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

“If we don’t kill them first,” Willard mutters.

“What?” Jamison starts.

“Just thinking out loud is all.”

Jamison shakes his head as if to clear it. “Will Hawthorne go for it? This cloning option?”

“She would be a fool.” My fingers tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears. The three men stare at me. “The United World’s population is sterile now. Their only hope of survival as a species is a new generation of offspring capable of reproduction. The concept of copying themselves and hoping the clones will be able to reproduce—” I shake my head. “It’s a ridiculous solution to their problem.”

Jamison’s frown deepens. “How so?”

“You remember copy machines?” Perch butts in. “Back in the old days?”

“Make your point,” Willard says.

“I’m no expert geneticist like our resident sand freak here,” he points at me with his middle finger. “But I’d assume it’s the same principle. You start making copies, right? Then all the originals are lost—they die. And all you’ve got left are the copies—clones—who are going to have to clone themselves if they want another generation. So, eventually, you’ve got copies of copies of copies—clones of clones—and I don’t even want to speculate on the kind of mutants those sorry sons of bitches would produce.” He coughs into his fist.

“You’re assuming the clones wouldn’t be able to reproduce. Sexually, that is,” Jamison adds.

“No clone ever has.” My shoulders rise and fall. “Unless this Dr. Wong has advanced the procedure beyond what was possible twenty years ago.”

“Anything is possible.” Willard laughs harshly. “I reckon that’s something we should take into consideration. The rest of the planet didn’t take a time-out while we were in deep hibernation. We’re playing catch-up here, and that’s a fact. Two decades behind the times. That about sums up our place in the world.”

“So let’s say Hawthorne goes for it—this cloning option. What then?” Jamison frowns. “She wouldn’t abandon us, now that she knows we’re down here.”

“She says they can’t wait anymore.” Willard’s eyes are glassy, staring vacantly at the carpet. “Sounds like things are not going well in paradise.”

“The UW natives getting restless?” Perch quips.

Willard shrugs. He doesn’t care about Eurasian problems. He has enough of his own. “I only know what she tells me. But it sounds like they’ve got their share of trouble across the ocean in that bubble-world of theirs.”

Another string of obscenities erupts from Perch. “Bunch of crybabies, if you ask me.”

“Nobody did,” Jamison mutters.

Perch wrinkles his face and starts wailing. “Oh, we can’t have children! We’re gonna die out as a species!” He scoffs. “Screw ’em. We’ll raise the tubers ourselves, have a whole generation of Edenites born here within these walls. And in a few decades, they’ll be the dominant species. You just watch. They’ll wipe out the UW’s cloned clones and take over the world!”

I note Willard’s reticent smile, the distant look in his eyes. He doesn’t want to live here anymore. Ever since he learned of the United World’s existence, this is all he’s wanted: to be welcomed back into the land of the living. Even as he led the others into this subterranean Promised Land over a year ago, he always hoped for more. He might not have been aware of it himself at the time, but I’ve become familiar with his deepest desires as my telepathic ability has developed.

Eden was never meant to be a permanent solution.

“We’re the only uninfected survivors from the North American Sectors. She can’t abandon us.” Jamison sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “She couldn’t do that.”

“She doesn’t owe us anything,” Willard says. “Not yet, anyway.” He locks his eyes on me. “How long till we can start pulling those tubers out of their incubation units?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That’s all we need. Show Chancellor Hawthorne what we’ve got, right here and now. No clinical trials needed.” He pauses. “With clones, there would have to be tests, right? To make sure they’re a viable option. But with the tubers, we already know they’re growing, and they’re healthy. We’ve got exactly what we promised her.” He stares hard at me, like he thinks he can read my thoughts.

I nod with some reservation. “But we don’t know yet if they carry the same abnormal genetic properties as their parents.”

“A sand freak gene?” Perch seems intrigued for the first time in the conversation. “Cuz that would sure solve a whole lot of problems.” He mimes a pair of scissors with his fingers. “Snip-snip, right? Just cut it out of ’em. Try it out on you first, maybe. You and Tucker.” He grins.

I direct my response to Willard. “We tried that with Luther and the others. Remember how that went?”

Willard averts his gaze. “Yeah. I remember.”

“There was no way to identify any sort of genetic marker—”

“But the tubers have never been topside. That’s the key.” Willard gestures at me in a dismissive manner. “Both you and Tucker were out on the surface, breathing in that demon dust up there. But not us.” He nods toward Perch and Jamison. “And not those tubers.”

“Can we stop calling them that?” Jamison says. “They’re humans, soon to be newborn babies.”

“Born?” Perch raises an eyebrow. “Do we have some kind of artificial birth canal I don’t know about? Something we’re gonna hook up to those units when it’s time for the tubers to pop?”

Willard seems oblivious to their banter. He faces me. “We’ve got no reason to believe these infants will show any signs of mutation, not as long as we keep them down here with us. Doesn’t matter diddly-squat who their parents were—like you said, there are no genetic markers.”

I nod slowly. “But there is so much we don’t know yet.”

“Once they start walking, moving around on their own,” Jamison adds, his back turned to Perch, “then we’ll be able to tell.”

“Whether they’ll grow up to be mutant freaks? Hell, by then we’ll all be enjoying the good life in Eurasia. Evening