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Beth
Beth comes awake in broken chunks of consciousness and pain. She carefully moves her jaw from side to side and winces at the stiffness.
The floor beneath her feels cool, and she rolls to her side, her eyes still shut, and presses a forearm to the ground. After a few moments, she heaves onto her forearms and knees, bowing forward as if praying.
Beth doesn't pray; she kneels because she can't stand.
Waves of dizziness undulate through her body like a slithering snake in motion. She gulps, and the urge to throw up slowly passes. Sometimes, a head injury will feel better with a good evacuation of everything from the body.
Not this time. Beth knows from experience that if she can just ride this wave of injury through, she'll mend.
She lets the knowledge of the condition she's in fade away from her brain. She also disallows the shakes from lack of food and water.
Beth is Reflective and trained to eschew basic needs. There are other matters more important than the temporary setback of being imprisoned by corrupt Threes, guided by the even more criminal intent of Reflective Lance Ryan.
Thinking of him makes her angry, breathing new life into her psyche. Beth lifts her head just enough from between her flattened palms, keeping herself centered, breaths even and deep, and scans her surroundings.
Bars of a soft gray surround her at every turn. Beth hoists herself on her rear and surveys the environment.
She's inside a prison of sorts with bars of ceramic-coated stainless steel, which tells Beth that the Threes, or Ryan, have already anticipated housing Reflectives. Her stomach begins to churn anew. Premeditation is wholly different than Threes just stumbling upon their little party and making an opportunistic capture.
She tilts her head upward, studying the roof of the same material as the bars. She turns her attention to the floor, and her heartbeats accelerate. Her gaze shifts to what looks like cement beneath her. Certain regions of the Greater Quadrant of America may still use granite flakes within the manufacture of this material.
Her eyes flick to the other cellsʼ flooring. She sees nothing. Beth stiffens her shoulders. Something will present itself for her to jump.
Blinking rapidly, Beth staggers over a sight she hoped never to see.
Jeb is tied down within his cell.
Four ceramic-coated stainless rings are driven into the corners of the square holding pen, and some type of plastic ropes anchor his wrists and ankles, which are spread away from his torso.
Zip ties, Beth suddenly remembers.
Beth's breath releases in an anguished rush. The Bloodlings have trap doors above the roofs of their cells.
Sunlight. Beth shudders.
Maddie and Jacky are together in one cell and appear to be sleeping. Or drugged. Beth can't discount what might have transpired after she was beaten into unconsciousness.
Her eyes travel back to Slade and Gunnar's cells. Beth understands on some level that they're all being held like animals.
Jeb groans, startling Beth out of her reverie. She walks over to the side of her cell, wraps her chilled fingers around the bars, and looks directly into his. Her eyes run the distance between them and estimate that about three meters separate their holding pens.
Jeb turns his face, his eyes catching hers.
Beth blinks back her emotions, and a thought occurs to her, and she searches the four corners of her own cell. Rings stand in nonreflective repose. Just seeing the benign anchors speeds her heart.
“Beth,” Jeb rasps.
She turns back to him, sees his vulnerability, and the urge to cry anew is brutal resistance clogging her airway. Tears are a luxury, one she can't afford. “Merrick,” she finally croaks.
His look is bold, possessive. “They think I am the threat, so I've been...” He lifts his hands, and the ties snap with the tension.
“But you're not the only threat,” she says quietly.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Do whatever you need to survive, Beth. Do it for me.” His Adam's apple bobs with his swallow, and Beth sees Jeb is fighting the horrible emotions of a bonded male. A man who has found his soul mate. His eyes won't release her, and she feels imprisoned by his command.
“And me.”
Beth's attention swings to the new voice.
Slade grabs the smooth bars of his cell as his black eyes find her in the dim lighting of the space.
“Slade,” Beth begins, dipping her chin, “I'm afraid—”
“—you would be a fool not to be.”
Beth shakes her head, and loose hair falls in front of her aching, abraded face. “I am not afraid.”
“Let me guess, you're Reflective,” Jacky says from his cell. His voice is poisonous with disdain.
