Evolution (5 page)

Sleep does not come easily, though I'm so exhausted by now
that I do sleep some.  I toss and turn.  I wake at every noise. 
My dreams are troubled by Sentries and Matt.  At some point, I have a
glimpse of the white tower I’ve been dreaming of for months, but it has moved
farther away than ever.  In my dream, I experience a dreadful finality
that I will never reach it, and nestled within that finality is the sense that
I will never be complete.  I wake in darkness, breathing hard, feeling
like I have seen my own death occur within my life.  Somehow this is worse
than normal death, which is an ending.  This death goes on and on.

An hour before dawn I'm staring wide-eyed at the ceiling,
trying not to panic.  My whole body is gripped with unspecified
horror.  I force down each breath.  I tell my heart not to
explode.  Frozen, I clench my fists at my sides and wait for something to
make it all stop.  For some event, some change, some sign.  The sun
rises and its rays spill in the window, first slowly, then in full
brilliance.  I'm not sure when it happens, but sometime between then and
now, I become capable of moving.  Of pretending to feel normal, if not
actually feeling normal.

I rise, stand in front of the wall mirror, and stare at
myself.  Who is this person?  I still don't know.  She looks
young, and beautiful, and strong.  I feel the exact opposite of all these
things.  Four months of life is a thousand years.  My soul is stained
with death and despair.  I am so, so tired.  There is still so much
that separates us, and yet, there are things that we share.  We have both
lost everything that mattered.  First her, then me.  I touch the mark
on my forehead, closing my eyes.  When I open them and gaze at her, my
hand slips to my mouth.  I lean in and pull down my lip, where the name
'Jason' is printed clearly in the mirror's reflection.  My mind rearranges
the letters automatically as I read them.  Jonas.  I shudder as I
drop my hand, staring through the tears at this person, who must love
him.  Once, I assumed the name must be a slaver's mark, but I was
wrong.  My name on his lip binds us to each other.  At least, in a
different world, where we were free to choose, it bound us to each other. 
There is sorrow in the thought—sorrow and loss.  The long, painful pull of
losing someone and having no recourse against the grief.  But I'm still
not sure if it's her grief or mine.  The intensity grows to something so
full I cannot deny it, but then I'm sitting on the edge of my bed rocking with
my arms wrapped about myself, and I'm thinking about Oscar.

That's real.  Oscar was real.

I stand up and move to the dresser, allowing my fingers to
slide over the slingshot that rests on the surface.  For just a moment, my
mind touches the memory of Matt placing it back in my hands.

The knock on the door makes me jump.  I bat the tears
away from my face and turn toward the door just as it swings open.

Miranda sticks her head in.  “Just checking on you,”
she says, coming all the way in and leaning on the door.  “You know. 
Like a friend would.”

"You freak me out when you act like you
care."  I make my voice light and cocky, and give her a smirk to go
with it.

It must be convincing because she laughs.  “I saw
Neveah,” she says.  “Thought you’d want to know.  She’s fine. 
Same as always.”

I nod, wanting to ask more, but finding myself unable. 
I want to see her myself.  “Thanks.”  I grab my jacket and move
toward her.

She opens the door.

We emerge into the hallway at the same time that Matt is
coming out of his room.  "'Morning ladies," he says, glancing at
us before heading toward the bathroom.  He's wearing a towel wrapped about
his waist, and nothing else.  In the half a second before I look away, I
can't help but appreciate the way his smooth skin is sculpted around an
unexpectedly chiseled torso.  Miranda is still gawking at his back as he
makes it to the door.  I turn and head down the stairs, and call over my
shoulder flatly, "'Morning."

Miranda catches up with me at the bottom, grinning. 
Her cheeks are flushed.  "Lucky you."

I level my eyes at her and keep moving toward the front
door.  "When I'm queen of the world, I'm going to have your head on a
stick."

"Don't be jealous," she says.  "I was
just looking.  Besides, he'd give you my head on a stick
now
if you
asked him for it."

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, glancing sideways at
her.  "Hm.  Maybe I should go do that."

She rolls her eyes.

