Jump Zone: Cleo Falls

by Snow, Wylie

  Rather than a crumbled shed cluttered with a lot of junk and Bangers running around throwing axes at small children, Libra found himself in a village. He parked his board at the edge of a grassy square, grabbed his battle stick, and surveyed the encircling buildings. Sturdy structures, well-kept log buildings, flower gardens, white smoke puffing out of chimneys, and smells that made his nostrils flare and his mouth water.

  Off to his left, a few old men stared at pieces on a board game under a vine-covered gazebo while two children tossed a ball to a domestic animal.

  This was nothing, nothing, like the training videos. He wondered if Cleo lived like this. According to the intelligence reports he’d studied, the population of Wolverine Clan was around the eight hundred souls. But nowhere did it state anything about ball playing children and quaint community gardens. Where were the rock dwellings, grimy, malnourished faces, and bloody animal corpses?

  This unpolluted, quiet, charming village was the antithesis of city life. Personally, he couldn’t live here for more than a few days, but it finally made sense why there was an underground of urbanites obsessed with this place, who discriminately dropped their eyes to the floor when the propaganda ads played on the holoboards. This tiny microcosm of Taiga life was hardly indicative of savagery and unhealthy living conditions.

  Unless this was all for show?

  A red ball came barrelling toward him, followed by the bounding domestic animal, its ears flopping and tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Libra braced and held the stick out in front of him, across his body.

  Both ball and dog came to a stop at his feet, and the latter thumped its tail and looked up expectedly.

  “Throw it!” one of the kids yelled.

  Libra lowered the walking stick and bent down, letting the duffel slip off his shoulder. He’d never seen a dog up close. It inched closer to him, the tail still swishing back and forth. Watery-brown, heart-melting eyes looked at him through a fringe of fur.

  “Hey dog,” he said and the domestic woofed in reply, rocking a startled Libra back onto his heels. The dog barked again, dancing excitedly around the ball.

  Libra reached out with his stick and rolled the ball toward the dog.

  It nosed it back toward Libra.

  “Not good enough, huh?”

  The dog yipped as if he understood.

  Libra plucked the red ball between two fingers and tossed it back in the direction of the children. The dog woofed, flipped around, and bounded after it, leaping every couple of steps.

  Libra chuffed, letting a smile roll across his face. He wondered if Cleo had a domestic.

  Cleo!

  Shit, he had to get moving, get back to her. Get in, get out, get Cleo to safety and then return home to his freedom and his fortune. Never mind all this other stuff. These people, this village, were nothing but an illusion meant to convince the odd sightseer that they were something they’re not. Civilized.

  Cleo might be different, but she was the exception. She had to be. All those films the Restoration Party has shown them at youth rallies, the holoboard warnings, the travel bans. That was real.

  With purposeful steps, he strode past the saucy orange flowers, their black centers staring at him with accusing eyes, and into the biggest of the structures that bore a rustic sign identifying it as the General Store. He scoffed at the hand-scrawled Welcome Visitors sign in the window.

  The interior was vast and bright, filled with natural light that streamed through a high row of opened windows that invited the autumn breeze, making the place feel like an outdoor market. And there was that smell again. Libra’s stomach rumbled, already resenting the Nutrishit dinner he’d have to share with Trevayne and his men.

  “Help ya, sir?” A young lady, her eyes a sparkling blue, bounced up behind the counter in front of him. She wasn’t much of a savage, either. She couldn’t be any more than fifteen or sixteen, with apples in her cheeks and a pimple on her chin. No mud, no missing teeth, seemed to know how to articulate. Between Cleo and the people living at the post, where the hell did they find the freaks in the anti-Taiga literature?

  “Your account name?” she prompted.

  “I, uh… I don’t have an account. First time here.”

  “Alrighty then, if you want to trade, we’ll have to create one for you. She glanced at his forearm. “I’ll need a scan.”

