Jump Zone: Cleo Falls (8 page)

Eleven

L
ibra breached the surface of the deep pool with a gasp. He dove again, under the pounding spray of waterfall, as far into the icy depths as he could stand. It was just what was needed to clear his muddled head. He couldn’t dawdle much longer but couldn’t leave before retrieving the item he came for. He floated on his back for a moment to catch his breath and watched the sky turn from deep purple to indigo. The sky was identical to the night he’d jumped. It felt like forever ago, but only a couple of days had passed.

The cascade of water calmed him, its steady tempo reminiscent of the wind turbines back home. He never gave a conscious thought to the low-level thrum that accompanied his life in the city, but when he was thrown into the isolation cell his first night at the prison, he would have a given a small fortune to have it back. He wasn’t used to the quiet.

Silence, the complete absence of sound, was terrifying.

The Taiga was cacophonous in comparison—the wind in the leaves, birds chirping, fire crackling. All the noise made it hard to think. But the biggest distraction was Cleo.

Watching her by the river had been a mistake. A
zhang
-up of major proportions. He meant to observe her behavior, get-to-know-an-animal-in-its-natural-habitat type surveillance. He learned about watching in the penal colony. It became a valuable survival tool, especially in the beginning. The faster you pegged a man’s weakness or were able to predict his next move, the easier it was to prevent a
situation
. He’d had a few altercations in the first few months and it cost him food, privileges, and the worst penalty: twenty-hour shifts. The normal twelve hours of physical labor, six days a week, was bad enough, but Punishers—that’s what the inmates called them—turned grown men into whimpering idiots.

Nothing had grown in the Dead Zone since the Polar Wars, when the Euro-Asian Alliance decided that a massive dump of radioactive chemicals between Canada and the United States would stop the North American army from advancing, stop the allies from cooperating. Just south of the famed forty-ninth parallel, from the eastern shores of Lake Superior, west to the Rocky Mountains, millions of acres of forests were sacrificed, border cities and towns razed in a flash of heat that annihilated every living thing. Not even Superior, the deepest, freshest lake on the continent, survived. The runoff from infected shorelines eventually killed every living thing—including algae—and left nothing but crystal-clear poison.

If you were sent to the colony—one of hundreds of camps set up along the DZ—your only job was to clean it all up. There were over nine thousand men in the Gomedan Penal Colony, ranging from hard-ass murderers to hard-working men who did nothing more than piss some government official off. At any given time, there were hundreds on Punisher shifts, and you knew it by the deadness in their eyes, the desperation on their faces.

Punishers were doled in four-day cycles, the guards letting you sleep for one hour out of every six. By the fortieth or fiftieth soul-crushing hour, you wanted to eat handfuls of contaminated rubble just to stop the madness. He’d heard about it happening, seen guys with burn scars in and around their mouths, unable to eat solid foods.

Libra coped by making lists in his head—people he’d visit, things he’d eat, songs he’d listen to, warehouses he’d rob. In the bad moments, he began questioning his decision to sacrifice himself so the rest of his crew could escape. And his worst moments were spent swallowing the skin-splitting panic at the thought of the next ten years in hell.

One Punisher was all it took for Libra to become a watcher.

Still, he regretted watching her, invading her private moment. All he saw was unguarded fear and it made him feel lower than scum.

What did he expect—for her to pull a fish from the stream and gnaw it raw, or grunt and dance around like an ape?

The people of the Taiga
were
savages, he had no doubt about that, but not in the way he imagined. Their savagery was different. It was an intelligent savagery, cunning and manipulative, a deeply entrenched and unstoppable survival instinct, which is probably why his father couldn’t spot it. Libra needed to remember that, to learn from his father’s tragically naïve oversight.

He had to stay on mission, though his head was clouded with Cleo’s every breath and every sigh. He couldn’t let himself slip, had to keep reminding himself not to fall stupid.

Libra backstroked to the opposite bank and hauled himself out. He found the mound of rocks he’d used to cover his stash. It had been no easy feat trying to conceal his equipment—the parachute, oxygen equipment, harness, and jump suit—while wet and shivering. It was fortuitous that Cleo passed out before noticing the gear.

From the pocket of his jump suit, encased in a hard tecton shell, he withdrew a small glass ampoule and inspected the vial for cracks or flaws. He should have used it on her the first night, as soon she started talking in her sleep, as soon as he’d made positive identification.

Should have, but didn’t.

As fascinating a creature Cleo was, he had a job to do. He wanted to know her, wanted to find out what made her tick, how deep the savagery ran, but time was running out, his freedom was at stake, and four billion cashpoints were four billion cashpoints. He needed it to survive. He needed to help other people survive. So he would focus on what was important, and that was getting the mission done, getting his money, getting free of prison once and forever, and cutting his ties with Achan Cade.

