Just before sunset, we finish our shift repairing and maintaining various machines and computer systems around the farm. There is enough work here to keep us busy through the end of summer, should we stay that long.
The bunkhouse was originally designed for a full complement of twenty farmhands, but Samson and I have had the place all to ourselves. Upon arriving in Eurasia, we didn't take long acclimating to real food instead of ration packs, but nothing has tasted as good as the fresh fare from the Paine farm. Tonight we're enjoying potatoes and corn, applesauce, fresh bread, and soy protein patties, all piping hot and delicious with tall glasses of cold orange juice to wash it down. Comfortable in each other's quiet company, we're too tired to say much, when a knock sounds at the door.
We look at each other, daring to hope. Samson gets up, his mechanical parts clanking and his heavy feet thumping across the bare floorboards. He swings the door open wide.
Erik stands outside with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't seem to know where to look.
"Hey," Samson greets him.
Erik's hand shoots forward, holding a disk. He doesn't meet Samson's gaze. "Here's the OS."
"Thanks." Samson takes it, turning it end over end. "I'll get this installed tomorrow. If your mom decides to upgrade at some point—"
"I've got a whole lot of questions." Erik steps forward, looking first at Samson, then at me with an earnest gleam in his eyes
Samson grins. "You ran the DNA scan."
He nods.
I rise from the table. "Come in, Erik. Are you hungry?"
Samson steps aside, making way for our son to enter. He claps Erik on the shoulder. "Guess we've got a lot to discuss."
But Erik doesn't start out with a question we could have predicted:
"So, can either of you hear people's thoughts?"
22 Luther22 Years After All-Clear
Chancellor Hawthorne remains calm and reserved as I lead her down the interior hallway to the unit I rented earlier today. The cube complex is dark and quiet, as most citizens have been ordered to remain indoors while martial law is in effect. Glowstrips run along the floor on both sides, providing enough light to guide us. Emmanuel Bishop and his sister Mara trail behind the Chancellor.
Once we reach the cube, I knock twice on the door and then step aside, waiting to see the reactions when James Bishop answers.
He's twenty years older than he was when Mara and Emmanuel saw him last. They were merely children, taken from his home by the authorities and held in a government prison to ensure his cooperation. Every member of his team was killed on the North American continent, but he survived. The only thing that got him through was the hope that he would see his family again.
But his wife passed away shortly after news broke that Sergeant Bishop was killed in action. The government's lie broke Emma's heart. Her children were well looked after by the Chancellor, who provided them with opportunities not afforded to most citizens. Mara is now the commander of Dome 1 law enforcement, and Emmanuel is aide to the Chancellor herself. Both are accustomed to shouldering more than their share of responsibilities.
Both melt at the sight of their father.
The years make no difference. They recognize each other instantly, and after only a moment of stunned silence that freezes them where they stand, they rush toward each other, the adult children nearly toppling Hawthorne against the wall as they race past her, their grey-haired father bolting out of the cube with tears glistening in his eyes. They embrace, their arms clasped tightly around each other and their heads together, voices murmuring both joy and confusion.
Chancellor Hawthorne looks shocked at first. Then she backs away with a hand covering her nose and mouth, worried that an infected man like Bishop is sharing the same air she is.
"I wouldn't be concerned about contamination, Ms. Hawthorne." I approach her and make it clear that she's not going to escape. She has been brought here for a reason.
Her eyes flash angrily at me, but she drops her hand from her face—which should look as old as mine. Yet it doesn't, thanks to the age regression therapy upper-caste citizens of the Domes receive on a regular basis. Everyone who can afford it looks like they are still in their prime.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she demands, pointing angrily at the Bishop family reunion. "He'll infect us all!"
"Not how it works." Milton appears in a blur of speed, rushing out of the cube's open door and snatching the Chancellor's snuff box before she realizes what's happened. Her hand drifts toward the pocket in her vest as she stares at the box in Milton's grasp. He flips the lid open and pours the dust onto the hallway floor, where a thick cloud rises and dissipates. "But inhaling enough of this should do the trick."
She sputters, failing to string comprehensible words together.
"So our illustrious Chancellor is a dust freak." Mara Bishop is not impressed.
"I'm no addict!" Hawthorne hisses through clenched teeth. "Do you know how much that cost?"
"Overpriced, I'll bet. The ground's covered with it where we're from." Milton shrugs. "I could show you."
She stumbles backward, glancing from the Bishops to Milton to me.
"You're from the…" She can't bring herself to say it, to make it real. "The Sectors?"
"Yes." I nod and offer her a reassuring smile. "But we're not here to harm you."
"How did you get inside?" she gasps.
"That's a long story," Milton says with a grin. He snaps the snuff box shut and pockets it like a memento. "Twenty years long. Almost enough time to make you lose what's left of your mind. Living and working on a raider ship, waiting until the moment was right. The Argonaus—ever hear of it?" He palms his forehead. "Of course you have. You're the Chancellor!"
He's rambling. He does that when he gets excited. But I cannot blame him; there is much to be excited