Beth levels her eyes on him. “That's correct. But further, fear will rob me of everything I can bring to help us.”
“You're not speaking like a Three, Beth,” Jeb says softly.
The backs of her eyelids burn, her throat tightening further. “No,” she concedes in a whisper.
“Daughter,” Gunnar calls softly.
The emotion in his voice is insistent velvet against her, and Beth bites the inside of her cheek to rein in her chaotic emotions.
She slowly turns her face in his direction.
“What are these Threes like? What chances do we have against them?”
Beth grips the bars, her eyes scanning their surroundings more closely for a second time. She is so attuned to anything that holds reflective properties that sensing them is not uncommon. Her eyes sweep back to Gunnar.
“I—without anything to reflect from—I can't jump.” She indicates the floor beneath with a palm. “If this were true recycled material, there'd be a chance it would retain granite from its manufacture.”
“It doesn't have any because we need that stone for other stuff, like houses. Not cement. Wasteful,” Jacky sings in the background.
Beth's hands tighten on the bars. “Those small flakes are reflective.”
“What are we going to do?” Maddie asks quietly.
I'm not sure.
Beth switches to Three speech. “We'll see what they're going to do with us. With Ryan in the mix, anything can happen. He's an unpredictable male.”
“He's not a real Reflective. He's a dissenter,” Jeb growls from the floor.
“True, Merrick,” Slade agrees.
Gunnar waves their words away. “We already understand what Ryan is. I heard about the illegal games of Reflectives pitted against one another for blood sport.” His flat black gaze moves to Beth. “Let's come up with some kind of plan. Something for now.”
“The plan is, we kick these guysʼ asses and get the hell out of dodge.”
Beth almost smiles. Almost.
“We need to get out of here, that much is true. Then we need to jump to One and try to reacquire Rachett.”
Slade tilts his head, and a fine strand of ebony hair falls forward, gently curving around his jaw. “Beth, I told you—”
“—I don't care. Merrick and I can't leave him there. If Ratchett's dead, so be it, but the least we can do is exhaust that he might not be.”
“Dangerous,” Jacky comments in a bald voice, leaning against the bars, his arms folded.
Beth turns, her humor gone. “Yes. Everything we do is dangerous. It is our lives.”
“But not ours, Jasper. Me and Mad”—he jerks a thumb at Maddie— “we just want to stay here and figure it out. I mean, once we kick their asses.”
Thirteen cycles, Beth reminds herself.
“Jacky, you will never be safe here. Your parents and home are no more.” She plows forward, regardless of the numb expression overtaking his face. Some words must be said, no matter how horrible to utter. “Jeb and I—Reflective Merrick,” she pauses, dipping her chin. I will not hide. She scrapes the insides of herself for fortitude. Raising her eyes, she meets his. “We will do what we can to provide a home of some kind for you both on Papilio.”
“Pfft!” Jacky kicks a bar. “What Papilio? The effed mess of Reflective women whores and Reflectives that don't know how to put shit back together?”
“Jacky,” Maddie begins, “they're trying—”
“Nah. I get it, Mad.” Jacky's eyes stare at Beth, then move to Merrick as he cranes his neck backward to meet Jacky's infuriated gaze. “You guys are doing your best, but I'm thinking my best might be better. Maybe I just avoid all of ya, and then I won't be like—collateral damage or some shit.”
Beth blinks. She hates what the youngling says, but from his perspective, it might be very true. Maybe he and Maddie are safer without being around Reflectives.
Her eyes sweep the holding cells, finding no weakness in construction—nothing to jump from. Her attention shifts to a vaulted ceiling, all dulled metal. Open-ceiling rafters with pulse-on lighting in LED shine softly down at them. Enough for illumination but not enough to see very well by.
Who is she to say that they will protect him and Maddie when they're currently imprisoned by his own people?
“You're an ungrateful youngling,” Slade comments.
Jacky tilts his head back, his eyes like bright slivers of emeralds on Slade. “Yeah, you just figured that? Well, news flash, fangface, I dig Merrick and Jasper. I know a lot of shit that's come down isn't their fault. Those are the facts, man. But”—he points at Slade—“shit still came down, and we're covered in it.”
