Jump Zone: Cleo Falls (19 page)

Twenty-Nine

C
leo hadn’t uttered a word to anyone since Trevayne opened his lipless gob. Libra desperately needed to get her attention, but she wouldn’t even look at him, going out of her way to turn her head, staring past him into the trees, looking anywhere but at
him
. If he could only explain, make her understand his predicament, and assure her that despite how bad it all looked, he never meant to hurt her.

But he couldn’t pacify Cleo, here, in front of the league of extraordinary moronic gentlemen.

The evening sun began its descent, leaving them in the long, extended fingers of shade.  He offered Cleo his windbreaker, but she ignored him. Fine, he deserved to be ignored, but she didn’t deserve to be cold, so he draped it around her shoulders. She shrugged it off. She probably would have taken it if she had any idea that her nipples were practically poking holes through her undershirt. He sat next to her, hoping some of his body warmth would comfort her. She sat stoically on the crumbling tree trunk while Frack, tasked to watching over her, mouth-breathed behind them. He seemed to be having a problem with his nose, which, Libra suspected, had something to do with Cleo.

Though Libra was just as determined to get Cleo in front of Achan, collect his inheritance, and be gone, he was equally as determined to see that his Taiga lover remain safe, unharmed, and returned home.

Everyone remained silent. They tracked Frick as he prepared an evening meal as if it were a fascinating new spectator sport.

“What do you want for dinner, Colonel? We have Nutristew or Nutrichik-in-gravy with veg.”

“I’m not eating any of that shit.” Trevayne turned to Libra. “Where’s my jam?”

“In the duffel, right on top.”

Trevayne dragged the bag from where Libra had dropped it and slid the zipper open. He removed the top package, laid it on the ground, and with the care of a mother unswaddling a newborn, opened the brown tissue paper. His thin lips peeled back in what Libra suspected was an attempt at a smile. “Where’s the rest?” he asked, squinting.

“That’s it.” Libra said.

“One jar?” Trevayne’s eyes bugged out. “Not acceptable.” He held it in his fist and shook it at Libra. “You had enough to trade for a hundred zhanging jars of jam, and you brought one?”

Libra shrugged. “That’s all they had.”

“You’d better have had more luck with the rest,” Trevayne sneered, pulling the rest of the stash out.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling out the leather outfit he’d picked out for Cleo.

“You didn’t let me bring anything from our camp this morning, including her clothes.”

“She got clothes on.”

“No, she’s got
my
clothes on, and I want them back,” Libra said, contrarily. “Wouldn’t you agree it’s rather necessary to present her to Achan wearing clothes?”

“And this?” he pulled the buckskin coat, his eyes squinting with disbelief at the extravagant beadwork on the cuffs and lapels. “How was this necessary?”

“Don’t want her to freeze on the boat.”

“I’d have kept her warm,” Trevayne scowled, eyeing Cleo with lewdness that made Libra grind his teeth.

“You won’t touch her.” Libra’s voice dripped with threat.

Next out came the little feather pillow. He didn’t wait for Trevayne to speak, just jumped up and snatched it out of his hand. “For her head. She doesn’t sleep well without one.” Without looking at her, he tossed it onto her lap, hoping she’d understand.

Trevayne, worked into a frenzy, tore the rest of the packages apart with unbridled fury.

“Crackers, cheese, rose-hip tea, and what zhang hell is this? A knitted cap?”

“It’s a… tea cozy. Keeps the pot warm.”

“Not acceptable!” The veins on the side of Trevayne’s neck throbbed as he waved the blue-and-orange warmer in his fist. “Where’s the other stuff? The mineral oils, the nickel pellets, copper wire? How the hell am I supposed to sell this bloody junk?”

“You’re not. It’s for my
beloved
grandfather. He enjoys a nice cup of tea with his cheese and crackers. And since he obviously supplied the goods…” Libra shrugged.

Trevayne uncovered the can of bear fat, eyebrows knotted as he tossed it aside, and reached for the last and heaviest item, a lumpy, ten-pound sack. “At least you had the good sense to get the… What in zhang hell?” He pulled out the burlap sack and dug his fingers into it. Apoplectic with rage, he growled, “This isn’t grain!”