"Or," I smile, "if you like him that much,
you could seduce him away from me.  I totally won't mind.  Promise."

"Are you sure about that?" she asks.  "I
saw your face."

I open my mouth to ask how she could possibly have seen my
face when her eyes were glued to Matt, but she's still talking.

"Anyway, Matt could have whatever he wants.  And
he wants
you
.  Not me."

"He
can't
have whatever he wants," I
snap.  "That's
why
he wants it."  I turn the knob
and shove the door open, blinking against the strong morning sunlight and the
bitter whip of cold air.

"Maybe you shouldn't play so hard to get, then."

"Maybe
you
shouldn't be so easy."  I
step out into the morning, immediately wrapping my arms around myself. 
Miranda is huffing and puffing behind me, but my foul mood leaves me beyond
caring.  Jacob and Taylor materialize from the side of the porch. 
Miranda strides away without another word.  I watch her back and feel, for
just a moment, a tinge of regret.  She's the only thing I have left, and
I'm pushing her away.

I head down the street, not sure where I'm going, but
needing to be moving.  There's no pretty label for it or nicer way of
describing it.  I'm feeling sorry for myself.  And as far as I'm
concerned, I have every right.  This life is hell.  The only joy I
have ever known has been stolen from me by inhuman hands.  All my
struggles for survival have paid off in a life that I have no desire to
live.  The choices I’ve made have cost me my home, my family.  I am a
prisoner, if not a slave.  All my plans have failed.

But I don't regret it.  Whatever has come, whatever
cost I have paid, or will pay, cannot outweigh the evil that did not befall
us.  The Outpost has been saved.  It's not perfect.  It's still
full of misery and despair.  But it is not beyond us.  It is not an
unimaginable nightmare.

Even the Sentries seem to have been defeated.  Maybe
more will come, but Matt’s Sentries can continue to fight them off.  We
might be safe.  We might have a chance.

So I’m stuck here.  Well, I’m not sitting around
anymore and watching this mess fester like an infected wound.  If I’m
going to be here, it’s damned-well going to be a different Outpost than
before.  Matt might be in charge, but I saw their faces.  People are
afraid of me.  I can work with that.

I head for the Rustler, which has always been the center of
things in this miserable place.  I’m not even sure what I’m planning on
doing.  Just that I have to do
something
.  The streets are
quieter this morning.  Some of the tension is gone.  Matt’s tactics
of fear and reassurance seem to be working.

Before I even turn onto the main street, I can see the top
of Matt's big tree towering over everything.  It bends and sways in the
wind, making me wonder if I want to get any closer.  Once I come around
the corner, I see the crazy network of cables holding the thing up.  They
run away from it in all directions, attaching to the buildings all
around.  Most of them are high up, but some stretch across the
street.  Now people have to go over or under them to pass by.  There
is no avoiding Matt's Christmas.

I move along the sidewalk by Canson's store, and cannot help
but glance up.  Sarah's body is gone now, but her ghost must still be
here.  There must be so many ghosts, really.  My eyes go to the tree
again, towering against the sky.  It casts a dark shadow over the ground
so that I cannot see the blood stains.  I wonder at the point of it. 
What it means.  Or what it meant.  All I see is something that
shouldn’t be here.  Trees belong to the world outside the Outpost. 
The world of Oscar's white doe, and so many other mysteries.  That world
does not belong to us and we do not belong to it.  What is Matt trying to
say by bringing this giant here?  Is he preparing us for his next
move?  Does he really mean to rule the world?

I shiver, looking away.  I walk through the door of the
Rustler, making myself think about other things.  Deliberately turning my
thoughts away from comparisons between Matt and Grey.  Inside, the warmth
moves through me comfortingly at first.  I sit down at an empty table,
needing a moment to think.  A short while later, I realize I’m still cold. 
I’m also still not sure what I intend to do.

Luckily, this is sorted out for me when a group of men at
one of the tables suddenly raise their voices far above what could be
considered civilized conversation.  I turn my face to watch them. 
They’re too embroiled in their dispute to notice me.  They’re all barking
at each other so fiercely I can’t make out a single word.  Heartbeats
later, one of them is reaching for a knife.

