Sons of Earth

by Geralyn Wichers

  Khalia, her eyes squeezed shut, lay shocked, processing what she had just heard.

  She felt his breath on her cheek, and then his lips brushed the thin skin under her eye. Then he walked out.

  Khalia opened her eyes.

  What’s going on?

  The streetlights were shining blue-white in her window. The fluorescent light along the wall flickered enough to give her a headache, but surprisingly, Khalia felt fine. Whatever they were feeding her through the IV, it was keeping her cravings for oxycodone away.

  The door creaked gently, and Dominic’s head poked in, tired, dark eyes first. Their gazes met, and Khalia’s mouth instantly became a dry desert.

  “Hey, you're awake,” he said hoarsely. He pushed the door open and walked in. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and looked down. The light cast weird, shifting shadows across his downcast face. “How are you feeling?”

  “N-Not too bad.” Khalia struggled to sit up, all the while not looking into Dominic’s eyes. “Dom—”

  “Khalia—”

  She looked up into his eyes and felt her chest constrict. The look in his eyes was weary and sad, but oddly tender. “It’s taken care of.” He twisted his hands together and looked down again. “You don’t need to worry about your job. It’s taken care of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They think you took too much medication by accident, and you were on that medication because the doctor had proscribed it to you.”

  “W-what the hell are you doing?” she asked, the words piling on top of each other in their haste to get out.

  Dominic just looked at her.

  She gripped the thin blanket with both fists until her knuckles popped and the IV bit at her skin. “That was your chance to get me out of there, Dominic. Your best chance! What is this, some sort of twisted show of power?”

  “No.” He shook his head, a short, emphatic movement. “No, it isn’t. I really need to talk to you, Khalia, but are you sure you are feeling well enough for this?”

  “For what? How am I supposed to lie here and wonder in what way you’re screwing me over and feel well?”

  Dominic flinched. The arrow had met its mark, and it felt good.

  “So talk!” Khalia said.

  Dominic pulled a chair up from against the wall and sat down on the edge of the seat. He pressed his lips together and rested his chin on his steepled hands, eyes distant. He took a deep breath. “I am sorry.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Dominic didn’t reply. Why wasn't he fighting back? If this was Jeremy, he'd be screaming right back at her, turning it around on her, making her feel like shit.

  Instead, he just looked up, and she found herself floundering. The depths of his dark eyes threatened to suck her in.

  Khalia clamped her lips shut to keep herself from saying anything, lest 'I still love you' come out. Not this time.

  Dominic rubbed his hands over his knees and sighed. “Since I escaped, I’ve painstakingly constructed an identity for myself, all with the hope that one day I might be able to take vengeance on Caspian. But when I saw those MFPs, I couldn't let you kill them."

  "Couldn't..." Khalia's throat constricted and she could not get the next words out.

  "I don't apologize for that," he said, "But I wish I hadn't hurt you in the process."

  “Dominic," she ground out, "This is like finding out that you’re a-an animal.”

  He winced hard but he said calmly, “This isn’t about how you feel about me. I have chosen my course. I just don’t want you to be hurt any more.” Dominic stood. The chair creaked, and slid over the floor. “Do you need anything? Can I bring you something to drink? Something from the nurses?”

  Khalia sank against the pillow. “No. Just go away.”

  He turned toward the door. “I will be by to check up on you tomorrow. The doctor said you may be released by then, and if so, I will take you home.”

  She just stared past him, and he went out. Her head threatened to split for the chaos inside.

  I couldn't let you kill them.

  You would have rejected me if you'd known what I was, he had said that night in the lab.

  I wouldn’t have.

  Yes you would! You’ve rejected hundreds of MFPs without a thought. What makes him different?

  What, was it that she had worked with him? Slept with him?

  Sleep with an MFP? Disgusting—like having sex with an animal.

  Don’t kid yourself. He was better to you than Jeremy ever was.