“Potatoes,” Libra corrected. “Had a hankering for a little delicacy called French fries. Ever had ‘em? You cook ‘em up in that there bear grease. Delicious.”

Trevayne ignored him, his white knuckles twisting the empty duffel. “What did you do with the rest of the trade credits? Those Educhips alone should have got you thousands.”

“Supply and demand, my friend. Seems they recently had a big deposit of plasma screen devices, so they weren’t paying very much. I haggled best I could, but barely got forty creds per.”

Trevayne looked ready to flay him alive, but it was totally worth risking his skin for the sight Libra caught in his peripheral vision: the smirk on Cleo’s lips.

Treveyne left with one of his goons to prepare the boat while the other, the one Cleo had cracked in the head with a stone—obviously not hard enough—stayed behind.

He told Libra to unbind her feet in preparation for the walk to the boat, but Trevayne made it clear her hands were to remain tied. Libra argued on her behalf, that they be at least tied in front—so long as she promised not to use her teeth on the knots, to which she solemnly acquiesced—so she could at least scratch her nose or break her fall if she stumbled. Golly gee, it was almost enough to make a girl swoon.

Libra could have used a knife to cut the cord, but instead, he knelt at her feet and made a project out of fiddling with the knots. He was trying to make nice. Why?

He peeked up under her lashes, but she pretended not to see him and kept her eyes averted. She wasn’t prepared to show him an ounce of mercy, if that’s what he was looking for.

“You need to put those clothes on,” he said.

She lifted her chin to the sky.

“Cleo, listen,” he whispered in a gruff voice that still somehow, against all logic, resonated straight through her and into her heart. “You can’t wear a torn—practically see-through—Cleo, these guys are pigs. Every time Trevayne looks at you—” his sighed, his implications obvious.  “You don’t have to think of it as a gift, or a favor,” he continued. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just replacing what was taken from you.”

Cleo shook her head. He didn’t understand.

She would wear his flimsy beat-your-wife shirt and leggings as a reminder to herself, and to him, of his two-faced betrayal.

“Fine,” he said. She expected him to walk away in a huff, but he stayed to massage her ankles. Her feet were so cold and numb, she hadn’t felt the cord slip away, but now that the blood was rushing in, they hurt. The heat from his hands sent pain shooting clear to her heart. He washed them with water from his canteen, gently brushing away the grime, pebbles, and stink of Trevayne.  Before she realized what he was doing, he slipped a moccasin onto her foot.

“I bought these, too,” he said, his voice taking on a sterner edge. “You’ll wear them, and the coat. I won’t have you freeze to death when we get out on water.”

She could argue, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d need shoes and the coat if she were to get away.

“How did you get here?”

His fingers stilled on her ankles. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question. How did you come to the Taiga in the first place? And don’t bullshit me. What do you want with me? Were you following me? Is that how you were able to pull me out of the falls?”

He rose, his sudden movement almost upending her. Libra tore the knife from the sheath around his waist, leaned over her shoulder and cut the ties around her wrists. The intimate press of his body against her filled her nostrils with his smell, eliminating any lingering remnants of Trevayne. Had she been thinking straight, had she had a moment to collect herself, she would have decked him and ran as fast and far as her aching legs carried her.

He grabbed her arm and jerked her up, knocking the pillow to the ground. He shoved her cramped arms into the sleeves of the buckskin greatcoat and sat her back down. Angry, hurt, confused, and crazy-tired, she was just forming the words to protest as he retrieved the undamaged length of polycord and applied it to her wrists. A string of invectives danced down her tongue but as she opened her mouth, she realized that he’d barely put any tension into the rope. The bindings were loose enough that with any amount of surreptitious manoeuvring, she could slip free.

“No,” he said tersely, but Cleo didn’t know which of her questions he was addressing. “No, I didn’t come by boat and no, I wasn’t following you. That was a fluke, serendipity.”

“Serendipity,” she spat. “Fancy words won’t make me believe you.”

