The vehicle looks like any kid's dream-come-true of a flying car. Aerodynamic with sharp, rocket-like angles, painted white and sporting black accents. Sensing our approach, the cockpit doors rise like wings, as does the door to the cargo compartment. Mara climbs into the pilot seat, and her father drops in next to her, both of them buckling on their harnesses like it's second nature. The rest of us file into the cargo area, sliding across the bench seats and strapping in. As Mara ignites the engines, a powerful hum resonates throughout the interior. The doors drift shut, locking into place.
Then we're off. Not nearly as fast as I can fly, but this aerocar is something else. We soar through the air, swooping over the top of the cube complex and diving between two skyscrapers—which I've learned are called domescrapers here. Hurtling a couple dozen kilometers across vacant streets cleaner than any I've ever seen, we reach the train station. Nine underground tunnels radiate outward, leading to the outlying domes. Hovering in midair, we rotate clockwise, lining ourselves up with the one marked 10. Then Mara hits the accelerator, throwing us back in our seats as we dive headlong into the dark tunnel.
Less than a minute later, we emerge inside the same dome where we disembarked from the Argonaus. The train station security guards wave us through without much interest, much like the Dome 1 personnel did. Of course Mara's law enforcement vehicle would have the right of way during a crisis. By this point, with no update from their superiors or the Chancellor herself—and no further acts of terror to be quelled—they must be wondering what the hell is going on.
As far as aesthetics go, Dome 10 resembles Dome 1 about as much as a hole in the ground resembles sunlight. A city whose primary responsibilities are waste management and water recycling, not to mention being the only Eurasian port on the polluted Mediterranean, should be expected to have more of a grungy vibe, I suppose. Unlike Dome 1, the streets are congested with people in vehicles and on foot. Obviously, martial law isn't in effect. Maybe because no government buildings were targeted by terrorists here.
There's no other air traffic that I can see, and more than a few folks on the ground stare up at us as we pass overhead. Not the most inconspicuous arrival, but then again, we're in a police vehicle, so they might assume it's just a flyover. Keeping the peace in a very busy dome.
Drasko, our main contact, informed us about the thriving underworld beneath Dome 10's gritty surface: dust smuggling, weapons trading, human trafficking, clone hacking, and political corruption. Most of Eurasia's intermittent terrorist threats have come from Dome 10 citizens, and who can blame them? They live and work in the cesspool of Eurasia, assigned their roles by the government, with no hope of ever breaking free of the Domes' rigid class structure. It makes sense the current patriot resurgence would be born here. They're at the very bottom of the food chain.
With the most dust in circulation of any dome in Eurasia.
This is where we'll start, I tell Julia. The revolution will begin here.
You identify with them, she replies. You grew up in Sector 43, a trade sector populated with unskilled laborers. Sterilized, forced to work long hours in a factory. When you were chosen for the bunker, you felt a glimmer of hope that your life would take a different path—a better future, after the bombs fell. She pauses. But Jackson made you his hangman. After you killed him, it took time for you to grow into the man you are today. With a heart for the downtrodden, and a desire to share your supernatural abilities with others.
I nod. Sounds right to me.
The abilities we gave you were for your survival, Milton. These people...they don't need us. They have clean air to breathe and plenty to eat and drink. They are safe here. Any dangers they experience are their own doing. We are not interested in their political struggles. Only the struggle to survive.
You had no problem revealing yourself to their leader, I retort.
That was Jackson. He promised to leave the rest of Eurasia alone as long as he could torment the Chancellor, perhaps even drive her insane. The two of them may never leave that little room.
And you're okay with that.
She hesitates before answering. Perhaps without her, the people of Eurasia will find a better way to govern themselves.
Thought you weren't into politics, I counter.
Instead of answering, she says, You remember when all Jackson wanted was the destruction of your species?
I nod. Something like that is difficult to forget.
Then it should seem strange to you that he would agree to limit his destruction to a single life.
I frown. So you're saying...we made a big mistake by bringing him along. But I couldn't take one without the other, as much as I would have preferred it. They are inseparable, two sides of the same ancient coin.
We need to find something to occupy him after the Chancellor expires, Julia says.
That sounds like a plan. Got any ideas?
I imagine her shaking her head. Not at the moment.
Bishop shows his daughter the coordinates on the screen of his handheld device, and she adjusts the aerocar's course. Our destination is a warehouse two hundred meters north of the port airlock. Its main purpose is to store crates of dust from the Argonaus prior to their dispersal to various suppliers and low-level dealers. As a side job, it's working as our base of operations.
I glance at Luther. Hard to believe this devout man of God is now a drug runner. But according to him, the dust we're smuggling is the same stuff the Creator used to form the first man and woman, all those millennia ago. Only it's since been nuked to death and somehow has entrapped the spiritual essence of the entire animal kingdom. Not crazy at all. Life
