"Once we reach the hangar, I'll need you to sync up with Wink and Blink," I tell Dunn as we wedge ourselves into the elevator, squishing my siblings and Erik's against each other. They don't look happy about it, but they'll live.
"Your drones," Dunn clarifies.
"That's right. I want them to spread out and provide you with real-time surveillance."
"They have been weaponized."
I blink. "What?"
The elevator reaches the hangar at the top of the tower, but the door refuses to open. DECONTAMINATION IN PROCESS reads the display.
"When your friend Drasko returned them, they had been modified. He may be responsible." Dunn pauses. ''Your exo-suit is also in the cargo area. It too has been weaponized—and reformatted to work with your unaugmented biologic."
A curfew enforcer is never assigned weaponized drones. They're for overwatch purposes only. And as for the suit…that's unheard of.
If Drasko upgraded them, then maybe it wasn't an act of betrayal when he shot me in the back. He could have done it for my protection, knowing what that gangster low-life Trezon was capable of. And maybe he didn't shoot Dunn in the head with the intention of destroying it, as he did with the clone in the passenger seat. Drasko somehow must have known Dunn would try to rescue me.
The display clears, and the elevator door slides open, revealing the hangar's dim, blue-lit interior and a pair of aerocars sitting side by side on the launch pad. The doors on the recent arrival float upward, and two figures hop out of the cockpit.
I grip the Wong clone's weapon down at my side. Dunn stands next to me, shocker at the ready. The Seventeen cautiously follow us outside with silent stares.
"Sera—is that you?" Erik bounds over to us. His face is covered in bruises and cuts, but he seems all right otherwise.
I hate to admit it, but relief washes over me at the sight of him.
Until I see the woman beside him. Not Arienna. A middle-aged stranger—yet her eyes look identical to my own…
"I'd like you to meet Daiyna," Erik says with a grin. "You two have a lot of catching up to do."
25 Daiyna22 Years After All-Clear
No word from Luther. No word from Drasko. If it wasn't for Victoria's extra-sensory abilities to reach out and verify that each of them is still alive, I'd be worried.
More than I am already.
But there's no way for her to tell us where they are. Even when she holds hands with her son Boaz and her adopted daughter Florence, both well into their teens now. They've exhibited their own gifts since they were young—Boaz with his far-sight and Florence with her supernatural hearing. Victoria has been unable to use her special talent of piggybacking onto their abilities to locate Drasko's position.
"Their heart rates are elevated," Victoria says, her eyes shut, frowning as she focuses.
I grip the communication device I received from Captain Mutegi and look out the open warehouse door, hoping to see Luther return at this very moment. That everyone else will be with him. That he was successful in locating our long-lost children.
There's no point in deluding myself that I'll ever be a mother. Rehana was right, all those years ago. We were never meant to be breeders, despite what Mother Lairen told us. Leave that to the cows. But even so, I want to see these twenty-year-old men and women who share my DNA and Luther's. Will they have my eyes? His nose?
According to Samson and Shechara, who recently arrived at our rendezvous point—a warehouse filled with dust crates from North America—their biological son Erik has telepathic and physical abilities. Do all of the Twenty exhibit gifts from the spirits? Or is it only because Tucker took him across the Wastelands in an incubation pod, along with my biological daughter? A young woman named Sera, who works in law enforcement. Maybe the pods' seals weren't tight enough, and some dust got into their breathing fluid...
The device in my hand bleeps. I tap the green icon on the screen.
"Luther?" I speak into it.
"He's not here," says an unfamiliar voice. "To whom am I speaking?"
"Who is this?" I demand. Samson, Shechara, and Victoria gather around me.
"My name is Emmanuel Bishop."
"Where are you?"
"On a rooftop in Dome 10. Where are you?" He sounds completely out of his element.
"What are your coordinates?"
He rattles them off, and I repeat them to Samson, who nods with a grim look of determination on his face. He heads out of the warehouse on foot with Shechara and Victoria close behind.
I follow, keeping Emmanuel on the line as I shut and lock the warehouse door and order the two clunky security bots to secure the perimeter in our absence. Florence and Boaz know to hide in the cellar beneath the warehouse floor until we return. Victoria will keep in contact with them telepathically, ensuring that they keep busy studying their math and science lessons. They'll do their best, but they're both worried about Milton—their adoptive father.
"Emmanuel, I'm a friend of James Bishop." I keep the device close to my ear as we hit the streets.
We couldn't have timed things worse. It's a shift change, so the sidewalks and streets are packed with people either leaving their jobs for the day or heading in for their share of the workload. I can't believe how easy these people have it: only 6-hour shifts. Yet there are still malcontents all across the Domes stirring up the masses in a nebulous fight for equality. The way I see it, once you've mastered the art of survival, there really shouldn't be much to complain about. But these people have always had it easy. For them, there's a very different definition of hardship.
Dome 10 workers stare openly at us as we pass each other, and for good
