"Mind if I take a look?" Erik steps forward, and Samson backs away.
"Go for it," he rumbles with a glance at me.
Keeping his eyes to himself, Erik approaches the panel. It's welded to an arm that swings outward from the engine cover on the side of the machine. He mutters something, tapping the display with a growing frown.
"Please don't tell me you wiped its memory." His focus doesn't leave the screen.
"Okay." Samson crosses his metal arms, and they glint in the sun. "I won't."
"We didn't know how else to install the new operating system," I offer.
"You might as well have hit it with an EMP." Erik slaps the panel closed and shuts the engine cover with a clank. "No way you'll get it to run. You removed its brain, and now you want to replace it? Not happening."
"No reason it shouldn't work," Samson insists. "I've worked on machines more complicated than this—"
"But you haven't worked on these machines." Erik faces him. It's impossible not to notice the similarities in their posture, their coloring, the profiles of their faces squared off against one another. "My father designed them, wrote the code himself. They won't work with another operating system. They'll just…" He gestures at the machines. "...sit here."
Samson nods, clenching his jaw. He hates being wrong, particularly when he's already invested time in a project. But he wants to build trust with this young man, and I can tell he sees this moment as an opportunity.
"Okay. So where do we get another copy of the original operating system?"
Erik glances at him. "I've been trying to convince my mom to upgrade for years. There's no reason to have three machines when one of the new models can do the same amount of work in less time."
"Is your dad…?" Samson leaves it unsaid, his brow furrowed.
"Passed away when I was fifteen. His artificial lung gave out. Crazy, right? We've come so far as a species—technological and medical advancements our forebears never would have dreamed of. But doctors can still make mistakes."
"Was something wrong with the lung replacement?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "My dad was misdiagnosed. His lungs weren't the only problem. He'd suffered other maladies from the plague, and they interfered with the lung he was given. Kept it to himself until it was too late."
"He was allowed to live here—not sent to Dome 6?" Samson watches Erik closely.
"I may have...had something to do with that."
"Let me guess. You're good with computers."
Erik shrugs. "Machines in general."
Just like his biological father.
"Sounds like you know your history, too." I look up at him. "Most Eurasians live in the moment, ignoring the past. And no one mentions the plague."
He glances from me to Samson, guarded now. "So what?"
"Neural implants keep citizens focused on the present. But we don't have any." I tap my temple and motion toward Samson. Then I let my hand drift toward Erik. "Neither do you, it would seem. Unless you've managed to switch yours off."
He's scowling at us, backing away from the harvester and retreating toward the farmhouse one step at a time. "Were you sent here to spy on me? To derail my career? Because if you think you have that kind of power, think again. I'll get you carted back to Dome 6 faster than you can—"
"The past is important, Erik," Samson says, his deep voice powerful and authoritative. I've never heard him sound more like a father. "And so is the future. There's a lot you don't know about yourself. About the Twenty. But we can show you the truth."
Erik widens the gap between us. "Who are you people?"
"We're survivors," I tell him. I've never shared this with anyone in Eurasia. "We've been living in Dome 6 for almost fifteen years. But we are originally from the North American Sectors."
Erik stops in his tracks. "There's nothing left out there. Nobody could survive that."
"We did." Samson shrugs. "Then we came here. To find you."
"Me..." His eyes dart back and forth between us. "Why?"
"You're a smart guy. We'll let you figure it out." Samson steps forward, retrieving a pair of blood samples from his pocket. A drop from each of us on a single slide. "Compare it to your own. See what you find out."
At first, it doesn't look like Erik will take the slide. He looks ready to run. But then he reaches forward and snatches it from Samson's metal fingers. "What's this supposed to prove?"
"Let us know what you discover. We heard you're leaving tomorrow morning." I smile at him. "If you'd like to discuss anything with us before you go, we'll be in the bunkhouse."
I rest my hand on Samson's arm. There's more that he wants to say, but it's better to leave matters as they stand, with Erik calling the shots. If he turns us in to the authorities, so be it. Fifteen years of waiting have led us to this moment, with one of our ten offspring holding the future in his hands. What happens next will depend on his curiosity and the impression we've made on him.
As Erik turns toward the farmhouse, staring at the slide in the palm of his hand, Samson calls after him, "So, about these harvesters…"
"I'll get you a copy of the original OS," Erik says without looking back.
Once he's halfway across the field, I turn to Samson, "What do you think?"
He faces me with a sad smile. "If Luther was here, he'd be praying right now."
"That bad, huh?"
Samson exhales. "We did the best we could, considering. Way to blow our cover, though." He gives me a wink.
I couldn't lie to Erik. "So now we wait."
Wait to see if Erik reports us. Wait to see if he scans our blood or throws the slide into the recycler. Wait to find out if we're ever going to see