“Stop!” I command, rising to my feet and slamming my empty
shot glass down on the table.  I’m surprised they even hear me over their
own chatter, but they do.  And they freeze.  As a matter of fact,
every single person in the Rustler freezes.  There is dead silence.

I grab onto my early success before they can recover or
think about anything.  “What the hell is going on?” I ask, frowning,
tapping my fingers on the table in annoyance.

Uneasy glances fly around the group of men until one of them
has the courage to say, very politely, “Sorry, Eden.  We didn’t mean to
interrupt your drink.  We’ll take it outside.”

With grunts of agreement and mumbled apologies, they all
start to move toward the door.

“Nah-ah.”  I stand up straighter and cross my
arms.  Again, they freeze.  This time their eyes widen with new
alarm.  “I want to know what’s going on.”

They all consider me, a mix of disbelief and fear playing in
their eyes.  The fear seems to be winning out.  The same one who
spoke before now says, “OK.  You made your point.  We’ll take it to
Matt.”

My eyes narrow on him.  “Matt’s busy,” I growl. 
“I’ll handle it.”

Surprise and amusement adds to the mix as their eyes flick
around again in unspoken communication.  I’m losing ground quickly. 
Time to bring back the fear.

Channeling Matt as best I can, I turn my face calmly to the
side to speak to Jacob and Taylor at the door behind me.  “Jacob,” I say,
making my voice deadly quiet, “call one of my Sentries.”  Inside, I’m
screaming at myself for being foolish.  If they call my bluff— If Jacob
doesn’t play along—

But Jacob plays along perfectly.  With a dark look, he
steps toward the door.  As he does, Taylor moves to my side, crossing his
arms and fixing the group of men with a look that is deadpan and utterly
intimidating.

“Wait,” several of the men blurt out at once before Jacob
can get out the door.

My bodyguard stops and throws me a questioning look.

I wave him off and arch my eyebrows at the group of men.

They all start spilling at once.

Much as expected, they’re all grappling for the same bit of
pie.  But to my surprise, it’s Donegan’s estate that’s up for grabs. 
Turns out the old drug lord didn’t make it to this side of the conflict. 
And now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing him after Matt put him in
the VR machine.

I pull up a chair and sit at the table with the group of men
as they fill me in on the problem.  Their voices have once again become
polite and respectful.  It might have something to do with my two imposing
bodyguards hovering at my back, but at any rate, they’ve bought my bluff. 
Now I get to make my first power play.

Luckily, the two groups are still entirely divided, and
though the growling across the table is carefully restrained from physical
action, it is still growling none-the-less.  These are men who were united
under Donegan—I even recognize some of them, now that I’m paying attention. 
The story goes, they tried to work together after his demise, but without his
discipline, their outfit fell into two parts.  They all think they have
right to more than their share, and they’re fixated on getting it.  As a
matter of fact, they’re so focused on arguing over property and numbers, they
miss the obvious.  I quickly set them straight.

“We divide it down the middle,” Jordan Black is insisting,
emphasizing his point with a clenched fist on the table.  “And
sixteen-five and an old warehouse is not half, I don’t care what you say. 
Not when you consider the other property, and certainly not the equipment and
goods in hand.  It’s not even close.”

“What would you say is half?” I ask calmly.

“Twenty-three bare minimum.  Plus the warehouse,
still.”

The men across the table are shaking their heads.

“It doesn’t matter if that’s half,” says Ren Sawyer, his
scraggly beard waving back and forth with the rest of his head.  “Some of
us have been on with Donegan for years and years.  Our share is
bigger.  It just is.”

I nod slowly.  “That may be so,” I say, considering
them both, “but I think you might find it makes more sense for both of you not
to divide it after all, once you consider Matt’s share.”

There is a thick silence while blood drains from faces all around
the table.  I avoid smiling and wait.

Ren eventually clears his throat and says in a husky voice,
“Matt’s share?”

Now I favor him with an easy smile.  “Of course,” I
say, feigning innocence.  “Matt always gets a share when things change
hands.  Surely you already thought of this.”