  She thought of his fingers, skimming across her skin, tracing each rib. Khalia groaned aloud and tossed on the hospital bed. She squeezed her eyes shut against the flickering light, but that only brought images of them, playing against her eyelids like a video.

  "I wish you'd fight back," she muttered.

  __

  Casey knew who was at the door before he opened it. He got up from the couch after the second knock and trudged toward the door, one hand on his turning stomach.

  Dominic stood on the landing, hands thrust in the pockets of his dark wool coat, face red from cold, surrounded by the dim light of the stairwell.

  “Come in.” Casey held the door open for him. “No Sebastian or Justine tonight. They’re at church.”

  “Not you?” Dominic asked as he slipped in. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together.

  Casey pointed to the mixing bowl on the couch, where he had been lying. “Don’t get too close.”

  Dominic shrugged. “I have an iron constitution. It comes with the genetics.” He drew his hand across his face and Casey noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

  Ah, God, what now?

  Instantly Casey was sorry for his impatience. “I'll make you coffee.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen. “The water is still hot. I just made tea.”

  “No, don’t bother,” Dominic said in a clipped tone. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Casey turned back and looked him over. It was about seven. Dominic had probably come from work, probably hadn’t had any dinner. And if his ‘constitution’ was anything like Sebastian’s, he was about ready to eat anything that stood still long enough. “No,” he said. “It’s no trouble.” He didn’t even ask, but sliced two generous pieces off the loaf on the counter, and buttered them—carefully angling himself so that Dominic couldn’t see it was the last of the butter.

  “Sit down.” Casey put the bread down on the table, turned back and poured the hot water over the coffee grounds. When he looked back, Dominic had already finished the first slice. Casey smiled to himself, and opened the fridge to see what else he could offer. There were cold potatoes on the top shelf, three eggs, and four oranges. Casey took out an orange and tossed it to Dominic, and took two eggs. As the frying pan heated up, he leaned against the counter.

  Dominic looked up from the orange peels. “Thanks.”

  “I figured you and Sebastian had about the same metabolism.”

  “I have the benefit of being a little older—the appetite does taper off,” Dominic sighed and leaned back. “Ryker is safely at Oakley. I spoke to Peter this morning. All three are really taking to life on the farm.”

  “That’s good.” Casey looked his wool sock clad feet. “We’re considering sending Sebastian there.” Just the previous night, he and Justine had lain together, talking until it was late. They couldn’t give Seb an education. They could barely feed him, even with Dominic’s financial support. But the thought of sending him away to a farm they could never travel to hurt their hearts.

  Dominic blinked. “Are you thinking about his education? Because I could…”

  “You’re already in pretty deep,” Casey said.

  “I have connections.” Dominic shrugged and took a bite of orange. “Does he have a field in mind? I guarantee he has the intelligence for it. I’ve seen his tests. His IQ is in the 150’s.”

  “Well, after Justine taught him to read, he’s been reading everything in
my library.” Casey glanced toward his little bookshelf and laughed. “I’ve been hoarding my Plato from him, but he’ll get to that soon. And he can almost recite them back to me. It’s amazing.”

  Dominic looked at him, blank eyed, just for a moment and then nodded.

  Let me guess. He can do the same.

  “It’s science he likes most, though—like you.” Casey cracked the eggs in the hot frying pan and sprinkled salt onto them as they sizzled. The aroma of frying eggs and hot oil filled the kitchen. His stomach churned harder, but he held his breath and willed it to settle. “He’s interested in medicine."

  They were quiet until he scraped the stuck-on eggs up onto a plate and put them in front of Dominic, along with a cup of coffee. Casey retrieved his tea and sat opposite his guest. The mint scent of the tea soothed his stomach and his head. “What brought you here?” he asked.

  Dominic chewed and swallowed. “Things came to a head with Khalia.”

  Casey waited.

  Dominic gulped and looked down at the jumble of eggs on his plate. “She’s addicted to prescription pain medication. She overdosed yesterday morning.”