Libra bowed his head and held her hands in his palms. She was inclined to tug them away, but the uneven rhythm of his chest as it rose and fell made Cleo curious enough to remain still. A range of emotions flicked across his face as he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it into a tight line and squeezed his eyes shut. When his chin jutted up and his eyes opened to meet hers, they were cold, masked of any emotion. He squeezed her hands, then pulled away, leaving hers to fall into the emptiness between them.

“You just happened to be in my jump zone.”

“What does that mean, jump zone?” A woozy feeling overcame her, a tingling sensation that started at her toes—like her limbs were falling asleep in a wave that worked its way up her spine. “W-what does that mean?” Her voice sounded thin and distant, as if she were speaking through a long pipe.

“It means I jumped out of an orbital glider.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “An airplane.”

Thirty

“F
ainted, huh?” Trevayne peered over Libra’s shoulder. “She didn’t strike me as the delicate type.”

It happened so fast, Libra barely had time to react. The blood drained from her face, her eyes rolled upward, and she crumpled. If he hadn’t been standing a foot in front of her, she would have hit the ground.

“She hasn’t eaten since yesterday and hasn’t had a sip of water all day.”

“I offered,” said Trevayne. “She refused. Couldn’t force her, could I?”

Ignoring him, Libra railed, “She fought off three men who outweigh her by at least a hundred pounds
each
, was stunned unconscious, manhandled, and kidnapped. I don’t think
delicate
applies.”

Libra looked down and found his actions at odds with his temper, his trembling hand on her forehead gently pushing back stray strands of hair that had come loose from her braid.

“Not my fault she refused dinner, either,” Trevayne said. He unhooked a small flask from his belt and dropped it. Libra caught it, one handed, before it hit Cleo on the chest. Trevayne kicked dirt over the smouldering piro-brick fire. “Just make sure she can walk to the boat, ‘cause I am
not
carrying her. We scram in ten minutes.” He turned his attention to Frick. “You’re with me.” And then to Frack. “Stay behind these two.”

Trevayne picked up the last of their gear and stopped in front of Libra. He looked down at them, skewering Libra with his black stare. “Ten minutes, Mister Cade. And no funny stuff. Your grand-pappy might have told me not to kill her, but he didn’t seem to care whether
you
made it back alive or not.”

Libra fingered the handle of the knife strapped to his waist as Trevayne strutted from the clearing. He’d never taken a life, never been tempted to, but he didn’t believe that Trevayne’s demise would cause him any long-term psychological trauma.

Cleo moved. He unscrewed the cap of the flask and poured a bit of water into the cap. He held it to Cleo’s lips as she moaned softly, as if she was awakening from a disorienting dream.

“Here you go, darlin’. Drink up.” He tilted the cap slowly, letting a thin trickle pass her lips.

Her tongue darted out, swept across her lower lip. He quickly refilled the cap and poured more water into her. He slid his arm under her shoulders and pressed the flask to her lips, letting her take a few gulps. She raised her hands, still joined at the wrists, and tilted the flask higher. Her eyes flitted open and she stared at him with a poisonous expression while she drained the water.

A hard knot coiled deep in his gut.

Cleo hated him.

Libra helped her into a sitting position, then dug in the pocket of his cargo pants. “It’s kind of squished,” he said, holding out a bun wrapped in waxed paper.

Cleo turned her face away.

His shoulders sagged. “Take it. Your next meal won’t be until we reach Gomeda.”

She didn’t budge.

“Come on! You’ve got to eat, Cleo. It’s from the Trading Post. I found that woman you told me about, Valentina.”

“You tried to make me believe there was no aer-o-plane.” Her voice was tight with anger, with hurt. “You questioned my sanity, my education, and you insulted me.”

He thrust the bun in her hands. “There’s bacon inside.”

“I don’t want it.” She didn’t throw it back at him, like he expected, but let it roll from her fingers with eerie calm. He watched it drop off the curve of her thigh and onto the ground.  “I don’t want anything from you.”

Her stomach growled. Loudly. But there wasn’t a chance in hell Cleo was going to pick up the food.  “On second thought, I do want something from you,” she said, changing the subject to get her mind off the hole in her stomach. She glanced over her shoulder at their watchdog, busy wiping out evidence of their campsite. “I want answers. What do you want with me? Why are you even with them?”

