Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) by Milo Fowler (paper ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“As he keeps us locked outside,” Samson mutters under his breath.

“Need an oil can? You’ve got some squeaking going on there. No?” I shrug. “You should be careful, my friend. This climate wreaks havoc on steel parts.”

Before Luther can restrain him, the cyborg throws both mechanical arms into an unmistakable uppercut gesture. “Go to hell!” Turning to Luther, he growls, “Why do we keep wasting our breath on these people? They don’t want our help!”

I wave broadly and back away across the sand. “Goodbye, gentlemen. We’ll have to do this again sometime soon. I do so enjoy our conversations.”

Luther steps forward suddenly and grasps one of the gate’s iron bars. “Who gave you your name?”

I frown, my face still a hooded shadow. “What?” I despise being caught off guard like this.

“From the Book of Genesis, in the Holy Scriptures—Cain killed his brother Abel. You’ll be doing the same if you remain here. Your people will die because of you!”

The guards stare at me, awaiting my command. The quick, whip-like motion of my arm sets them into action. They converge on the gate with rifles at the ready, laser sights targeting the two nomads outside in jittery red pinpoints.

“Back away!” they shout, almost in unison. “Move!”

Luther does so, his hands raised in reluctant surrender.

“Be on your way.” One of the guards glances back at me for approval, which I provide with a nod. The guard adjusts his grip on the gun. “Go on. Clear out of here now. You are no longer welcome.”

They have the situation under control. Luther and his bodyguard will leave. If they are wise, they won’t bother to return.

I turn to face the ship’s hull looming close to the lapping water’s edge. How many souls sleep within the shelter it provides from the sun? I cross the grey sand, backtracking the trail I made earlier nearly stride for stride. It will be good to get this sweat-drenched cloak off. If only there were some way to reclaim the moisture, like those hydration suits before they started malfunctioning.

I shove open the door and hold it, keeping it from clanging against the hull. The chieftains’ faces inside squint, wincing in the light. I throw off my cloak and grab hold of Lemuel’s collar.

“Out.”

The youth releases a short, garbled cry as he is thrown through the doorway, landing in the shaded sand outside. Before he can collect himself, I shut the door without a word and give the wheel a spin, locking it into place.

“What I am about to say will not leave this hold.” I approach the poker table. Dumbstruck faces stare back, eyes gleaming in the yellow light. “Understood?”

The chieftains nod, glancing at one another first in bewilderment, then in a conspiratorial manner. They lean forward, listening. I plant my fists on the large crate, the muscles of my biceps twitching as I look at each man in turn.

“I need our best swimmers, those who can hold their breath and stay under, out of sight. I have an important mission for them.”

“How many?” Justus speaks up.

“As many as you can spare.”

“This wouldn’t...” Theseus—a short, broad-necked fellow with a long beard—clears his throat. “Does this have something to do with those nomads? They—”

“Reconnaissance,” I cut him short. “That is all.”

“You mean to send our people out to sea? To one of those warships out there?”

I nod. Half-muted gasps answer me.

“What makes you think we will even get close?”

I narrow my gaze, sensing the man’s racing heart, feeling his fear. But I do not share it. “They will not see us coming.”

3 Margo15 months after All-Clear

I watch over them like I’m a brooding hen and they are my own offspring, taken from my body and planted in these foggy incubation chambers to grow and mature. I move down the aisle between them with my hands out to the sides, fingertips drifting across the translucent glass hatches that bulge outward like pregnant bellies. Out of habit, my eyes scan the digital display at the head of each chamber. The steadily blinking lights tell me the vital signs are within acceptable parameters. Better than adequate; they are exceptional.

Six months since their inception, when ova from the two Sector 50 females in captivity—Daiyna and Shechara—were artificially fertilized by sperm from the Sector 51 males—Luther and Samson—the growth and development of these twenty fetuses have been inexplicably ahead of schedule. Perhaps it is due to the synthetic environment or because of the genetic makeup of their parents. Regardless, as I look down at one particular male beneath the glass, I find it completely reasonable to assume he will be ready to emerge from his chamber in a matter of days.

Three months ahead of time.

Willard won’t be happy about that. I sigh at the thought, my fingers splayed across the warm glass. The miniature face engulfed in gelatinous nutrients, eyes closed, tiny fingers curled into wrinkled pink fists, turns slowly in its artificial uterus. Somehow, he seems to sense my presence. If necessary, the incubation chambers can keep the young ones in stasis long after they would rather be greeting the world.

“You don’t care about timetables, do you, little one?” I whisper. My lips struggle to create a smile that is warm and nurturing. I hope I’m not frightening him—and immediately chide myself. He cannot possibly see me standing here. “You’ll let us know when you’re good and ready to come out of there.”

It doesn’t matter that the UW scientists aren’t scheduled to arrive for another few months. These fetuses are ready to hatch.

Eden’s only hope of survival.

How are we going to care for so many? My palm slides from the glass and drops heavily to my side. I stare at the face of this defenseless innocent. It is difficult to imagine the wails of young ones echoing throughout these catacomb-like chambers. There have never been children here before. These substructures were not designed with them in mind. Then again, they were not originally intended to house the