“Jacky's right,” Jeb concedes quietly.
Jacky chuckles. “Now I know crap's bad if Merrick agrees with anything I say.”
Jeb snorts. “Yes, now is definitely not the time for optimism.”
“This solves nothing. My kindred blood is held prisoner, and I can't defend her.” Gunnar wraps his strong hands around the bars, his naturally gray flesh bleeding to white from the tension. He and Maddie stare at each other.
Jacky mimes fangs with his fingers inside his open mouth. “And do some blood suck, huh?”
Gunnar glares at Jacky.
Maddie giggles, and Gunnar frowns.
“You Bloodling dudes are seriously without humor. Not a good trait.”
The door opens, and the group collectively stiffens, moving back to the center of their cells.
Jeb whistles in a frequency a Three couldn't detect; twenty-five thousand hertz.
Beth strides back to the part of her cell nearest him.
“Remember what I said. They expect less from you.” Using their native Latin is a risk. Jeb was beaten with the stock of a gun for speaking it before.
Of course, Ryan understands Latin perfectly, but he's not the man who walks through the door.
“Hello, folks.” He smiles, and Beth backs away from the bars, keeping her arms loose and at her sides.
A Three male, one of about forty-three cycles, strolls casually between the cells. He wears a white lab coat and stands nearly six feet. Beth hisses an inhale when she senses his IQ.
Jeb and she make eye contact. One hundred eighty. Scientist.
She smiles reassuringly at Jeb. This Three cannot fight. He doesn't carry himself as though he is familiar with his body's limitations. That gives the Reflectives an immediate advantage.
“I'm Carl Lindstrom, and I'm in charge of this study.”
“I'm an American. I have rights,” Jacky fires back.
Lindstrom gives Jacky his sharp attention. “Not here. You're under what our loophole-filled government coins as need.” With curved fingertips, he makes quotes around the last word.
“Bullshit. My parents and house are gone. I'm nothing special. I'm not needed for dick, Einstein.”
His face wrinkles in distaste. “You don't have paranormal talent. Yet.” He runs a finger down his pulse device. “Jackson Caldera.” Lindstrom lifts his face, smiling happily.
Jacky raises his middle finger. “Sit and spin, douche.”
“Ah yes, the poetry of our foul youth.” His eyes narrow on Jacky, who scowls defiantly back.
Lindstrom returns his attention to her and Jeb. “You've been sloppy, getting caught with your collective underwear down.” He makes a tsk-tsk noise. “Lance had mentioned that Reflective Merrick had some innate timepiece, and its function is some kind of biological directive to become aware of the perfect mate?” Lindstrom belly laughs, giving a small shake of his head. “As you might already be aware, I am a scientist, and as such, I hold little faith in anything that is not tangible. So without further ado, myself and Lance Ryan will begin the fun.” He rubs his hands together as though he's a caricature of an evil villain.
“What are you talking about?” Beth speaks for the first time.
“The experimentation, of course. We finally have the Bloodlings and Reflectives? Excellent.” His smile broadens. “If the males resist full cooperation with my tests, I will harm the women.”
“And you will die,” Slade states blandly, an unhealthy sheen coating his skin. At least his many bullet wounds have closed.
“With great slowness,” Gunnar adds.
Beth sighs. The Bloodlings are very focused but not always the best strategists when females are threatened.
“Very well,” Lindstrom replies. “I'm counting on that kind of intensity.” His eyes glitter mercilessly on Jeb.
“We begin with you.”
Beth grips the rails, pressing her face between the bars so tightly it stretches the skin of her face taut. “We have Directives of The Cause, Carl Lindstrom.”
He turns his head, inspecting her as though she were an interesting bug. “That may be. However, your code of ethics is not nearly as entertaining as seeing what kind of damage Reflective Merrick can heal. And that is only the proverbial tip of the learning iceberg.”
Beth stares at him for a full minute.
He finally drops his eyes, and Beth knows she'll break the sixth directive first:
Take life only in defense of another.
