The Book of Olivia Read online

  The Book of Olivia

  Clone, Book Two

  Paxton Summers

  After Glows Publishing

  © Copyright 2017 D L Jackson writing as Paxton Summers

  Published by After Glows Publishing

  PO Box 224

  Middleburg, FL 32050

  AfterGlowsPublishing.com

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  Cover by Syneca Featherstone

  Formatting by AG Formatting

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  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  AfterGlowsPublishing.com

  Reviews and Raves

  “Clone isn’t just a fantastic read, it is a journey into a world you won’t soon forget and will want to visit over and over again. Ms. Jackson is a Science Fiction master”—Bestselling author of the Westervelt Wolves, Rebecca Royce

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  “In a world where you can't tell enemy from friend, a world that might be our future, DL Jackson gives us a tale of love, treachery and high drama. An exciting read from a talented writer who's created a scenario that's both fascinating and frightening”—Bestselling author of Strangers, Barbara Elsborg

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  “D.L. Jackson is a rarity, an author whose imagination knows no limit. Add in attention to detail, settings and world building based on science, and she delivers extraordinary works of fiction as she takes the reader to unforgettable places with characters who grab hold of your heart and won’t let go.”—Author of Splintered Energy, Arlene Webb

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  “DL Jackson’s Clone: The Book of Eva is everything I’ve come to expect from one of my favorite authors. Fascinating characters, a strong thread of romance, and a plot that kept me on the edge of my seat. I can’t wait for the next story in the series.”—Author of The Virgin and the Playboy and Switch, Kate Richards

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  “This story features heroines with agency. They make decisions that drive the plot, take risks, face dangerous situations, and endure many sacrifices. So if you hear of someone looking for SF stories with empowering female protagonists, point them toward THE BOOK OF EVA.”---Heather Massey, The Galaxy Express

  Contents

  Introduction

  Note from the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Preview of Clone, The Lost Chapters

  About the Author

  Note From the Publisher

  Book of Olivia

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  Would you sacrifice love for a greater cause?

  After months on the run, Olivia has changed forever. But Axel’s transformation is even more alarming. Buried deep inside the man she loves is a monster, one that only shows his face when handed power. He’s got that now and much more. Axel is convinced Olivia is his soul, his reason for living, and he will do anything to hold onto her and the freedom he’s won—no matter the cost.

  Marcus Axis is searching for his wife. When he finally finds her, letting go is the last thing he plans to do. But is he after total control of Aeropia, that which Olivia and Axel hold, to add to the territory he’s already acquired, or does he really want a family with her as he claims? Is her marriage to him the only way to heal her fractured country?

  Torn between the man of her past and the one who could change the future by fusing Aeropia back together, Olivia is determined to make the right choice for her people this time, even if her heart desires something else.

  Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoy this departure in my normal genre. Bringing the Clone series and the heroes and heroines of this dystopian tale to you has been a passion of mine for over seven years. This series has challenged me in every way imaginable to be a better writer—to tell a story from the heart, as I felt it needed to be told, and not by some expected formula.

  Sincerely,

  Paxton Summers

  Prologue

  A cockroach skitters across the bench and over the rim of a rusty metal bowl filled with some kind of mush. I am sure I know the ingredients but pretend otherwise. The insect is so large I can hear the click, click, click of its brown spiky legs as it passes. Now, the roach sits inches from the tip of my nose. It twitches its antennae and cocks it head, as if to say, may I? I shudder and swallow.

  Though the slop has cooled for several hours, it hasn’t made its stench any better. The combination of decay, stale grease and mildew envelop me. It almost seems as though the stink has invisible fingers tightening around my throat. The back of my mouth waters, and my stomach clenches. I cup my hand over my lips. I will not heave.

  My stomach aches, its emptiness as bitter as the acid coating my tongue. My condition is deteriorating, and I know I need the sustenance, but the contents of the bowl remind me too much of my past, something I have no desire to taste, let alone swallow.

  The little creeper tips his head again, watching me. Waiting. Waiting.

  Let him have it. I whack the steel dish with the back of my knuckles. Its dreary contents spin across the cell like a UFO, yet the bug rides it out, its spiky appendages clinging to the rim. Clang! The dish hits the floor and bounces once before sliding into the stone wall.

  Scrape. I lift my head to glance at the mold-covered stone blocks. The silence in my cell amplifies everything, and I know without a doubt, I’ve made a bad choice.

  Great. Good job.

  My self-berating does little to still my nerves and help me brace for what will come next. The only sibling of my legal husband has taken an interest in me I don’t understand. Nor do I want to.

