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

It's a new day in Eurasia's central hub, the largest of the Ten Domes, and from what I can see, we are starting out strong.

I stand at the glass wall of my office, fifteen square meters perched atop the highest skyscraper in the dome. One hundred fifty floors below, citizens smaller than ants travel on foot, going about their morning routines. This is my daily ritual. I gaze out over my favorite city and bask in the sunlight. My augments are turned off. I rely on biologic with a warm mug of coffee sitting cradled in my hands. I inhale the aroma, and I exhale any concerns I have about the day ahead.

Perhaps I should not have a favorite, but I can't help it. Dome 1 was the first, the biggest and boldest architectural design of its time. A self-sustaining artificial biosphere able to house millions indefinitely. Decades old now, but barely showing its age. The construction of Domes 2 through 10 followed in quick succession as D-Day approached, each connected via subterranean tunnels with maglev trains running between them. Each special in its own way, of course, with a specific purpose; but none of the others was designed to be the nucleus of Eurasia. Dome 1 is the heart, pumping life into every other dome. It is the biggest by far—half a kilometer high, covering over 780 square kilometers of urban cityscape—symbolizing all that humanity still has to offer.

Surrounded by the Wastes of another age.

I seldom look beyond the dome walls. The two-meter-thick reinforced plexicon protects us from the old world. Another world, where things that were once human somehow manage to survive to this day. Strange, alien things. Our missile strikes have failed to eradicate them. Like cockroaches, they scramble about, living in ruins or caves or derelict storage containers. Hiding themselves from the dangerous sun that we, here in Eurasia, have no reason to fear.

We are protected; we are alive, and we are thriving.

We live only now, never looking back. The credo we live by.

I slip my fingers into the front pocket of my tailored vest and withdraw the silver snuff box. It shines in my hand, the morning sun striking its polished, filigreed surface. Popping it open, I take a pinch of the dust inside and inhale it gently, first with one nostril, then the other.

I keep my augments off during these quiet moments to myself, so the effects are stronger. No distractions.

Instantly, I hear a conversation taking place down the hallway from my office. It is Emmanuel, my aide, speaking via audiolink with someone. Thanks to the effects of the dust, I can hear long-distance, tuning in to whatever sound I choose; but this early in the morning, only Emmanuel's voice comes through loud and clear. Perhaps the other support staff have not yet reported for duty. I am an early riser, after all.

I cannot hear whomever Emmanuel is talking to, but I can infer who it is. Other than myself, there is only one person he would be speaking to so earnestly at this point in the workday: his sister, Mara.

"I don't know what you're up to, but this has to stop," he says. "You might be able to fool an analyst once or twice, but not this many times. And you can't expect me to cover for you when you get flagged. The Chancellor will want to know what's going on."

Intriguing. Is Commander Mara Bishop keeping secrets? Does it involve that young enforcer she dotes on, one of the Twenty?

I send my supernatural hearing on a sweep of the other offices on this floor, but they're silent. Good. Perhaps it will be a quiet morning. I'm about due for one of those. I drink my coffee. I enjoy my view. I listen to Emmanuel until the dust's effects eventually wear off.

By the time he knocks on my door, I've lost track of the time. I'm not even sure what I've been thinking about. As I get older, I find a certain peace in allowing my mind to go blank—sometimes unintentionally.

"Enter." I set down my coffee and seat myself in the ergonomic chair behind my desk, a black faux-leather model that adjusts itself to support me while, at the same time, squeezing and relaxing various pressure points. At my age, it's quite wonderful.

Not that anyone can truly tell how old I am, thanks to Dr. Wong's regular gene therapy sessions.

The glass door, tinted grey, swings open silently as Emmanuel enters, tapping his temple to end the call with his sister. He is the same age his late father was when I sent him to the North American continent two decades ago. If that version of James Bishop were to walk in at this moment, I would be hard-pressed to tell them apart. But of course their appearance would be the only similarity. Sergeant Bishop was a military man who saw life in terms of mission objectives. Emmanuel is an intellectual in a tailored suit. His sister Mara is an amalgam of the two. I never met their mother.

When James was unable to return from North America a hero, I made it my mission in life to ensure that his two children would be well provided for. They wanted for nothing as they grew up, and once they were adults, I made sure Mara and Emmanuel received career assignments well-suited to their personalities. Prestigious, as well, guaranteeing that the Bishop name will never be forgotten.

As far as I know, neither child remembers being held in that prison during their father's mission. It is the Eurasian way, after all, to live only now. Our augments help to keep us in the moment—as long as we remain online.

"Chancellor, forgive me." Emmanuel's voice echoes in the expansive room, the heels of his shoes hitting the obsidian tiles in a hurried rhythm. His eyes have the glazed look of someone referring to information displayed on ocular implants. "I