I dip my head and frown. Alcohol is good enough when Montana sends out crates of vodka to the town that produces the highest output. When Harvesters try to make something similar for themselves, they disappear.
Up close, the botanical gardens are even more majestic. When I saw their exterior days ago, I had been tired, hungry, and unable to pay it the attention it deserved. Now, I’m alert and can’t stop thinking about what I will find inside.
He parks the car outside a much smaller dome, walks around and opens the door, letting in the heat. “My favorite set of domes are of the tropical biosphere. Garrett and I have a treehouse hidden on one of the higher levels. Would you like to visit it?”
“Sure.”
He helps me out of the car and stands at the smaller dome, where a panel scans his entire palm.
The smaller dome is about as tall as a three-story building, but I have to tilt my head up and lean back to take in the scale of the larger dome.
“How tall are the botanical gardens?” I ask.
“Two-hundred-and-twenty feet, although we’re rebuilding a section of domes to accommodate our giant redwoods.”
One of the hexagonal panels swings open, and Prince Kevon ushers me into an indoor facility with rows and rows of little plants growing in pots, each supplied with similar drip irrigation used for the tomatoes in Rugosa.
We walk down a path and approach a tall arch that leads to the next dome, and the air becomes warmer and more humid. It’s just like the public bathhouse showers.
I fan myself, but the effort does nothing to stop tiny beads of sweat from forming on my brow. “Do rainforests really feel like this?”
“According to research, there should be more heat and rain, but our scientists have created a suitable growing climate for the tropical plants that also keeps the visitors comfortable.”
We step through the arch, and everything hits me at once—the scent of over-ripe fruit, the roar of running water, and the wet heat. The dome’s hexagonal structures provide enough illumination to differentiate the rainforest’s varying shades of green.
I turn in a circle, taking in the lush canopy of assorted trees with vines hanging down from their branches, ferns as tall as seven feet, and huge banana plants with long clusters of fruit.
“It’s so wild.” I mean to say beautiful, but that’s the word that comes out. Even though man has created this environment, there are no straight lines or geometric shapes, just abundant, wonderful chaos.
I shouldn’t be so awed considering the ordeal I suffered the day before in another artificial environment, but I can’t help it. This rainforest looks like something created by Gaia herself.
“The architects of this place tried to mimic what they found in books and media about earth’s rainforests.” Prince Kevon takes my hand and guides me through the thick growth of leafy plants.
My feet sink into the ground more moist and spongy than the tomato beds, and joy bursts through my heart. The only thing stopping this moment from being perfect is that I’m not with Ryce.
“Which Echelons built this place?” I ask.
He turns around and smiles. “These biodomes were built in a different time.”
“What?”
“Did you know that Phangloria originally started as a commune of like-minded individuals seventeen years before the first bomb fell?”
“They teach us in history class,” I reply.
According to the legend, Gaia directed her prophet, Gabriel Phan, to gather followers and build a self-sustainable commune outside what used to be Athens, Tennessee.
They called themselves the Phan Family, campaigned against nuclear bombs. When war broke out, they created an underground nuclear bunker with decades of supplies. As the bombs landed in all the major cities, the family survived years of nuclear winter under the direction of their leader.
Prince Kevon nods. “When the Phans emerged from their bunker, they lived in biodomes like this, except that most of them grew food and looked much like the Harvester Region.”
We walk alongside a huge pond with round lily pads the size of wagon wheels and toward a cascade of water that falls from what appears to be a hill. The rainforest biome doesn’t just contain plants, it’s a living, three-dimensional atmosphere.
Prince Kevon takes me up the hill, and across a hanging bridge of rope and planks. There’s a perfect view of the lily pond and at least a hundred-foot drop. The structure sways underfoot, and it’s hard to concentrate as he explains how the family built the first few domes by themselves.
Now I understand why so many domes exist in Phangloria—it was the structures that kept the founders alive during the first few decades after the nuclear disasters. Eventually, we reach firm ground and stop at a thick baobab tree whose trunk has been carved into a circular staircase.
When we reach its apex, there’s a wooden hut hidden within its leafy branches. Prince Kevon places his hand on a panel on the door, and it clicks open. Light streams out from a wall of windows with cushioned ledges and illuminates a table with domed plates and a bottle in a bucket of ice.
Prince Kevon explains that he ordered our dinner in the car via Netface, but the scent of roasted meat hits my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles.
As we eat the most sumptuous steaks and watercress sandwiches, I ask, “Were the first domes as large as this one?”
He shakes his head and finishes his mouthful. “About thirty feet high and eighty feet wide. The Phans extended the domes until they formed a circle of structures around a water source.”
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through my heart. “There’s water close to this part of the Oasis?”
Something flashes across his face so quickly that I almost miss it, but the expression reminds me of times when someone has blurted something they shouldn’t have mentioned. I lean forward, eager for his
