by Snow, Wylie
“Nutrifood is rea—”
Cleo’s palm shot up. “Don’t. Start.”
“If you wanted fresh meat so bad, why didn’t you roast the cat?”
Cleo made a face. “It’s a meat eater.”
“So?”
“So, meat eaters are gross.”
“You don’t eat polar grizzly?”
“Some do, but not this Taiga girl. I stick to the vegans. Duck, deer, moose—”
“And you plan on snaring a moose?”
“No!” Cleo laughed. “But that rabbit we saw earlier would be nice.”
“That’s gross.”
“Says the boy who’s never had a succulent rabbit stew.”
“Are you trying to make me gag?”
“Pah. Your gag reflexes must be dead if you can eat that dried-out stick,” Cleo said, wrinkling her nose. “Please, set me some snares and I’ll cook you a decent meal. And trust me when I tell you that I don’t offer to cook for just anyone.”
“We’ll see,” he said, unwilling to disguise his skepticism. “But first I need to get that cat moved before it gets too hot.”
While Cleo rested, she directed Libra on the construction of a travois using his sleep sack, two long, sturdy branches, and some polycord. She heard his grunts from deep in the bush as he maneuvred the stiff carcass into position.
He returned only to press the hilt of his knife into her palm. “I’m gone, darlin’. Try not to slaughter anything before I get back.”
Cleo stood and stretched, her belly satisfied from the berries and roots she nibbled with her juniper tea, and watched Libra bury his biodegradable Nutripack container from dinner. The sun fell below the horizon, and she moved closer to the fire for warmth as the air quickly cooled.
“So handy that you could eat right out the package,” she’d teased. “But what I’d like to know is how could you tell if you’re eating the food or the packaging?”
“How could you tell if you were eating a root or a mouthful of dirt?” he answered back.
“If you could set a snare properly—”
“If you could eat like a civilized human being.”
That last comment would have earned him a kick to the gut if Cleo had been paying attention, but she was busy scanning the dusky sky—almost identical conditions to those of two nights ago, when she crashed her kayak. Chin tilted to the heavens, she searched for any dark shapes or bright flashes, any signs of that—
“Can’t really use this, can I?” Libra said, interrupting her thoughts.
Nothing, not a sign. Did I imagine it?
She looked over to see him hold up the tattered and smelly remains of his sleep sack. After towing the alphacat over every bump and rock in the forest, its durability was sorely tested. It failed. He threw it into the fire and stepped back as sparks lit up the dusky evening air.
“You can take the air cushion and blanket,” Cleo said from the other side of the bonfire. “I’ll be okay on the ground.”
“That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”
“I don’t need a feather pillow to get a good night’s sleep,” Cleo shrugged.
“Good, since I don’t even have one to offer you.”
“They’re overrated. Only good for pillow fighting.” She laughed at some half-formed memory of childhood. “I’ll just lay a few pine boughs down.”
“Be awfully prickly.” He was staring at her above the fire, his eyes glowing pale in the reflected flames, like twin moons in a misty night.
“Not if I cover them up with some moss.”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “What about bugs?”
“Yum. Midnight snack.”
“That’s disgusting. Tell me you’re joking.”
“Tell me that you didn’t swallow one single bug as you whizzed up here on your solar board, and I’ll call you a damn liar.”
Libra pitched his hands into his hair, defeated. “You have an answer for everything.”
“Yeah, it’s one of my more lovable qualities.”
“Do you have any others?”
“Nope, that about covers it. What you see is what you get.”
His gaze touched her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, before sliding lazily back to meet her eyes. “Surely your boyfriend finds something alluring about you?”
Alluring. The husky way he drew it out sent a gorgeous little shiver from the backs of her knees to the top of her scalp.
“No boyfriend,” she replied, burying a hand in her hair.
“Really? A strong woman like you, who can take down a big cat with a little old knife in a single throw?” He shook his head with mock surprise. “You’d make someone a great husband.”
Cleo crossed her arms and cocked her hip. Squinting through the curtain of smoke that blew between them, she challenged him. “How does your girlfriend feel about your sexist attitude?”
“You’ll be surprised to learn that I don’t have one.”
“And yet… I’m not so surprised.”
“Ouch,” he winced.
“Just returning the compliment.”
“You misread me. Mine was a compliment. I’ve nothing but admiration for you.”
His unwavering stare trapped her like bluebottle fly in a garden spider’s web. Her temperature began to rise from the inside out.
“Ha.” She rubbed her palms on her upper arms, wondering how goose bumps could form on skin that felt afire.
“No, really. The Taiga obviously breeds you gals tough.”
“I suppose a city girl would have screamed until a big strapping man like you came along to save her?”
“Doubt a cat would stalk a city girl.” He surveyed her again, trailing his gaze down her body, sending waves of heat over her. “Not enough meat on their bones.”
She took a step back from the intensity of the fire, then laughed nervously at the absurdity of his comment. “And you want me to let you sleep on the ground? Your sensitive little city ass wouldn’t last a minute.”
Libra smiled. A full mouth one, not just a half. She had to lock her knees to keep the joints from folding.
“Really?” He walked around the fire, his eyes not leaving hers, until there were only inches between them.
Cleo’s heart felt like it did when he touched her by the river earlier; livelier and a bit scared. “And what would you know about my ass?”
I know I’d like to run my hands over it, squeeze it, feel the muscles clench—
Cleo cleared her throat and swallowed. He was standing too close, and she couldn’t find one damn pithy reply in her vast repertoire of sarcastic comebacks. Nothing. She continued to look at him like a deer caught in the shine of a camp light. And the look on his face, the bemused smile, told her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“What’s the matter? Swallow a bug?”
“The only bug around here, urbanite, is you.”
“You’re right. I am a city boy, used to creature comforts like soft beds. But I also was raised with manners,” he said. “You take the bed.”
“Absolutely not.” She could be stubborn all night if she had to.
“Fine. We’ll share.”
“I… uh…” Oh for the love of quivering porcupines! “I… uh…” She closed her mouth and swallowed, an embarrassing, audible gulp that made her eyes slam shut.
He leaned in close, so close she could feel his body heat. “Another bug?”
She inhaled sharply, catching his sent. Libra-saturated oxygen zipped through nasal passages, setting off tiny atomic explosions in her head and causing butterfly tingles to shoot back through her limbs.
“Fine.” Her mouth said the word before her mind could filter her response. “We’ll share.”
/> Eleven
Libra 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
As 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.
