die.
The last of old North America’s corporate and political elite joined together to form the Restoration Movement. They knew about economics, understood that wealth begat wealth, that in order to have power, you had to have a population. They lured people with promises of rebuilding a new city just like things used to be—bright lights and big dreams, unreachable ideals.
Gomeda rose like a beacon of hope.
Lachlan Cade began the Restoration Movement. When he died, his son—and eventually his grandson, the formidable Achan Cade—took over. They made good on some promises and certainly brought those sad souls who made it through the ransacking of their country to a better place, but Gomeda remained plagued with problems.
At least, that’s what she learned in her Taiga school from her Taiga teachers. None of them had ever seen it, so she wondered whether to believe them. None of them had hands as smooth as Libra.
But the stuff she’d overheard at Elder Council and the gossip whispered at potlach, scared her more than the records.
Gomedans couldn’t have babies, they said. That’s why the recruiters came north, for healthy, strapping young men and solid female breeding machines. The Ministry of Opportunity lured them so they could populate their great city.
The recruiters, who set up camps south of the Cut Road, were good at their jobs, offering a new, easier way of life, enticing them with gifts, showing them the glory of civilization and promising them leadership positions in the Restoration Movement—without having to win a competition!
The Elder Councils accused the Ministry of dosing their recruits with neuro-pharm, but the UWC dismissed their complaints and then the Elders got strangely quiet about it. She asked her father once, about why they didn’t fight harder to make the UWC investigate, but he gave her an angry look and walked away. Whatever method they used, she just hoped that Jaegar wasn’t too far gone by the time she got to him.
If she could find him. She didn’t know what to do beyond get there . Knock on the door of the Ministry of Opportunity and ask for him? For someone deemed wise by the Elder Council, she sure had her stupid moments. The second she’d learned her brother had been spotted at the recruitment camp, she’d done nothing but make hasty, brainless decisions.
Cleo’s eyes drifted shut, but that didn’t bring sleep. How could she nap when she needed solutions, needed to figure out how to get back on track since her original plan was scattered at the bottom of the river? All the supplies that she’d carefully packed into the storage hatch of her kayak were gone.
There wasn’t room for error, no time for mistakes, and, for the love of her people, she had to restore Jag to his rightful place in the tribe. Despite what it meant for her, she must transfer leadership to him or die trying. But how the hell was she supposed to do all this in her current state—no weapons, no transportation, no food, no shelter, not even a change of clothes? She was trained to use her surroundings to survive, to take advantage of what was close at hand, what nature offered. But would nature offer her anything useful enough to take to Gomeda?
She opened her lids a crack and spied Libra returning, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. Wide shoulders tapered to a lean, narrow waist, the picture of health and capability. She smiled to herself.
Nature did indeed deliver, in the form of a six-foot-something package of sinew with blond hair and an urban address. Cleo just needed to figure out how to use him to her advantage.
Eight
S he stood near the edge of their small clearing, the thrum of falling water practically imperceptible now that the autumn wind had shifted. Using the trunk of a maple tree for balance, Cleo carefully applied more of her body weight to her injured leg, gauging the amount of pressure it would take. The tobacco-leaf poultice had done an admirable
The last of old North America’s corporate and political elite joined together to form the Restoration Movement. They knew about economics, understood that wealth begat wealth, that in order to have power, you had to have a population. They lured people with promises of rebuilding a new city just like things used to be—bright lights and big dreams, unreachable ideals.
Gomeda rose like a beacon of hope.
Lachlan Cade began the Restoration Movement. When he died, his son—and eventually his grandson, the formidable Achan Cade—took over. They made good on some promises and certainly brought those sad souls who made it through the ransacking of their country to a better place, but Gomeda remained plagued with problems.
At least, that’s what she learned in her Taiga school from her Taiga teachers. None of them had ever seen it, so she wondered whether to believe them. None of them had hands as smooth as Libra.
But the stuff she’d overheard at Elder Council and the gossip whispered at potlach, scared her more than the records.
Gomedans couldn’t have babies, they said. That’s why the recruiters came north, for healthy, strapping young men and solid female breeding machines. The Ministry of Opportunity lured them so they could populate their great city.
The recruiters, who set up camps south of the Cut Road, were good at their jobs, offering a new, easier way of life, enticing them with gifts, showing them the glory of civilization and promising them leadership positions in the Restoration Movement—without having to win a competition!
The Elder Councils accused the Ministry of dosing their recruits with neuro-pharm, but the UWC dismissed their complaints and then the Elders got strangely quiet about it. She asked her father once, about why they didn’t fight harder to make the UWC investigate, but he gave her an angry look and walked away. Whatever method they used, she just hoped that Jaegar wasn’t too far gone by the time she got to him.
If she could find him. She didn’t know what to do beyond get there . Knock on the door of the Ministry of Opportunity and ask for him? For someone deemed wise by the Elder Council, she sure had her stupid moments. The second she’d learned her brother had been spotted at the recruitment camp, she’d done nothing but make hasty, brainless decisions.
Cleo’s eyes drifted shut, but that didn’t bring sleep. How could she nap when she needed solutions, needed to figure out how to get back on track since her original plan was scattered at the bottom of the river? All the supplies that she’d carefully packed into the storage hatch of her kayak were gone.
There wasn’t room for error, no time for mistakes, and, for the love of her people, she had to restore Jag to his rightful place in the tribe. Despite what it meant for her, she must transfer leadership to him or die trying. But how the hell was she supposed to do all this in her current state—no weapons, no transportation, no food, no shelter, not even a change of clothes? She was trained to use her surroundings to survive, to take advantage of what was close at hand, what nature offered. But would nature offer her anything useful enough to take to Gomeda?
She opened her lids a crack and spied Libra returning, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. Wide shoulders tapered to a lean, narrow waist, the picture of health and capability. She smiled to herself.
Nature did indeed deliver, in the form of a six-foot-something package of sinew with blond hair and an urban address. Cleo just needed to figure out how to use him to her advantage.
Eight
S he stood near the edge of their small clearing, the thrum of falling water practically imperceptible now that the autumn wind had shifted. Using the trunk of a maple tree for balance, Cleo carefully applied more of her body weight to her injured leg, gauging the amount of pressure it would take. The tobacco-leaf poultice had done an admirable
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