  “Oh God.” Justice served. Casey flinched, ashamed that this had been his first thought. He knew the toll that addiction took on a person. "How is she?"

  “She’ll be fine.” Dominic picked up his fork and stared at his plate for a moment. “The thing is, I'd used her addiction to blackmail her, but I paid the doctors off so that they wouldn’t mention her addiction to Caspian. That way she will keep her job.”

  That didn’t sound right, but Casey let him keep going.

  “It was my chance to make everything safe again, but I couldn't do it." Dominic shook his head. "She's had too many problems in her life, she doesn't need me to add to them."

  Guilt stabbed him again. "It seems compassionate thing to do."

  "Compassion?" Dominic looked up wearily, "Is that what it's called?" He sagged back into his chair. They sat in silence. Dominic looked down at the table and saw his coffee, it seemed, for the first time. He lifted it to his lips. After half a minute, he looked Casey in the eye. "Your father was an addict."

  "An alcoholic."

  Dominic gazed at him, waiting.

  Casey's mouth twisted wryly, "He was the last of the voluntary soldiers. After his generation, the MFPs were brought in. He fought in the Middle East when he was your age. Came back messed up, I guess. Did you study that for your thesis?"

  "Post-traumatic stress disorder among MFPs? Who'd read it? No one gives a rat's ass about messed up MFPs."

  "No one cared about those guys either. The government squeaked a lot about 'saving our boys' when they were bringing in MFPs, but they didn't care about the nobodies like my dad." Casey rubbed his hands together. There were fourteen years between him and his father's death, and the more time passed, the more he related to the man who'd sired him. "He would go out to work, but he'd come home drunk. He'd spent everything he made. He slapped around Mom, until she died. Then he beat me until I was big enough to stand up to him. I broke his jaw, and he quit." Casey's breath shuddered out. It amazed him how much emotion that memory brought back, nearly all the fear and rage behind his fifteen-year-old fist, made strong by providing for himself. He saw his father again, sprawled out on the floor, and the respect in his bloodshot eyes. "I was on my own when I was fifteen, and I swore to God I'd make a good life for my wife and children, if I ever had them."

  "No childhood for you either," Dominic looked up at him with glittering eyes. His lips pressed together.

  "Not much."

  Dominic stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes went distant. They flicked back and forth, and he chewed his bottom lip.

  "I don't care what they told you. There's no difference between us," Casey said. "I can't imagine the hell you've lived through, but no one can tell me you're an animal. No animal overrides its instincts like that." He clenched his hands together, "They tell us that you are soulless because they made you in a petri dish, but you're no more manmade than I am. Caspian can only put together the elements that God made. They don't make their own eggs, or DNA. They control the body, but they can't explain why the incorporeal, rational, spiritual substance called a soul takes up residence in that body and animates it. All they can do is pretend it's not there, because they can't make it go away. Isn't that what you planned to do all along? Stop them from trampling on that human soul?"

  Dominic slumped lower and toyed with the handle of his coffee mug. "I guess so."

  It was probably time to back off. Casey leaned back and let the silence hang for a few moments before asking, “Do you have a plan in case she sells you out?”

  Dominic nodded and straightened in his seat. “I’ve had a contingency plan all along.” He set down the coffee cup. “She can’t pin this on you, but you should have one too.”

  Casey nodded. He had thought of that—in fact, as he and Justine discussed sending Sebastian to Oakley they also had discussed this. The idea of Justine being caught sent spears of anger and dread through Casey. If she fell into the hands of Caspian there would be nothing he—the peon, the nobody—could do for her. Justine had asked him if Peter Oakley would provide them protection. Casey hadn’t wanted to say that he’d thought of this, and was too afraid or perhaps too proud to ask.

  Dominic left twenty minutes later. Casey shut the door behind him and retired to the couch.

  "Ah God," he groaned, "Why did you make me a poor man? Why can't I provide for my family?"

  Let it go. Let me take care of them, said the voice in his spirit.

  Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. "I only wanted to be somebody," he whispered, "I wanted to rise above this."