  I push myself up to sit and pull my knees to my chin, wrapping my arms around my shins in an attempt to stop the shivers racking my body. The cell is hot and sticky, but to me it feels like the Arctic. The city brig is below ground, isolated—damp. I’m no longer sure if the sun shines or the moon glows above, and I guess it doesn’t matter, since I don’t expect to get out of this place. I close my eyes.

  My teeth chatter on their own volition. If oblivion were a mattress, I’d gladly drop into it and remain there forever. Yet, it isn’t. I’m stuck here, mired in misery, about to sink deeper.

  “Oliviaaaaaaa…”

  And there it is, the misery I’d dreaded, increasing tenfold. I clamp my hands over my ears. Of all the things I want to go away—the pain, the shaking, the steel door and stone walls that hold me hostage, it is my next door neighbor I desire most would vanish. I hate the bastard. It’s an emotion I didn’t think I possessed, but have recently discovered and dusted off.

  Shut up.

  Pilot laughs, reminding me of a maniacal villain in a hol
o-drama, following it up with a cliché bad-guy line I knew before he said it he couldn’t resist spouting, and I prove it by miming along with him.

  “Poor little Olivia.”

  A fever burns at my temple where the skin pulls and puckers at the site of a wound. It has long since ceased smelling like fresh blood, and reeks like dead flesh. It reminds me of my relationship with the man who put it there. Putrefied. Painful.

  The cut itches. And I’m not talking a little tickle, more a persistent sensation, begging me to scrape my skin off with a dull razor in order to find relief. My flesh twitches, and I slap it several times with my palm, hoping the sting will take my mind off the infected tissue. I’m sure I look like I’ve lost my mind, and perhaps I have. If not, I soon will. Smack. Smack. Smack. This itch could drive anyone mad.

  I want to scratch the wound raw, but I know more of the need to scratch will follow the brief moment of relief. I refrain only by exerting all my self-control and focusing on the wall. There is one other irritation I’d like to banish, but raking him open isn’t an option. If only.

  “I know you can hear me. The acoustics are great down here.” Each word throbs through the tender tissues in my brain, spiking the gray matter, pulsing in my temples. Driving me, for lack of a better term, nuts. More so than the itch.

  The acid in my stomach roils, and I rock back and forth to ease the discomfort. My father didn’t believe in nanites, or my injury would be minor, causing me little discomfort, unlike now. If I possessed the tiny robots, I’d probably have a slight scar, if any, and the wound would be a memory. The infected tissues, I can live with for now.

  Pilot—not so much.

  “I’ve been dying to have a little chat, Olivia.”

  Of course you have. I wish he’d really die. Keel over. Stop talking. Shut the hell up. His idea of a chat and mine, are much different. As if I actually wanted to engage him in conversation. The last thing I desire to do. For days, I tried to ignore him, but, like the niggling need to scratch, his continuous talking torments me. It would be a mistake to respond, but, as I glance at the wall and the three tic marks I etch there with a stone every time the soldiers bring my daily meal, I can no longer resist his taunts. “Leave me alone.”

  “Ah, she has a voice. I’d begun to wonder if I spoke to a corpse. Until you hurled your dish, I didn’t know for certain. What do you hope to accomplish in your rebellion, Iron Bee?” Even though the stone blocks between us are thick, I cannot escape his whispers.

  “Why do you care?” I cave and dance with the devil, letting him take the lead. It would not be the first time. I rest my head back against the hard surface, savoring the chill the granite holds.

  Scrape, something drags across the floor next door. A spring squeaks. I know he’s directly behind me now, sitting against the other side of the barrier. Back to back, like girls’ gossip hour. I roll my eyes. Right.

  “Were you going to save the world, do all the great things your family failed to do?”

  “Is that possible?” Freedom comes with great cost—I just never thought the price would be so steep. It seems the mistakes of my youth have become my grave marker. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Marcus will execute me as a traitor soon.” I try to tell myself it isn’t so, but the longer I’m confined to the cell, the more I begin to believe death is in my future—and from my husband’s hands, a man I’d given the benefit of the doubt.

  He chuckles. I fear I am right. “And are you not a traitor?” he asks.

  No sense in denying something the entire nation knows. “I am. But I had my reasons.” I betrayed my family, government, and the only world I knew. No, I won’t argue it. Treason sits at the top of a long, long list of my many crimes. Crimes for humanity.

  “Ah, honor, or your sense of it. You wouldn’t be the first queen in history whose honor or, in your case, dishonor, caused her to lose her head. Or is there another reason?”

  “I have never claimed to be a queen.”