“I’m not one of them, if that’s what you mean.” Libra dragged his fingers through his hair and shook his head.  “It’s complicated.”

She snorted.
Complicated.
“Did you come north to get me specifically?” She reached forward and grabbed the bun, her stomach ruling her actions. “Or were you looking for any sucker stupid enough to go with you?”

“You. I was sent for
you
.”

“How long have you been tracking me?”
And why didn’t I notice?
Tracking was her forte! How could she have been outfoxed?

“I told you, it wasn’t planned like that.” His eyes looked like a stormy grey sea, a trick of the twilight. “I just happened to be there.”

“There. Where’s there? Did you see me turtle the kayak? Did you watch me, leave me to drown before pulling me out and playing hero?”

“No Cleo. I wasn’t following you. It happened just like I said. I was just there, at the bottom of the cliff. The clearing where I made our camp was supposed to be my drop zone, but I missed the mark and landed on the other side of the river. I was barely out of my parachute harness when I saw you go over the falls. And I didn’t know it was you when I jumped into the water.”

“When? When did you know?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Not at first. You were similar to the description, so I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure until you started thrashing around and talking in your sleep.”

Cleo scrutinized his face. He sounded earnest, but she couldn’t trust herself anymore.

“But why
me
? Why
now
? Does this have something to do with Jag going to Gomeda? Is he in danger? Because so help me God, if anyone has touched my brother, I will destroy you, Libra
Cade
.” She spit his last name like it was acid on her tongue.

He held his palms aloft, to calm her, hold her back, she wasn’t sure which. “When he recruited me, Achan—”

“Your
grandfather
.”

He huffed. “Yes, but it’s not what you think. I don’t have anything to do…haven’t had a relationship with the man in a very long time.”

“Yet you work for him.”

Libra dropped his chin. “It’s complicated.”

“So you said.” She watched his lips disappear into a tight line. He was losing his patience. Good. She liked him unhinged.

He glanced around, making sure Frack wasn’t paying attention.

“Come on,” he said, rising. “We’ve got to get to the boat before Trevayne comes back.”

Cleo’s stomach did another rumbling growl.

“You really need to eat that, darlin’,” he said, looping his arm through hers as he guided her down the path that would take them to the river.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed and pulled from his grip. “Just keep talking. I want to know everything.”

“My original mission was to get your brother. I probably wouldn’t have taken the assignment if I knew…”

“If you knew what? That I was a savage girl?”

“If I knew you’d steal my heart before I could steal you.”

Whoa!
That was not the answer Cleo was expecting.

He took advantage of the silence and continued. “They provided me with a cover story, a list of scenarios to play out to get your brother alone. It was supposed to be a simple drug and drag operation. Day before the flight, before we left to come here, they changed the mission.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he said, too quickly. “Why did you lie to me about Jag?”

Cleo stumbled, her foot caught on a…She looked down. Nothing. She tripped on nothing. Libra linked an arm through hers. “I didn’t.”

“Really? Because the gal at the Trading Post was very chatty.”

“What gal?”

“The teenage daughter of the guy who runs the store.”

“She’s a child. She can’t possibly know or even understand—”

“She told me
you
won, Cleo. That
you
were the leader-elect, that
you
beat Jaegar.” Accusation dripped from his words, like her victory was a hanging offense. “Is it true?”

“Kind of. It was tie, so they made us do this extra trial—”

“The bear grease thing?”

“No,” she said, surprised he’d remembered the story, seeing how he was just pretending to listen, pretending to be interested in what she had to say.

“What then?” he asked, his tone way pricklier than it should have been, considering it was she who was wronged.

“Have you ever heard of thanatosis?”

“Bad breath?”

“Not halitosis,
thanatosis.
Never mind. Suffice to say, I won.”

“Well then, you answered your own question, Cleo. My dear old grandfather wants the leader. Not Jag, the favorite to win.
You.
And I gotta tell you lady, the entire Shield has their collective breeches in a twist over you ditching the swearing in ceremony—”

“How do you know—”

“And there’s a rumor going around that Jag left to avoid being
washed
.” Libra’s voice grew louder, his words spilled together. “And what about Simon’s disappearance? Did you go off a waterfall looking for him, too? There are a group of old men who are calling it an unfair competition, and saying you and Jaegar went off to fight until the death. Or maybe you’re both going to hunt down or take down this Simon fellow. I really can’t figure out what the fuck is going on in your zhang-damn tribe, Cleo, so how about you take a moment and fill me in on the games you and your brother are playing, cause this whole mess is making me feel like a dirty monkey in the middle.”

