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

avoiding claustrophobia. Our people who were still on board were waiting for us to make the first move, and this was it.

We'd singled out the one member of the Twenty who seemed to have a mind of his own. He'd abandoned his original assignment as an agricultural engineer to pursue a career as an actor; he had a habit of hanging around wealthy dust addicts; and he had connections with a few underworld types in Dome 10 who specialized in supplying dust, along with other illegal items. It was rumored they sold weapons, but that was impossible to verify, even employing the code we used to see behind the Link's thick curtains.

"Let's hope we have enough dirt on him to avoid that."

A deep chuckle resonated in Samson's chest. "First time meeting our son, and we're already planning to blackmail him."

"What do you think he'll be like?"

"We already know—"

"Not looks. Who he is. Bold and brash like his father, or quiet and intelligent like his mother?"

"Wait a minute. You think I'm brash?"

"You know you are, Strongman."

He gave me a gentle squeeze. "I'd say all of the above, based on what we've learned about him. If we can convince him to join the cause, he'll be a real asset. Hell, he might even take point on Operation Awakening."

"That's what we're calling it?"

He nodded. "Unless you've got a better name for it."

Sounded right to me.

Now as I glance up at Erik—nearly as tall as Samson—I hope with all my heart that we're able to get through to him. That somehow we can make him understand who he really is, and the truth will set him free, as Luther said. But part of me balks at the idea of turning this young man's life upside-down. And not only his, but every member of the Twenty, if we're able to do so.

Because Eurasian society has been built upon lies, and it's time to crack the glass walls they've made for themselves.

"Would you like to meet Samson?" I smile but try to keep it casual, as far from over-eager as possible. "He's working on the harvesters at the moment. They've been refusing to function correctly in tandem. It's almost as if they know they're being difficult, and they enjoy causing the inconvenience."

"Oh, Erik knows all about those cantankerous machines. Wasn't that your job, son, before you left us in search of fame and fortune?" She's teasing him, but there's an undertone of hurt beneath the surface. Of course she expected her adopted son to remain in Dome 9 when he grew up.

Erik grunts, nudging the recycler open with his toe and tossing the apple core down the chute. "Don't miss it one bit. Those clunkers are the worst. Why haven't you upgraded?"

"That's what Samson's trying to do," I offer.

"We couldn't afford brand-new machines, but we thought the programming could be tweaked," Mrs. Paine says. "Overwrite the operating system with—"

"You want them to sit out there like dumb clucks? That'll do it." Erik shakes his head and wipes his face, both hands rubbing downward in an exasperated swipe. Then he exhales. "I'll go take a look."

"This way." I lead him out of the kitchen.

"I know my way around," he grumbles, but he follows me anyway.

"Even after being gone for so long?" Mrs. Paine feigns astonishment. "That's impressive!"

"I've always had a good memory, Mother," he calls over his shoulder, stepping outside into bright sunlight and fields that stretch for acres in every direction.

"That's why you'll make a great actor!" Mrs. Paine matches his volume.

The door swings shut behind us. He catches me looking at him.

"She loves you very much." I look away and keep walking, out between the rows of wheat toward the large trio of harvesters sitting in the distance.

"Moms do that," he mutters, his long strides overtaking mine.

It's a surreal experience to walk beside my biological son. Mrs. Paine raised him and deserves the distinction of being called his mother, but his genes, his DNA, his eyes… They all came from me and Samson more than two decades ago.

It's difficult to believe so much time has passed, that we've now been out of the bunkers longer than we were trapped inside them. The United World government chose us for our genetic makeup, our intelligence and potential. We were to be their designated breeders, ushering in the next generation of North Americans expected to do the UW's bidding.

Except that glorious future never showed up.

The spirits told Milton they intend to enter the domed cities; they just haven't figured out how yet. When they do, there will be chaos across the Domes. The well-structured society they invented for themselves will collapse. The class divisions will shatter. They will require new leadership, and the Twenty could be that governing body. But they will need to understand the past so they don't repeat it.

Erik and those like him are the future—not only for Eurasia, but for the world. Samson and I just have to open his eyes to the truth.

At the same time, I have to accept the fact that, while he shares my DNA, I will never be Erik's mother. Not really. I'll just be an oddity from Dome 6 married to a cyborg, working for a couple months on his family farm where he stopped by for a weekend and had his world turned inside-out.

Assuming he believes anything we have to say.

I wave to Samson as we approach, and he drops back from the control panel of the harvester he was scowling at. His eyes brighten at the sight of me, and then he sees Erik. He takes a deep breath and steps toward us.

Erik can't help staring. It's not every day one sees a man as large as Samson with a great bushy beard and mechatronic arms and legs. I take a moment to introduce them, and they nod to each other. They don't shake hands.

Erik points at the harvester and makes a good guess at the problem Samson's been having with it—something to do with the