  Zhang hell. That’s why Trevayne sent him. He was being set up. If Cleo’s kidnapping prompted the tribers to file a report with the UWC, Libra, with his criminal history, would be back in the penal colony before sundown on Tuesday.

  The data chip embedded in everyone’s arm, with all identifying information, certainly made everyday life easier, but right now, it was going to screw him over. He blew out a sigh and stuck his arm out for her scanner. He’d have to think this through later, when his mind was clear, when he’d had some sleep, when he wasn’t so anxious to get back to Cleo.

  “Alrighty then,” the girl said, entering data into the hand-held reader. “Instead of cashpoints, we work on a barter system, so you’ll get credits for what you bring in to trade and you can use those to purchase from the floor, or for food from the canteen, which you passed when you came in, or for the bunk house if you care to be our guest for the night. Any unused balance gets recorded in the system and you can use it the next time you visit. Any questions?”

  Libra shook his head, speechless and unable wrap his head around the fact that they were sophisticated enough to have a system of commerce. The combination of technology and snake-eating fried his circuits.

  “What did you bring to trade?” she asked, eyeing the sack that weighed down his other shoulder.

  Libra heaved the duffel on the counter and pushed it toward her. He had no idea what was inside but trusted Trevayne had stuffed enough in there to cover his laundry list of demands. What the hell the guy wanted with a dozen jars of blueberry jam, he couldn’t imagine.

  Eager hands slid the zipper across the top and dove in. The girl nodded to herself as she pulled out boxes of assorted screws, sheets of malleable plastic, various lengths of PVC piping, and a box of assorted medical supplies.

  From the very bottom, she retrieved a package with the familiar DynaCade interlocking triangles logo. Retrieving a small blade from under the counter, she slit open the protective case and lifted the lid. A dozen brand-new, six-inch pocket-classroom plasma screens, lifetime batteries included, made her eyes bug out with glee.

  “Oh.” She popped him a quick glance. “Oh! There’s going to be a fight over these! You have no idea how the schools are going to love, love, love these. ”

  She ran her fingers over the lid where, neatly tucked into individual slots, were the operating capsules.

  “Dad!” she called.

  Dad? So they didn’t eat their young.

  “Oh, oh, Dad, look at these titles… History of Amerada: Pre Polar War, The Rise and Fall of Zhang Bao Lin, Complete BioSciences: Basic to Advanced, Math Series one through six, and Languages of New Europa.”

  Her eyes peeled from the box to meet Libra’s. “We get these sometimes, mostly used, but these are brand new! And the edu-chips… I’ve never even seen the languages one, and I don’t think there’s an advanced bioscience text in the entire Shield. How did you… I mean… Whoa!”

  Dad peered over her shoulder and shot a squint-eyed look back to Libra. “These legitimate? We won’t touch stolen goods, son.”

  “Family connections,” Libra grunted, hoping that this stolen goods bullshit wasn’t part of a sting.

  The girl held digital device up to her father so he could see Libra’s personal information.

  “Alrighty then,” Dad said, eyebrows touching his hairline. “That’s mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed, Mr. Cade.” The man slapped his shoulder and grinned. “Happy to do bu
siness with you.”

  Libra fought the urge to laugh out loud. If these folks had any idea how much he really had stolen in his previous life, the trader would have turned to stone. Taurus, meanwhile, hauled a cache of contraband back and forth across the Cut a dozen times a year, but he doubted whether “Alrighty” Dad ever questioned him. Taurus had that blessedly honest appeal going for him.

  “This your first time up?” Dad asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll tally this, honeybunches,” he said to his daughter. “Why don’t you help the Clarks.”

  Honeybunches looked reluctant to go. “But Dad! How am I supposed to learn if—”

  “Please,” he said with a quiet voice. The girl’s shoulders drooped as she shuffled towards the couple toward the end of the counter. She snuck a glance over her shoulder and zoomed in on Libra. Caught peeking, her cheeks turned bright pink. Feeling devilish, he winked and was rewarded with a wide-eyed smile.

