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

that shipping container into Stack and drop it off. You're welcome to take whatever you can carry in your jeep. The rest stays with us."

"Fair enough." It's not, but I don't plan on whining about it. Anything we scavenge is more than we had before.

"Then you drive this rig as far away from us as you can, drive it until you run out of fuel. I don't care where. You leave it there. Got me?"

I give him a slow nod. It's understandable that they wouldn't want any trouble with the UW. Eurasia. Sounds like they're enjoying a fragile truce. I don't want to spoil that for them. Peace is as rare as water these days.

Barrett steps back, and his sentries clear the way. He waves us through, and I give the accelerator a nudge, crossing the last kilometer of ragged terrain before we reach Stack. Shechara follows close behind.

It's hard to miss, even half a klick out. A dozen corten shipping containers—some single-story, some piled two-high—tend to be noticeable on a dust-covered moonscape. Barrett must have radioed ahead that we were on our way, because by the time I pull up into the center square, half the townsfolk have gathered in the dusk light to welcome us.

Stack-style hospitality.

Before I've even thrown open my door and stepped out, they've got a crane in motion and are disconnecting the shipping container from the trailer. Half a dozen Stackers with crowbars are already inside, and the rest have arranged themselves into a line, passing packages of supplies and foodstuffs from one person to the next.

Shechara climbs out of her jeep and joins me. We stand there watching, not sure whether we're expected to lend a hand in the unloading process.

"Talk about a well-oiled machine," I mutter.

"Yes, you are." She nudges me.

I reach an arm around her and gently pull her close. "Now about that tryst…"

She giggles. I'll never get tired of that sound.

Darkness falls by the time the locals have finished doing what they do best: stacking things. But as they reach the very last crate in the far corner of the shipping container, one of them lets out a hoarse yell.

"Tracker!"

Barrett's sentry already found one earlier. So there must have been another. Somehow, he missed it.

Damn.

Everybody scatters, running in every direction—away from the shipping container, away from all the good stuff it held, away from Stack. I've got Shechara on my back like a pilot riding a battle mech as I outpace them all, hurling myself into a sprint, pounding my metal legs into the earth and lunging, straining for longer strides that will carry us both to safety.

When the missile hits, everything around us is fire and blinding white.

5 Sera22 Years After All-Clear

Too many voices.

I can't shut them out, no matter how hard I try. Loud music, pillows stuffed against my ears, even screaming—nothing helps. I hear them inside my head, thoughts that aren't mine. A maelstrom of desires, worries, hopes, and fears that I don't share.

It's dark in my cube. Lights out, window set to opaque. Dawn must be breaking. People are waking up. That's why I'm hearing so many voices, so many thoughts. Because my neighbors are greeting the day.

I never reported to MedTech. My augments are still offline. Or are they? Did that EMP change them somehow? Turning me into a…telepath?

When I heard Commander Bishop's thought pass through her mind, in that instant I knew something weirdly familiar was going on. The same thing happened with that jumper: Goodnight, Enforcer! he called up to me. But I didn't hear his voice, not with my ears. He was inside my head, just like these voices are now.

It's brought back memories I haven't thought about for years. Of being a little girl, before I was old enough to have my augments implanted. Of hearing my mom and dad's thoughts, knowing what they were going to say before they said a word.

Or were those just dreams? My childhood is blurry, always has been. They say it's common for most Eurasian citizens, that memories tend to be cloudy prior to augmentation. The mind itself is so malleable during our early years; it's only once we've reached maturity that our brains have settled in their growth and development and are able to handle the neural implants.

With my augments offline, you'd think I would feel lost, exiled from the data stream. Lonely. But not at all, thanks to this storm of voices crowding my mind.

I roll over in bed and hurl my pillows across the cube. They weren't helping. I sit up, hands clasped to my head, squeezing.

"Go away," I murmur. "Please, go away..."

I really should report to MedTech. Something is seriously wrong. But I make no move to get dressed. I just sit here in the dark, the noisy silence, as if I'm waiting for something.

They're not your parents, Enforcer Chen, the jumper said. Trace your DNA…

They love me more than anything. I've always known that. They raised me, providing for me and protecting me, and they supported me as I grew up, guiding me to make my own decisions and live my own life. They're my parents, as much as two people could be. But are we biologically related?

I've often wondered about that. My dad being Chinese, my mom Anglo, you'd think I would display an equal ratio of Eurasian characteristics. But when I look in the mirror, I don't see a resemblance. Honestly, except for my dark hair, I don't look like either of my parents. I sound like them in the cadence of my speech, and I catch myself moving like them sometimes. But that could be due to nurture instead of nature.

Then there are those fuzzy, dreamlike memories. Knowing their thoughts as they looked at me and smiled with pride and affection. They longed for me to be their own. They felt like they were my caretakers, that no matter how much they loved me, they wouldn't be allowed to keep me. I would be taken from them