He’d do it before this night was over, before she awoke at dawn. He’d break open the vial next to her, give her just a little whiff, not a full dose, nothing that could cause permanent damage but just enough to make her mind sufficiently malleable for him to walk her out of the forest.

Libra rubbed the ache from his jaw. He palmed the ampoule before wading back into the river.

Cleo would understand. It was all about survival, a concept her people knew well.

And why,
why
should he care what she thought of him? He reminded himself that he’d always loathed everything about the Taiga—the inhabitants, the land, the pathetic and desperate way of life. He was glad that the snares came up empty because he wasn’t about to eat some fluffy rabbit. The thought made bile rise in his throat. What the hell kind of people ate animals?

But Cleo…

Libra sighed, a small part of him wishing he could have witnessed her take down that cat.

As her image filled his mind, the determination in those tawny brown eyes, the curves accentuated by her leathers, he could feel the blood rush to his groin. Zhang damn him but she was distractingly gorgeous. This mission would have been much easier if she had excess body hair and facial growths. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

Maybe she was using some kind of voodoo witchcraft on him.

Libra swam back across the pool, glad for the icy water to temper his raging lust. It was imperative he stop thinking of her like that. The only way to get through this was to tap back into his need for revenge and use his hatred as emotional impetus.

Twelve

A
s her grandmother used to say, something in the milk wasn’t clean, and before Cleo could trust Libra with her life, she had to see what he was hiding. She waited for a few minutes after he’d left, then went straight for his backpack.

Don’t trust outsiders.

But she had to. Trusting Libra might be the quickest and best option for getting to Jaegar, but she wouldn’t be foolish about it. If she found anything suspect, anything that would give her pause, she’d rethink her plan.

She opened every compartment, patted every piece of clothing, and examined the Nutripacks and other supplies. Everything looked like the typical gear a tourist would have, with the exception of the black, palm-sized disk she’d stumbled upon during the alphacat situation. She didn’t know what it was then, and she still didn’t. She held it by the edges and turned it over and around, but there were no markings or buttons, no switches, sliders, dials, or knobs. So what the hell was it? Cleo held it up, fascinated but leery. Not a seam or screw marred the reflective surface. She ran her thumb across the top, startled when an electric blue light radiated from around the edge. She clutched it to her breast, concealing the glow, and glanced into the trees to ensure Libra wasn’t returning before looking back down. In the same eerie blue, two words flashed over and over:

UNAUTHORIZED BIORHYTHM

Skunk dung.
Cleo shook it, hoping the warning would disappear, but the light didn’t go off. She slapped the screen, covered it with her palm, tapped it on top and bottom, ran her finger around the blue edging, but nothing made the words go away.

“For the love of ducks, please stop!” she hissed as the incessant blinking triggered a bead of sweat to trickle down her temple. Maybe it was voice controlled? She brought it close to her mouth and whispered, “Off.”

UNAUTHORIZED BIORHYTHM

“Off,
please
?”

UNAUTHORIZED BIORHYTHM

“Power down… Power off… Sleep…
Turn off!”

UNAUTHORIZED BIORHYTHM

She could bury it. Or throw it deep into the forest. Smash it with a rock.

She hadn’t seen Libra use it in their two days together, so maybe it wasn’t important. He probably wouldn’t even know it was gone.

Movement in the trees alerted her to his approach. She turned one way, then the other, panicked, unsure of what to do. She thrust it into the bottom of his pack and smothered it with his clothes.

That was stupid!
His things were neatly organized; he’d be able to tell for sure.

Too late to change course. He was almost at the clearing. Cleo zipped the compartment and plopped down in front of the fire, striking as casual pose as she could muster, and prayed the blue light wouldn’t show through the lightweight weave of the material.

Libra strolled into the campsite wearing only a pair of shorts. His wet hair, so fair by the light of day, was dark and slicked back, making the angular planes of his face appear leaner, harsher. Or maybe it was the grim set of his jaw…

Heart racing, she tracked him across the clearing and watched out of the corner of her eye as he bent down to stow his things. Cleo held her breath as he opened the flap. He pushed the tight bundle of clothes into his pack without looking inside—so unlike him to not roll them neatly. She exhaled a prayer of thanks to the heavens.

As he pivoted toward her, she masked her face and stared into the fire, afraid he’d see the deviousness in eyes.

“I filled the canteen,” he said.

“Ah, no thanks.” Her eyes flicked toward him before settling back on the fire. It was now or never. Cleo took a deep breath and blurted, “I’ll take you to the Cut.”

