiet. Abandoned. No desk clerk on duty, no signs of life.

  "They're close," Victoria says, her voice hushed as she gazes at the stained ceiling.

  "On this floor?" I glance at the vacant hallways and the elevator with an OUT OF ORDER hologram glowing on its door.

  "Close," she repeats, pointing upward.

  "Second floor it is." Samson heads for the stairwell, his metal left hand pivoting at the wrist and transforming into a long, sharp blade.

  Shechara, Victoria, and I draw our Eurasian guns and keep the muzzles aimed at the musty carpet as we follow him up the steps. Can't help cringing at the sounds made by his clanking metal feet.

  "At least we don't have to worry about the element of surprise," I mutter. "Any change?" I glance over my shoulder at Victoria.

  She shakes her head. Her anxious expression hasn't relaxed.

  The second floor is as lifeless as the first, but with one minor difference. A door stands open halfway down the hall, and a man's muffled voice emanates outward.

  "Who is he?" I whisper to Victoria.

  She squints as if she's trying to see through the walls between us and this mystery man. "He knows Drasko, and he wants something." She looks at me. "He's willing to kill anyone who gets in his way."

  Reminds me of her psychotic ex-husband, but I don't mention it. "How many does he have with him?"

  She frowns. "He has them trapped: Milton, Luther, Bishop and his daughter... Drasko, Erik... and a young woman." She pauses. "She's one of your daughters."

  My pulse quickens as we reach the open doorway.

  Samson looks ready to charge inside and skewer every enemy in his path, but Victoria convinces him telepathically to remain right where he is until needed. Otherwise, his noisy metal parts will give us away—if they haven't already. From the sound of the guy inside, he likes his own voice too much to notice much else.

  I sneak in and motion for Shechara and Victoria to follow. The large room might have been a swanky lounge at one point in time, but it was deserted in a hurry. Stepping silently heel-to-toe, we navigate our way around the overturned furniture and broken glass until we reach a glitching holographic wall. As we get closer, the man's voice increases in volume, growing more belligerent, more unstable. A dangerous combination.

  "You don't have to tell me about dust. Drasko and I know all about it, don't we, Drasko? What's that? You can't breathe underneath all the pressure? You want me to dial it down a bit?" He laughs. "You're the most expendable one here! I already know what you have to offer. I know your sob story." He feigns mild hysteria and raises the pitch of his voice, "Oh, my family's a bunch of sickos in Dome 6! I'll do anything to keep them receiving their treatments and living in comfort, even if I have to sell drugs the rest of my life!"

  I thought I'd seen everything on that quarantined continent after All-Clear. Then I had to readjust my thinking after entering Eurasia, the World of Tomorrow. But this? One man pinning seven people against a wall with some kind of force field—and wielding a chrome baton like he's leading a marching band? It's too bizarre.

  And I don't have time for bizarre.

  I lock eyes with Luther and give him a nod. Then I aim my Eurasian gun at the talkative creep holding them hostage. Two rounds, one to each of his legs, are enough to make him scream and hit the floor writhing. A thunderous clanking announces Samson's arrival, and he snatches the baton from the guy's hand. He crushes it in his mechatronic grip, and all of our friends collapse to the floor, freed from whatever energy field had them immobilized.

  Samson keeps a metal hand on the pierced, tattooed guy bleeding out of both legs, pinning him to the floor and seeing how he likes the pressure. Victoria rushes to Milton, and they embrace. I head over to Luther and help him to his feet. Then we do some embracing ourselves—in between the kissing.

  "Good work." He holds me tight.

  "You're not mad at me for shooting him?"

  "You didn't kill him."

  "I can try again." I take aim at the guy's head.

  "Let's leave him to the authorities." Luther nods toward a tall, bald woman in a severe-looking black uniform. "Daiyna, this is Mara Bishop. Commander of Dome 1 law enforcement."

  We shake hands. "You must work with Sera Chen."

  Bishop's daughter nods. "One of our best. If I know
her, she's already located where the Twenty have been taken. You'll just need to find her." She gives the thug on the floor a cold glare. "I'll take Trezon back to Dome 1 for processing. He won't be seeing the light of day for a long while."

  Trezon? Probably gave himself the moniker.

  "The truth will get out," he warns with a bloody hand on each of his wounds, pressing against his ugly faux-leather pants. "All across the Ten Domes, citizens will rise up and demand what they have coming to them!"