  “We usually give eighty-five creds for these, but I’ll give you a hundred for each since they’re new and come with the chips.” Dad said, closing the box of plas-screens. “These couldn’t come at a better time, considering classes are about to start.”

  Libra had a feeling he could have haggled the price up significantly but decided he liked these Taiga people, despite the images pounded into his head. Considering how he felt about the head of DynaCade at the moment, he was tempted to give them away for free.

  “Let me just check our book, see what these other bits will get you. It’ll take me a few minutes to tally everything, so you can look around. If you need any help, just holler,” Dad said.

  “I’ve got a list.”

  “Alrighty, then,” he said, handing over one of the wicker baskets that were stacked on the counter behind him.

  There were no interior walls in the trading post, only two rows of rough wooden support columns that split the room into three distinct areas.

  Libra made his way to the farthest section where wooden furniture, from bed posts to cabinets, lined the floor. With every intention to hurry his task, he couldn’t stop himself from touching everything—the knots on a carved wooden chest, the smooth grain of a table—and pushed a rocking chair to see if it rocked as smoothly as he suspected.

  Didn’t see much wood in Gomeda, not since most of the trees in Lower Amerada had been burned for fuel during the dark times after the Polar Wars.

  He moved through the center section of the building, navigated rows of shelves stocked with fresh and canned vegetables, dried meats, preserves, bundled herbs, and things he didn’t know how to describe. Everything he saw, he considered. So many options, but which gave Cleo the best chance?

  He found a utilitarian hammered-tin flask full of corn whisky—could come in handy—and added it to his basket. He picked up a heavy can labeled Bear Fat and felt a stirring deep in his gut. His little minx.

  He moved to the tables laden with knitted clothing, leather goods, dolls, toys, but it was the child-sized feather pillow that caught his eye. He picked it up, squeezed it, and thought of Cleo saying, “I don’t need a feather pillow to get a good night sleep.” Was it only two nights ago? Seemed like a lifetime. “They’re only good for fighting,” she had said.

  He weighed the two items in his hand—the can of grease and the feather pillow, an idea tumbling around in his head and falling into place. He may have an answer for their current predicament. But would she understand? He stuffed both items in his basket, deciding it was worth the risk.

  He turned to the right, toward the final third, toward the things that looked most familiar: urban wares. Solar cell kits, computer parts, an assortment of tools, medical supplies, bolts of polyweave cloth in every garish color imaginable, a few cases of Nutripacks and some genuine, factory-produced chemsoap, for that ah, so fresh feeling. Just what the tribers wanted after a hard day of rolling in the mud and killing animals with their bare hands.

  It was embarrassing, the display of junk from Gomeda. There wasn’t a thing that represented their culture, nothing of their resourcefulness.

  Disgusted, he turned his back and strayed toward the huge fireplace in the center of the back wall. In front were two overstuffed couches, which, had he the time, he’d have loved to sink into and kick his feet up. The hearth was cold but there must have been a recent fire because he felt ambient heat emanating from the surround, which was constructed of the same multifaceted black stones that Cleo wore around her neck.

  Libra made his way back to the service desk and waited for Dad to finish. Honey-bunches served a handful of customers, all of whom appeared to be sightseers from south of the Cut. He was sure they were from the city, but they acted differently here; they made eye contact with one another, exchanged pleasantries, didn’t seem afraid to stand so close to one another. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they were from the walled cities, further south and west.

  No, that didn’t make sense, either. They must be Gomedans, dressed in a weird hybrid of standard urban wear with a few Taiga pieces, like fringed leather boots and fur collars and cuffs.

  That’s what he needed, a replacement outfit for Cleo. It was getting cold during the nights and that thin, old undershirt wouldn’t keep her very warm. He grabbed a leather outfit similar to the one she’d had and a long buckskin coat with a fur-trimmed hood.

