The Chancellor curses foully. "You people are insane if you think—"
"Persephone," Milton says with a cadence that is unfamiliar, "do you remember the first time we attempted to sail across the Mediterranean?"
She freezes, her lips parting without a sound. Her eyes unblinking, glistening.
"Neither one of us with more than an hour or two of lessons under our belts, yet there we were, learning from every failed attempt. Nothing could stop us in those days. Two kids in love against a whole world we planned to fix. No more war or sickness." Milton pauses. "In many ways, you've realized our dreams."
Hawthorne rises, trembling with fury. "Stop this at once. It's a parlor trick, nothing more. A cheap medium's ploy to—"
"Milton is no medium," I tell her. "Trust me on this. The Creator has made it abundantly clear that his children should not consort with those who contact the dead. I would never be party to such a thing."
Another curse from the Chancellor, this time more vehement. "So you're one of those followers of the Way. That explains everything. You're all a bunch of lunatics."
"Milton is, however, currently possessed by a spirit of the earth," I continue. "It's the only way such a being could possibly enter Eurasia. Via a willing host, acting as its vessel."
"Mostly willing," Milton mutters.
"It was communicating with you as someone from your past, I take it?" I raise an eyebrow at the Chancellor.
She glares at Emmanuel and stands. "We're leaving. Right now."
He leans forward, about to get to his feet.
"Sit down." For the first time, James speaks to Hawthorne, and it's like he is giving orders to a subordinate. "Hear us out. At the end of it, if you're not interested in what we're offering, then nobody will stop you from leaving."
"But until then, I'm your prisoner."
"Until then, I don't much care what you have to say." He folds his arms and stares her down.
She fidgets for a moment. Then she sinks onto the edge of the bed, staring daggers at me instead of James. Because he intimidates her. And why shouldn't he? Sergeant James Bishop was responsible for bringing the Twenty to Eurasia, reversing their infertility problem and ensuring a future for the Ten Domes. Without him, they would have died out as a species after the Terminal Age—Mara and Emmanuel's generation, the last to be naturally born to Eurasian citizens more than thirty years ago.
Sergeant Bishop was a famous hero and a martyr for the cause; the people adored him. But that was before the Chancellor started erasing history. She and the Governors of the Ten Domes decided it did their people no good to remember the past, that only now and forever forward mattered. So the citizens' neural implants were tweaked to keep them from remembering past events or even learning about them. In so doing, the people of Eurasia forgot a man named James Bishop, as well as a horrific event known as D-Day. And they had no reason to believe their immaculate city of glass has not always existed.
Thanks to Samson and Shechara's research during their fifteen-year undercover mission, we have learned enough to be well-versed in Eurasian ways. We know never to go under a laser-knife to receive neural implants. As fascinating as augmented reality and virtual reality may sound, we have agreed that we don't want to lose any part of ourselves. Memories of the past make us who we are, and the present must be lived—not ignored with glazed-over eyes while we're online.
The spirit is speaking through Milton again, and I focus on what he's saying. This is the closest I've ever come to hearing a spirit of the earth communicate.
"That enhanced hearing ability you experience upon snorting a pinch or two of dust—it never lasts, does it, Persephone?" he asks.
Her face has gone white, her voice hoarse. "How can you possibly know…?"
I tap my temple. "The spirits know our thoughts. Somehow, they are able to slip into our minds and learn everything about us. But only those of us who, like you, have inhaled the dust of the earth. They communicate directly with a very select few." I regard the Chancellor for a moment as she sits there looking like she's witnessed a ghost. "Whose voice did you hear?"
Color gradually returns to her cheeks. The flush of rage held on a tight leash. "It's just a trick. In very poor taste, I must say."
Mara rests a hand on her father's shoulder. "Do you…?" She frowns, not sure how to phrase the question.
He nods, his voice quiet. "The spirits appeared to me as your mother."
Mara withdraws her hand quickly, as if she's been burned.
He meets her wary gaze. "They saved my life. Kept me on mission. Led me where I needed to go in order to ensure the retrieval and delivery of the Twenty." Even after all these years, he still speaks like a military man. "These spirits, they're... incredible."
Mara does not look convinced. Instead, she seems concerned that the years her father spent outside Eurasia may have affected his mind in detrimental ways.
Milton keeps his eyes locked on the Chancellor, his speech patterns continuing to sound like someone else's. "What if I told you that ability, instead of only lasting a minute or few, could be permanent? Available whenever you need it?"
Hawthorne's jaw muscles twitch as she grinds her teeth. "How would such a thing be possible?" she finally manages, grating out the words.
It's clear that we have her attention. We are offering something she desperately wants. Now to leverage that desire in our favor.
"It is indeed possible," Milton replies. "All I would have to do is—"