  “Is this empire not of your creation? Do you not struggle to keep it together—hold the keystone in place so your glass foundation won’t fracture at your feet? That is not the behavior of a citizen, but of its leader, or their so-called queen.” He snorts. “So why did you do it?”

  Pilot can wax quite poetic at times, reminding me all too much my enemy had as much intelligence as mental imbalance. A dangerous combination. “My reasons are far more selfish than honor. I fear for my soul.” I sigh. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “There, you are wrong, Olivia. Redemption is not for people like us. Our souls were lost a long time ago. If I had one, I’d most likely care about losing it. But, since I don’t, it’s not an issue.”

  “Us? I’m nothing like you.” Anger washes over me like breakers on a beach. I’ve never done anything to intentionally hurt anyone, not like the monster in the cell next to me. He murdered and reveled in it—most likely kept souvenirs in a trophy case. There is bad, and then there’s evil. Pilot fits into the last category. Serial killer—most certainly. But, then again, by definition, I, too, fit into the classification. My hands are stained with blood, and all my good intentions will not remove the tarnish.

  As if reading my mind, Pilot speaks up. “You don’t have a soul, little sister. Like recognizes like.”

  “You’re mistaken.” But is he? Would someone with a soul do what I did?

  “Tell me, how many are dead because of you? My father and mother are among them. In my place, would you not see you as soulless—a black-hearted murdering bitch?”

  Ah, the man does have a way with words. As for his father—he deserved what he got, even if I had an indirect part in it. I wouldn’t change General Axis’s outcome if I could. But of his mother, a woman I had never met, I cannot say the same. “What I did is different from what you did.”

  “Is it? Can you reach down deep and really say that? Slaughter is slaughter, even if you dress it up and call it revolution for a noble cause. What makes what you did any less than murder?”

  I can’t deny he spoke the truth, so I remain silent.

  “Ah, poor misguided, Olivia. I didn’t think so.” He chuckles. “Tell me, what do you know about your husband? Now there is a man of honor. I want to be just like him when I grow up.”

  “Shut up. I need to sleep.” The last thing I want is to drift off into my nightmares, a surreal world I can no longer separate from my waking existence. I stumble from dream to dream, reality absorbed along the way. When I close my eyes, memories push to the surface and any rest eludes my grasp, dancing like vapor before me, slipping through my fingers in fragile wisps. No, I do not desire to sleep, but I don’t want to listen to him any further. He comes way too close to the truth with each word past his lips.

  But I also don’t want to hear about Marcus. And of course his brother gives me no option.

  “There’s no rest for the wicked, Olivia. Your countdown timer started a long time ago. Pretty soon it will hit zero. You might as well tell me why you feel what you did could redeem you—save you? For posterity’s sake. I’ll be sure to let my brother know when he releases me.”

  Do I want Marcus to know why? My guts clench. If I am honest, I do. Desperately. I want him to know I am not what people think. Inside me a lonely girl still resides, a young woman who cares what happened to the people of Aeropia. In fact, she always cared, even if her actions caused so many deaths. “You wouldn’t understand.” One has to be able to feel to truly know my torment.

  “Try me.”

  Maybe my desperation for a sounding board, or the thought my time would soon run out as he insinuated, has me bearing witness. I do not know. When I open my mouth, my story flows. A confession of sorts, and the sick, twisted man next door—my priest.

  To my surprise, something else happens as I talk. Pilot remains silent. For such peace, I would trade my empire ten times over. And so, I can’t hold back. The queen will lose her head. These stolen moments will be my final words. Lord fo
rgive me, I intend to make them count.

  1

  He had no idea what my life has been like—even before the revolt. I did not exist on champagne and parties, as most assume when they discovered who I am. I could not conceal the rage in my voice, nor did I want to. The bastard wanted to know, then he shall. I’d gladly share my personal sliver of hell. “Once upon a time, the dictator had a sick daughter.”

  Pilot chuckled. “And she wanted to be a queen.” He tsked. “Olivia, you can do better. Nobody starts a story like that anymore, unless it’s a fairy tale. Is there magic, singing princesses, and happily ever afters in your story?”

  “No. My father and mother had me for one purpose only, to lead the country, to be in charge someday when they were gone. That someday came much faster than I expected. I never wanted the responsibility. I wanted to belong—to someone, somewhere, and exist as more than a puppet to further an agenda. That is not the stuff young girls’ dreams are made of. My story is not a fairy tale, far from it.”

  “Ah, so we have motive. You did it for love.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I did it for love, and…” Were my drives so pure? I blew out a breath as I recounted the past few months, tossing the devil scraps and unloading my conscience. What were my motives, if not for love?