  “You’ve still got over three hundred points left,” Dad said after subtracting his purchases from the tallied cashpoints. “You want to do more shopping, or shall I leave the balance on your account?”

  “No, I’ve got everything I need,” Libra replied. “Is it possible to transfer the remaining balance onto a friend’s account?”

  “Sure. Just need a name.”

  “Taurus—” he stopped. They wouldn’t have his nickname on file. “Tate, Joseph Tate.”

  While Dad insisted he wrap each item in brown paper “for the journey,” Libra checked out the digital board, scanning for anything interesting.

  Static ads, mostly. People selling services—hunting guides, adventure trips through canyons—and looking for things like Asian cherry seeds and yard-goats.

  There was a column headed MISSING. He scrolled through, disturbed by the dozens of notices: Beaver Clan sought beloved daughters Cathryn and Olivia, last seen at the recruiter station. Parents, tribes, siblings, all searching for news of those lost, every one last seen in the company of recruiters or at the recruiter station.

  No wonder Cleo’s people were wary of Gomedans. One could argue that the youngsters went willingly, but once they drank the water, there was no hope.

  “My dad’s finished packing your things, Mr.—”

  “Libra.” It came out sharper than he’d intended, but he didn’t want to hear the sound of his last name.

  “Libra,” the girl said with a nod. She waved her hand across the screen. “Wow, there’s so much stuff up here, it’s hard to read. Someone should clean this up.”

  Libra smiled. At that age, he doubted he would have taken the initiative either. Someone always meant someone else.

  “Thanks, um…Libra.” She blushed and stepped past him and plugged a code-key into the frame of the digital board.

  Sweet girl, that Honey-bunches. Libra hoped her name would never show up in the MISSING column. He was just about to warn her away from the south when the board refreshed, automatically repositioning the ads to make space for updates, centering the most important and most recent in the center.

  Libra felt the blood drain from his face.

  It was a wanted poster…of Cleo.

  Twenty-Seven

  The image of Cleo smiling to someone off camera, as if she didn’t have a concern in the world, turned a screw turned in his chest, putting unbearable pressure on his lungs. His eyes flicked to the one simple word beneath: WANTED.

 
“Where did you—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued. “Who’s—” He didn’t know how to ask the question. “Do you know her?”

  “Sure. Everyone knows Cleo Rush,” she said, eyeing Libra with a guarded expression. “Do you think she’s pretty? It’s okay if you do. The guys at potlatch get all puffy when she walks by.”

  “Mmm, she’s okay,” he shrugged.

  He lied. She was stunning. And he wanted to snatch her off the wall and put her in his pocket. He drank in every detail of her face, the shy smile, the way the light reflected in her whisky-hued eyes.

  Honey-bunches cocked her head. She might be young, but she was savvy. And he wasn’t doing a good job hiding his interest. “Uh, what’s that thing you mentioned? Potlatch?” he asked, deflecting her suspicions.

  “Inter-tribal gatherings. We have them a few times of year.”

  “Big meetings, that sort of thing?”

  “Sure, the elder councils meet. And it’s a chance to exchange goods and stuff. But mostly it’s a big party. Lots of food and there’s dancing and we can find… so we can, y’know…” A bloom of pink crept up her face while she spoke, making her adorably blotchy. Whatever she was trying to tell him was the source of great discomfort. “For finding someone to go walking with, to make unions. Life mates from another tribe.”

  Life mate. Interesting. So these ignorant savages have the don’t-dip-your-toes-in-the-same-genetic-pool philosophy as all the advanced civilizations. “Have you been to one?” he asked. “Found yourself a potential life mate?”

  “Oh yes, I mean, no. No! I mean… Yes, I’ve been to lots of potlatches, but no, I haven’t gone walking with anyone. Daddy says I’m too young.”

  “Has she,” he canted his head toward Cleo’s image, “made a union?” The screw at his chest torqued. Why did he ask that?