  "Equal rights?" Milton suggests. He and Victoria have their arms wrapped around each other, and it doesn't look like they'll be untangling themselves anytime soon.

  "Powers!" Trezon bellows.

  "You can tell your cellmates all about it." Samson hauls the gangster up by the scruff of his neck and lets him dangle there—which seems to have a sobering effect. "They won't think you're nuts at all."

  Mara gives Drasko a direct look. "There will be a vacuum in the underworld without his leadership. I'd hate to see someone worse rise up to fill the void."

  Drasko nods. "I can take care of that, ma'am."

  "I'm sure you can." She seems to be seeing him for the first time. "We'll be in touch."

  He salutes her as she turns away.

  "Emmanuel," I speak into my communication device. "We've got them. Everybody's fine."

  He sighs with relief. "That's good. Thank you... But you'd better hurry. I have a proximity warning on the display here."

  "Company?"

  "Half a dozen aerocars are headed this way. The Chancellor's security force."

  Luther and I nod to each other. Time to move out.

  "To the roof," he says.

  "Just a second." Erik stumbles out of the room and disappears through a holographic wall that ripples like the surface of a pool as it devours him whole.

  "Go ahead," Luther tells the others. "We'll catch up."

  We wait for Erik as everyone else files out of the room. A young woman with piercing, clear-blue eyes glances at us with open curiosity. This must be the biological daughter Emmanuel mentioned. She looks so much like Luther, it's uncanny. The same intelligent face, the same beautiful eyes.

  He introduces himself as she passes, and she hesitates, looking from me to him and back again.

  You're...my biological parents, she projects into our minds.

  We nod, glancing at each other. She's obviously been gifted by the spirits.

  "I'm Arienna." She places her hand over her heart as tears glisten. Then, without warning, she steps forward and throws her arms around both of us.

  It's an awkward hug, but it feels…so good. We hold each other tight, unable to come up with any words.

  "Got 'em!" Erik reemerges patting his lumpy pockets. He notices the three-person embrace, and he winks. "Hey, you guys look related."

  "I have so many questions," Arienna says.

  "There will be plenty of time later." I squeeze her arm reassuringly. "First we need to find your siblings." I face Erik. "And yours."

  "About that," he says. "I might have a way to get those coordinates."

  We leave the lounge-in-shambles together and catch up with the others in the stairwell. Our leg muscles are complaining by the time we reach the roof. Samson deposits Trezon into the aerocar where a younger version of James Bishop sits in the cockpit, and Mara climbs in beside him. Their father seems torn, standing with us, ready to continue on-mission, but watching his children with obvious longing in his eyes.

  "Go." Luther claps Bishop on the shoulder. "Be with your family."

  "You were right, Luther. You said I'd see them again, but I wasn't sure I believed you." He shakes his head, clenching his jaw. "This isn't over. We haven't reunited you with your kids yet."

  "We're well on our way." Luther nods. "You have an overdue hero's welcome waiting. We'll reconnect with you after we find the Twenty."

  It's obvious Luther doesn't want to put him in further danger.

  "I owe you." Bishop clasps Luther's outstretched hand.

  "I'd say we're more than even," Luther replies.

  Bishop climbs into the cargo compartment beside Trezon and keeps a stern eye on the shriveling gangster. The doors drift shut, and the aerocar takes off with a burst of air, heading straight for the oncoming vehicles. They look like hungry predators, flying in formation against the dreary light filtering through Dome 10's far-from-spotless ceiling, bearing down on us. The clone pilots aren't interested in Mara's police car, and they let her pass without incident.

  We're left with a vehicle that's seen better days. The windscreen sports a pair of bullet holes, and a dead clone reclines in the cockpit. Drasko is already at work patching the two holes, smearing what looks like—

  "InstaGoo, right?" Milton observes his handiwork with approval.

  "Never leave home without it." Drasko grins.

  Meanwhile, Erik, Arienna, and Samson are standing beside the open cockpit door, their eyes fixed on the dead clone.

  "A data spike would be the only way," Arienna says, pointing to the back of the clone's helmet. "That port right there."

  "Can you do it?" Erik raises an eyebrow at his biological father.

  Samson grunts. "Won't know till I try."