Do not trust outsiders.

Libra froze, the canteen halfway to his lips, and looked at her through half-mast lids.

DO NOT TRUST OUTSIDERS!!

She ignored the voice in her head—her father’s voice, so clear, he could have been shouting in her ear.

No, Daddy. I’ve got to get to Jaegar, and this is the quickest way.

Blue letters flashed in her mind’s eye. She blinked them away. The black disk couldn’t be a weapon… It wasn’t even heavy enough to throw at someone.

“That’s where you’re headed, right?” she said, watching while he recapped the water without taking a drink. “I know which paths are the quickest.”

He shrugged and looked away. “Sure.”

“I’m going that way anyway. We might as well travel together.” But the look on his face—startled, perplexed—almost made her wish she’d stuck to her original plan. Had she completely misread their friendly banter? Did he think she’d slow him down because of her bum leg, which wasn’t as bum as she’d let him believe? “If you’d prefer to go it alone—”

“No,” he said quickly. “That would be great. In fact, it’s a big relief.”

“A relief?”

He closed his eyes and forced a laugh. “Oh man, this is horrible to admit, but aside from ‘go south,’ I have no idea how to get back. And I didn’t want to beg, so I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure out how to lure you away. I hadn’t ruled out kidnapping.”

“Like you’d have a half a chance,” she said, imitating his half-smile. “We go at dawn. Better get some sleep.”

He let her crawl into the air cushion first.

She moved as close to the edge as possible. He did the same on his side.

She felt winded, as if she’d been running. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Could he hear it? She needed to shift his attention.

Cleo pointed skyward. “Orion, the warrior.”

“All I see are stars.”

“No kidding. But the three brightest stars in a line, there, there, and there? That’s his belt. And those two hovering above the line mark his shoulders, the one below marks the tip of his sword.”

“Oh yeah, I can see him now,” he said thoughtfully. “We don’t see stars over the city. There’s too much light and too many turbs to obstruct our view.”

“What are those?”

“Lights? They’re an ancient invention credited to Thomas Edison.”

A sharp elbow to the ribs said she didn’t appreciate his lame humor.

“Wind turbines. They feed the power grid. The blades make annoying flicking shadows that make my head throb. There’s not enough wind to make them go fast—not like there used to be—and the slow rotations are the worst. Like a dying man’s pulse.”

Cleo turned to ask him a question, but he’d rolled his head toward her at the same moment, bringing their noses only inches apart. The words caught in her throat. She looked back toward Orion and prayed her fellow warrior would give her the strength to get through the night.

She felt jittery—nerves probably—and longed to stretch, to move, but kept her arms rigid at her sides so she wouldn’t bump him by accident. The paper-thin solar blanket suddenly felt too hot, too constricting.

“Hey, is that the North Star?” he asked, pointing.

“No,” she said craning her neck for a better angle. “That one, behind and to the right.”

He “mmm’d” and lowered his arm. The back of his hand brushed hers as he settled, and he left it there. She never imagined that there could be so many nerve endings on the side of her pinky finger, but for the love of all things furry, she could feel charged ions popping in every single molecule. And if the most un-sexual part of her body could be so affected, how would it feel to roll over and press her mouth against his? To kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until her lips throbbed.

“So, you have a birthday coming up?” she said, doing her best to dislodge kissing from her brain.

“Not for long time, no.”

“But October is only days away.”

“I wasn’t born in October,” he said. “My birthday is the thirteenth of December.”

“But that makes you a Sagittarius.”

“That’s what my astrologist tells me.”

“So Libra is your nickname?”

“Nope. It’s the name my parents gave me.”

“Why would someone name a child Libra when they’re a Sagittarian?” she asked before her manners could stop her.

He shrugged, his shoulder bumping up against hers. “Nothing to do with my birth month. It actually means fair and impartial. Balanced,” he explained.

“And are you?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not always. How ‘bout you? What’s Cleo all about?”

“Short for Cleopatra,” she said, suddenly sorry she started this topic. She waited for the jokes.

“No kidding?” he said with no trace of mockery. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Gee, you think? Maybe an Egyptian Pharaoh? Mark Antony’s main squeeze?”

“No, no. Besides her,” he replied. “It’s a lovely name, anyway. Is it your mother’s?”

“No, my mother was called Rose. That’s my middle name.” Cleo reached for the stone that lay warm against her skin. It made her feel connected to the woman she knew only from stories and pictures.

“You said ‘was.’ Is your mother—”

“Dead.”
Please don’t ask, please don’t ask.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“It was a long time ago. I never even knew her.” Before he could press, she asked, “How about your mom?”