“None of that is true,” Cleo said. “It was a clean win. It wasn’t my problem that Jag couldn’t possum. Technically, I
am
the leader-elect. But I’m not going to kill anyone. I’m going to bring him home.”

“So he can be
washed
. And why do I feel that’s a code word for kill?”

“That’s ridiculous! You’re confusing everything!” Cleo shook her head. How could she possibly explain the rules to an outsider? “I don’t know where Simon is but he has nothing to do with this. And yes, I did win. But Jag should have won. Not because of the stupid competition, but because he is a better leader. Those people need him. They adore him, they look to him for guidance, they trust him. Me?” she shrugged. She’d never put voice to her feelings, but it felt right to confront them here and now with the one person who wouldn’t care to judge her. “I’m just about winning. Nobody wants to follow me. I don’t fit with people, never have. Besides, I could survive the wash. Jag couldn’t.”

Libra’s face went blank.

“It’s complicated! You can’t possibly understand how it all works—not without spending time with the tribes. All you need to know is that I did something to disqualify myself, but Jag doesn’t know that yet. That’s why I have to find him. He’s the leader-elect by default.”

“Then they must know. Achan, the Energy Collective—somehow, they know you won. They know he doesn’t have the authority, hence the change in orders.”

“Authority for what?”

“Something to do with signing papers. All this,” he said, spreading his arms, “is about a signature on a line. Mining rights or something. So sign the damn paper and go home.”

“Why wouldn’t they just go to my father?”

“They did, Cleo. They were unsuccessful.”

“No they didn’t. I would know if any kind of negotiating was going on. I would have heard the talk—”

“It was twenty-one years ago!” he said through gritted teeth.

“How is that relevant? I was barely born—”

Lightning struck. A big, horrifying bolt of enlightenment. “That’s why the Guards came? To negotiate?” Finally, after all the years of evasive answers from her father, the truth about her birthday came from the mouth of her sworn enemy. “So then what?” she challenged. “My father wouldn’t sign, so they murdered my mother?”

“No,” he said, yanking her arm forward to hurry her. “The soldiers went to support the negotiator, a scientist, Doctor Bronson Cade.”

“Doc Bee,” she muttered. “Yes, I know about him.”

“That was my father. He went to negotiate but ended up being held captive, for months.
By your clan
.”

Libra’s words fell like a trickle of ice water down her back.

“No, no. That’s not right,” she muttered. “You have it all twisted.” Cleo’s feet dug into the pebbled stones of the shoreline, just steps from the thick metal plank that would take them aboard the boat. She spun through memories, snippets of conversations, whispered stories, and unanswered questions, until the connections began to form. Doc Bee, Doctor Bronson. Gomedan Guards. Libra’s father, murdered on the same day as her mother, on the same day she was born in the stone cottage in the woods.

Frack pushed past them, jarring her from the past.

“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re all wrong.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry about your mother, truly I am. But your tribe murdered my father, a peaceful, unarmed scientist, acting as negotiator. She was probably caught in the fray.”

The pressure in Cleo’s chest grew until she thought her heart and lungs would crush from it. She bit the inside of her cheek but couldn’t hold back the tears.

No, no, no!
He was wrong. She shook her head and glared at him. His jaw was locked and his nostrils flared with each breath. His ignorance, his refusal to listen, to understand, snapped her. Her head buzzed as if swarmed by angry bees. “Listen to me,
urbanite
! I don’t know what exactly happened to your father, but I do know
my
father wouldn’t speak of Doc Bee with such respect and affection if he’d had anything to do with a murder. Doc Bee wasn’t a captive. He had,
has
, his own cottage, which my father still visits every damn day, like it’s some kind of shrine! He won’t let anyone occupy it. Lewin might be a first-class warrior, but he would never, ever
murder
anyone.”