  He folds his left-hand blade back into his forearm and twists it at the wrist, running through an assortment of tools that flip outward. Settling on one that looks like a large needle, he holds it up for inspection.

  "That should work." Arienna nods.

  "What's going on?" I ask her.

  "We saw a security clone access information this way." She shrugs. "We're hoping it works again."

  "Information…" Luther echoes. "Coordinates to where the Twenty have been taken?"

  "Fingers crossed," Erik says.

  As Samson plunges his spike-hand into the data port on the back of the clone's helmet, a readout instantly lights up the screen on his metal forearm.

  "Tell me what I'm looking at here," Samson rumbles with a frown, squinting at the strings of alphanumerics.

  "Strongman might need glasses." Shechara pats his arm.

  He grunts, not pleased by the prospect.

  "Got it." Erik claps Samson on the shoulder. "I can program the car to take us there."

  "Not all of us." Luther faces me. "Fit as many as you can inside this vehicle and get them to safety."

  "I will." I hold his gaze. "But you'd better be right behind me." I pull him close and kiss him. He kisses me back with the vigor of a man half his age.

  "Can you fly this thing?" I ask Erik.

  He pauses. "Probably."

  "Get in."

  Samson removes the dead clone from the passenger side, and I climb into the bloody seat. Erik slides behind the controls and activates the engines, ducking his head to see around the goo-smears on the windscreen.

  "Here." He retrieves a handful of metal discs from his pocket and leans out of the cockpit toward Milton. "Stick one of these on each of those approaching aerocars, and they'll stall in midair. I've heard you might be able to fly. Literally."

  Milton chuckles. "Okay. Then what? We want to commandeer those vehicles, not crash them."

  "Steer them my way," Samson says, "and I'll catch 'em."

  "Have you ever done this before?" Milton asks.

  Samson shrugs. Then he reaches down and picks up our aerocar. It wobbles, reminding me to strap into my harness, but he's got a solid grip on it. With a beastly roar, he raises the vehicle overhead like a weightlifter heaving twice his body weight.

  "No worries!" he bellows.

  "You'll want to reactivate the engines once they've landed," Erik calls down to Milton. "Remove the discs, and fire up the thrusters. Keep them running. They won't restart again without a new battery installed."

  Milton gives him a double thumbs-up.

  "Wish we could stick around." Erik taps the console before him, and the doors drift shut, locking into place. "I'd like to see them pull this off."

  "I'm sure we will." I glance down at the
throngs of people on the streets who have halted in their tracks to stare upward. "Somebody's bound to record it."

  He keeps his eyes on the control panel as he runs through our preflight sequence. Helpful the way the onboard computer walks him through it. "Things are going to change in Eurasia. Dust freaks are one thing. But people like us with permanent superhuman abilities? We'd better brace ourselves for a brave new world."

  "Maybe a better one," I offer.

  "We can hope, right?"

  As Samson tosses us aloft, Erik activates the thrusters. We sail off the top of the building, veering away from the oncoming security vehicles identical to ours. Meanwhile, Milton jets into the sky on an intercept course with the six aerocars. He lands on top of the first one and stoops to affix the device Erik gave him. The vehicle shudders in place, dropping out of formation, pitching nose-first toward the street far below. But Milton swoops beneath the craft and guides it toward the rooftop where Samson stands waiting, his metal arms gleaming under the sun. Luther, Shechara, and the others have wisely moved toward the stairwell door in case they need to make a hasty exit downstairs. But Samson manages to catch the aerocar with only a tight grimace and slight tremble to show how much superhuman strength is required to pull off such a feat.

  Erik has finished entering the coordinates into the navigation console. Now he's staring at the screen, and he's not blinking. Which dome would be best suited for safeguarding Eurasia's greatest treasures?

  "Where are we headed?" I keep a hand on the gun tucked into my belt.

  "Outside the Domes," he manages at length. "First time for me."

  Unexpected. Why pick a location beyond the safety of the Ten Domes to sequester the Twenty? It makes no sense—unless the move has nothing to do with their welfare.

  "Anything I should know about...things out there?" He glances at me.

  "The sun can cook you alive."

  "Noted."

  In under five minutes, our aerocar reaches the airlock at the docks. Erik darkens the windscreen and side windows so no one can see inside, and he runs the flashers along with an automated recording. An authoritative computerized voice announces, "OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT BUSINESS. PLEASE MAKE WAY."