He arrived half an hour ago, and he will leave first thing in the morning. That's all the time Samson and I have to find a way to meet with him in private.
It has taken so long to reach this point: first contact.
Fifteen years have passed since Captain Mutegi promised that he would get us into Dome 6. The locals were not required to be augmented, since they were already augmented enough. They had survived the plague from decades ago, but they'd lost parts of themselves in the process. Prosthetics filled the gap where limbs, eyes, and other organs had been taken by illness, and many carried scars similar to burns on their ravaged skin.
Mutegi's contact had family in Dome 6 and flew an aerocar for Dome 1 law enforcement. He was also a dust smuggler on the side, using the proceeds to provide for his relations. He met us at the Dome 10 port authority airlock, right on time.
"Drasko," he introduced himself gruffly, his scarred hand outstretched.
Samson's metal hand clasped his in a firm shake. "You our ride?"
Drasko nodded, lowering his voice as he shook my hand next. "I hear you're the first wave of an impending invasion."
"Two by two," I said with a slow smile, not ready to trust this stranger, not sure how much he knew. I glanced up at Samson, his face a guarded mask.
We'd learned to be careful in the Wastes. To look and listen, feel out any given situation before putting ourselves in danger. But here, on this bustling port with so much activity and so many people moving about—all seemingly on-mission with places to be and cargo to offload—I found it difficult to focus.
Sometimes I wish I could dial down what my eyes are able to see.
Drasko led us to his waiting vehicle, parked outside the port terminal. It was strange to stand in full sunlight knowing the dome's plexicon shell was shielding us from the harmful rays. Samson and I paused for just a moment, basking in it with our head coverings loose around our shoulders and our eyes closed. Enjoying the warmth that tingled across our exposed skin.
Three local law enforcement officials converged on our location, their uniforms grubbier than Drasko's. He quickly took them aside and spoke with them. Their eyes darted our way repeatedly as if they didn't believe the story they were told: that we'd been working aboard the Argonaus. They didn't seem to like the looks of us.
My paranoia was very real during those first few days. I kept expecting someone to realize we didn't belong in Eurasia and expel us forcefully out of the Dome 10 airlock, headfirst into the Mediterranean.
Drasko shook hands with the three law enforcers, and they parted company without a glance back.
"You trust them?" Samson nodded toward the retreating figures.
"Not really." Drasko climbed into the cockpit of his aerocar and gestured for us to file into the cargo compartment behind him, where a pair of bench seats waited for us. "But we all speak the same language around here." He held up one hand and rubbed his fingers together.
Samson stooped, ducking his head as he entered. "So, this thing really flies?" He reached out for me, and I clasped his arm, allowing him to swing me up next to him. As the doors dropped into place and locked automatically, the vehicle's engines started vibrating.
"Affirmative." Drasko's hands flew across the dashboard console as he prepared to take us aloft. "You don't get airsick, do you?"
Samson and I looked at each other. Then we shrugged.
"Guess we'll find out," I said.
"Strap in."
Seeing the city from the air was enough to take my breath away. But when Drasko told us this dome was the least-maintained of any in Eurasia, that it was borderline filthy, we had no idea what to make of that—or what we would witness next. For there to be buildings intact with paved streets running between them, and no dust, no cratered wasteland, no blackened city ruins with skeletal remains… A city with people going about their business, both on foot and in vehicles that appeared to be stuck in actual traffic… It was like traveling back in time and hitting the reset button.
It was wonderful.
But nothing could have prepared us for our emergence from the underground tunnel into Dome 1, a celestial city of light and pristine mirrored glass. Awe-inspiring buildings soared overhead, appearing to scrape the interior of the dome's ceiling half a kilometer above us. This dome was twice the size of Dome 10, with more air traffic and less congestion along the tree-lined streets below.
We didn't linger there long. Drasko banked the aerocar in a tight curve and took us into another tunnel identical to the first. He said he had to time these trips just right; otherwise, we'd find ourselves plowing into a maglev train. As long as we were behind the train or in between scheduled departures, everything was all right, he assured us. Even so, I didn't see any other aerocars attempting to do what we were doing.
Dome 6 was nothing like 10 or 1. They were built up and crowded with people going about their business, but the first impression given by 6 was of a sleepy village. Plenty of open space covered by grass and trees with walking paths; no high-rises, no flying vehicles or heavy traffic of any kind. There were paved roads and one-story buildings with two or three-story exceptions scattered here and there. While Dome 10 and Dome 1 were centers of industry and technological advancement, Dome 6 was neither. It was quiet, designed for simplicity. The word hospice came to mind, as if this was where Eurasia sent its aging and infirmed population, a