  Just keep your course. Let me take care of you.

  Casey lifted his hands up in surrender and leaned his head back against the couch. The silence of the room enveloped him. If he was well enough to trust his feet, Sebastian and he would be out looking for work tomorrow. He’d go past Ernest’s place and ask him to send a message to Peter Oakley.

  CHAPTER 17

  Peter Oakley was the landlord of several buildings at the northwest end of the Worker District. He sent a message through Ernest for Casey and Sebastian to meet him at one of the properties. He would meet with them, and give them work for the day.

  Oakley didn’t mean to twist the knife in the wound, Casey knew.

  They hitched a ride on a truck and showed up on Oakley’s doorstep as the sun rose over the tenements. A grey domestic pickup truck stood in front of the doors, the few heavy snowflakes melting in rivulets from the hood.

  They pushed through the unlocked glass door and stood, looking around.

  “Is that the brothers Freedman?” Oakey’s booming voice came down the stairs. “Come on up!”

  The tenement house was empty, the walls patched with white mud, and the flooring stripped from the bare boards underfoot. One apartment stood open, and inside Oakley sat on a wooden chair with his feet up on a box and a thermos of coffee in his hands.

  Casey yanked off his wool cap.

  “Coffee?” Peter asked. “It sure is cold for March—or nearly March.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Sebastian said before Casey could reply.

  Peter swung his feet off the wood box and offered it to Sebastian. He poured coffee into a plastic mug and held it out, and Sebastian grasped it in his mittened hands.

  “Have a seat, Casey,” Peter said. He reached out and dragged another chair over. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I need to talk to you about contingency,” Casey said. “I need to talk about the future.”

  “Good.” Peter Oakley’s bushy brows pulled together. “I wanted to talk to you about that as well. You first.”

  Casey leaned forward, “Peter, I don’t want to ask this, but for the sake of Justine and Sebastian, I need to know if you will take them in if something goes wrong.”

  “Of course!” Oakley slapped his big hands on his knees. “At
the first word, the first sign, I will take them to safety.”

  “Second, when Sebastian is ready to go, will you take him in? If...” Casey pressed his lips together for a moment, “If someone would help him create an identity, he might be able to enter the academy.”

  Peter passed his hand over his beard. His eyes were distant with thought. “We’ve finally found a trustworthy source of identification for the MFPs, but that is as far as we’ve gotten with creating identities for them. I’d like to talk to the young scientist about his own methods.” He narrowed his eyes at Casey. “Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about. So, you are going to rescue more, I take it. But what are the scientist’s plans past this? You can’t go on stealing them forever. As long as Caspian, and Homeland and Symbiosis and all the other facilities are producing Manufactured Persons, there will be more than you can ever rescue.”

  Despair cascaded over Casey, and with it, a flush of anger. “What else are we to do? I can’t shut down Caspian, short of burning it down."

  “But you could, couldn’t you, Peter?” Sebastian asked softly.

  Peter and Casey both spun to look at him. Sebastian sat meekly on the crate with the mug cupped in both hands. His blue eyes regarded them both.

  “I’m a cattle rancher and a landowner. I can’t...” Peter’s eyes dropped and he trailed off.

  "Aren't their more like you?" Sebastian's blue eyes brightened. "Aren't there more who know—who know that we're like you?"

  "Sebastian," Peter leaned in toward the young man, "It isn't that we don't know, but that we don't want to believe it."

  Casey felt heat in his cheeks. That had been him, not too long ago, before he'd known Sebastian. But short of meeting their own personal Sebastian, how would anyone else be convinced?

  __

  Khalia was sitting on the bed, ready, when Dominic came in at precisely seven-thirty in the evening. He was talking to the doctor in a hushed voice, but he looked up at her as they came through the door. His face was much more composed than it had been the day before, nearly his usual, impassive Dominic self. He had her coat over his arm.

  “Mr. Vermeer will take you home,” the doctor said. He extended a clipboard toward her. “Just sign here.”