Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Milo Fowler (different e readers TXT) 📖

locks his beady eyes on me like he’s some kind of predator who isn’t finished playing with his food. “Did you know?” He catches himself. “Of course you did.” His upper lip twitches, but he doesn’t scratch at the narrow mustache. “You know everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything.” I stare back at him, my arms limp at my sides.

“What’s she doing here?” The block-jawed man sprawled out on the sofa fixes me with a hideous glare. “Waltzing in like you own the place. Mutant bitch.”

“Knock it off, Perch.” The slender, sandy-haired fellow with a boyish face rises from the adjacent cushion. “Margo—” His intentions are noble as he offers me his seat, but he doesn’t know what more to say. He stands there with a vacant look in his eyes.

“Sit down, Jamison.” Willard leans back against the bookcase, folding his arms now and pinching the bridge of his nose. He grimaces with another headache. He’s been having a lot of those lately. “You too, Margo. If you don’t like it, Perch, you can leave.”

“I just might.”

“You want out?” Willard fixes him with a direct look. “Just say the word. You can spend the rest of your miserable life underground, while the rest of us are living it up in Eurasia. You like the sound of that?”

Perch crosses his arms and curses under his breath. “I’m good, Captain.”

Willard shifts his line of sight to me, seated rigidly on the edge of Jamison’s armrest. “How are they?”

I don’t have to ask for clarification. I know his mind. “Healthy. Developing well.”

“On schedule?”

Ahead of, actually. But I won’t tell him this; it would spoil everything he’s planned so carefully from the start. “Of course.”

“No problems?”

I shake my head. “None.”

“Five kids.” Perch curses again. “You think that’s enough for each of us?” He glances at me again, and there is nothing but disgust for me in his eyes.

“The UW isn’t getting squat until we’re guaranteed safe passage out of here. That’s the deal.” Willard nods resolutely. “Even if we have to lock up the incubation chambers and hand over the key code once we’re well on our way into Eurasia.” He strokes his stubble-covered chin. Neglecting to shave is a rare occurrence for him.

“This is the next generation,” Jamison says. “Our next generation. But we’re talking about them like they’re chattel to be bartered. Like currency!” He throws his hands up as though he’s the only sane person in the room. “Doesn’t that bother any of you?”

Perch curses again. “Get off your high horse. Things have changed. We’re not responsible for the survival of the human species anymore—that burden’s been lifted off our backs.” He shifts his weight. “The way I figure, all that fetal tissue we’ve got growing in those test tubes is a real godsend. It’s sure as hell going to pay our way. The UW gets what they want, and we get off this diseased continent. Win-win for everybody.”

Jamison shakes his head. “Human life. That’s what we’re talking about here. Valuable enough in its own right, particularly now. There haven’t been many births in Eurasia lately.” He faces Willard. “Isn’t that what she told you, the Supreme Chancellor—?”

“Persephone Hawthorne.” Willard nods once. He smooths down his mustache and stares glassy-eyed at a point midway down the far wall. I recognize the look and know he is deep in thought, barely listening to what’s being said.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve tuned-in to his mind, sensing each of his private thoughts:

Should I tell them? What difference would it make? Clones. Genetically engineered life forms. Take that route, and the UW wouldn’t even need our infants. I should move up the timetable, say the incubation process has gone faster than anticipated, that the newborns will be ready for pickup within a matter of days, not months. They would have to scramble a team together and send them over here ASAP. We’d sure as hell get their attention, and they wouldn’t need to pursue cloning—

“Is that what she told you?” I bring him back to the moment. He stares hard at me, his reverie broken, defiled by my intrusion. “They have other options now?”

“Did she just—?” Perch curses, knowing the truth. “Stay the hell out of my mind, freak!”

Nothing in there worth the trouble.

“What does she mean, Captain?” Jamison frowns at Willard. “What kind of options?”

Willard sighs, sliding both palms down his face as if trying to wipe away his exhaustion. He forces a taut grin. “I only know what Hawthorne tells me. I’m no mind-reader, and that’s a fact.” He casts a withering glance at me. “Chancellor Hawthorne has been candid regarding our arrangement from the start. Once she tabled the plan to nuke Eden, things between us have gone smoothly every step of the way, and I have no reason to believe that she—”

“Queen Bee of the UW,” Perch mutters.

“Would you shut up?” Jamison snaps.

“Make me.” Perch winks up at him, puckering his lips.

Willard looks briefly amused. “She’s been under some pressure from her advisors—her cabinet. They want results. They’re saying they might not need the tubers we’ve got. There’s one genius in particular: Solomon Wong. He’s pushing for genetic-cloning, says it’s the best way to uphold the status quo over here while, at the same time, fixing the Eurasian infertility problem.”

“He’d be dead wong about that.” Perch glowers for a moment, then guffaws at his own stupid joke. He’s the only one laughing, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Status quo,” Jamison clarifies. “The quarantine, you mean. Hawthorne’s advisors don’t like the idea of breaching the blockade.”

“Can you blame them?” Willard raises an eyebrow.

Perch shares a few choice expletives. “Those UW mucky mucks won’t be the ones getting their hands messy. They’ll send expendables over to do the dirty work. It was the same before D-Day, and I sure as hell doubt it’s changed any. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. They’ll risk their lives picking up the tubers from us, and what’ll they find waiting for them back home? A