“Alive. But we don’t see each other much.”

She wanted to ask him why—it was inconceivable to her that someone
with
a mother would not embrace the relationship—but he seemed just as eager to change the subject. “So, Cleopatra. Where you really named for the Pharaoh?”

“No, but it’s kind of a long story. The short version is, I’m named after my father’s friend’s wife.” Cleo sighed. “He’s dead, too.”

“Your father?”

“No. My father’s alive, but his friend was killed. Which is why, I suppose, I was named after his wife. Like a tribute.”

Just thinking about the tragedy that colored her family’s past left an ache in her heart. She often wondered what her life would have been like if her mother hadn’t died. Lewin Rush wasn’t the kind of dad she longed for, but he was the kind of man that Taiga history books would someday revere as a great tribesman: a warrior and pioneer. His ancestry was renowned; both sets of grandparents had been instrumental in penning the Charter of Tribal Nations. At some point in their history, the leader of the wolverine clan, the most powerful and politically active of all the clans, became de facto leader of the Shield.

Her father, who embodied the tribal principals of peace, community, solidarity, even served as advisor to the Prarie and Acadian Tribes, and sometime the UWC.

But he was emotionally lost. Never to the outside world—oh no—he had always kept a pleasant but tough demeanour. Around his children, however, he let his mask drop. Underneath the façade was an empty soul. Witnessing the slaughter of your pregnant wife and your best friend could do that to an individual, no matter how tough.

Yet despite his unfortunate encounters with urbanites that cost him the lives of the people he loved, he still supported a cross-border system of trade, the ultimate example of generosity. Gomedans could outright purchase or trade for agricultural products like fruit preserves, grain flour, fresh meats, and whatever else the Taigans had.

Taiga citizens who were either too young or too old to work in the fields or hunt, spent their days making clothes, rugs, and blankets from animal skins and natural fibers, and crafting beautiful wooden furniture, figurines, and toys.

Despite their seemingly peaceful existence, Libra wasn’t entirely incorrect when he said…
how did he put it?
“You don’t
fuck
with the Shield Tribes.”

At the age of sixteen, all tribe members, with few exceptions, went through Passage, a rite by which the individual reached maturity in the eyes of the tribe. If the trial was passed, the new adult was given voting privileges, independence, the right to choose a path of learning, the right to travel, the right to marry and bear children, the right to be a soldier of the Taiga.

Cleo’s Passage took place in the winter, but she survived the week of isolation, sent out into the wilds of the Taiga to shelter and feed herself, with ease. In fact, she’d completely embraced the experience, repeating it many times for no other reason than the challenge. Some of her peers weren’t so lucky. Some never came back. But those who did came back stronger. And strength was necessary for survival, especially in these times.

The climate heave, President Zhang’s wrath, the Polar Wars, hunger, disease—none of it changed human nature. If one group of people achieved health and happiness, they were envied, brought down, even if they tried to be good and help the less fortunate. The past century saw humans, animals, and plants die, but not greed. Greed flourished.

So every member of the Shield Tribe wore a weapons harness when they left the community, and there wasn’t one who made it through Passage that couldn’t wield a knife or strike a bull’s-eye with an arrow. They would,
they did
, attack if threatened. They were warriors. Their survival depended on it.

Libra’s heavy sigh broke into her thoughts. “Who was this man who killed, this
best friend
of your father’s?” His voice was hoarse and strangely accusitory. “Another tribe member?”

“No, one of your people, an urbanite,” she said. “He was a doctor, a scientist, I think. He came to do research in the Shield but liked it so much, he decided to stay.”

Libra’s hand jerked away. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see him rake back his already raked-back hair. She could sense his muscles tense, his body become rigid. His hand came to rest over his eyes. The air around them thickened perceptively.

Had she insulted him by implying an urbanite would choose life in the Taiga over the city?

“His name, Cleo. What was his name?”

Libra’s harsh, impatient tone unnerved her. “I-I really don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Why? What do you care about the name of a guy who’s been dead a really long time?”

There was a cottage at the outer edges of their settlement, away from the other homes. She knew it was where her mother was killed. Her father went to the cabin practically every day. They called it Dogby’s place for the man for whom it was built.

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important,” he said. His exasperated sigh said otherwise.

“Well, it sure seems important.”

“Never. Mind.”

Cleo didn’t want to
never mind
.

Dogby. Dogby’s place, Dogby’s cabin. No, not Dogby but  Doc Bee.

She swivelled her head to tell him, but he’d rolled over, leaving Cleo to stare at his back.

For the love of ducks, what the hell got into him?