The reflective dissent, p.11
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The Reflective Dissent, page 11

 

The Reflective Dissent
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  Beth won't let his attempt to bully her succeed.

  “They are not dead—yet,” he comments in a dry voice.

  What an idiot. Beth decides right then that she doesn't care that he healed her.

  But she swallows her pride. “May I see them?”

  “Are they both your lovers?” His smirk is smug.

  Beth slaps him. Hard. And judging by the backward stagger, he was not anticipating what she could mete.

  She has a moment's fierce satisfaction before he grips her and shakes her once, so hard her teeth click together.

  Beth gasps as pain like a barbed whip strikes through her body, and her head tilts back. Searing agony tears through her insides, and she moans.

  He captures the back of her skull. “Do not strike me again, female.” His eyes are molten gold, blazing into her brain.

  She attempts to assess him but gets nothing. Beth changes tactics. “Why can't a female travel with males and not have a sexual tie?”

  He licks his lips. Doesn't answer. It's the first moment she may have caught him slightly nervous. “Not possible, female.”

  “My name is Beth.”

  He releases her, and Beth falls on her rear end, unable to catch herself. She yelps, and he clenches his hands, regret flashing across his expression then leaving as quickly as it appeared.

  As Jacky would say, fuck him twice.

  Beth flat palms the floor and pushes herself up—tears well from the pain. She ignores it. Her hand whips out and hits the rough wood wall, and she uses the surface to slowly walk herself back to the narrow bed she was lying on. Her breaths are measured, deliberate. Every bit of her hurts from taking on the male. From healing more than she can and still not being whole.

  Without turning around, Beth stretches out, her back facing the male. Let him kill her or beat her to a pulp. At this point, she doesn't care which.

  A scalding tear slips out from beneath her clenched eyes. For an excruciating moment, Beth longs for her death, to end the unbearable pain and uncertainty.

  Papilio is in ruins, Jeb and Slade are Principle knows where, and she's got an insane male from an undetermined species and who loathes her existence laughing at her every misfortune.

  Yes. As the Threes would say, where is the silver lining in this mess?

  Ah. That's right. Ryan hasn't caught up with her yet! But there's time. Oh Principle yes, plenty of time for that. And here she lies, ready and waiting for him to see her death through. Why couldn't she finish him? Is The Cause the only thing that matters? Really?

  His voice breaks into her thoughts. “I smell your tears.”

  Something else for him to laugh at. Beth squeezes her lids more tightly and doesn't reply.

  The quiet lasts so long that Beth's sure that he's left. She begins to drift, her body's forced healing causing her drowsiness.

  “My name is Cyrn.”

  Beth's eyelids slam open, her heart hammering. She rolls over, seeking him. But he's gone.

  As though he never was.

  *

  Cyrn

  Cyrn swings from the tethered vegetation ropes that the few females of their clan make for silent transport through the tall canopies of forest.

  The cogs of his mind lumber through what transpired with the female.

  Beth.

  A pang of guilt pierces him so strongly he almost misses the next platform. He corrects his sloppiness and swings upward, landing smoothly on his leader's railed porch.

  Cyrn is a hundred feet above the ground and glances at the forest floor indifferently. He has been using tethers since infancy. First with his mother and then as a young male who hunted.

  Now their species dwindles while the Fragment swells.

  Gingerly he touches his cheek where the female—Beth—hit him with her tiny hand. He chuckles low in his throat. She struck true.

  Why she is an adept fighter is puzzling to Cyrn.

  More disturbing is how easily Beth would toss away her own life. What terrible burden must she carry that would decide her fate by her own hand? Cyrn posted guards at his platform, in the happenstance she would try again.

  Cyrn looks to the ground. It would be a killing fall from this distance were she to pitch herself over the rail.

  After a few moments of morose contemplation, he shakes his thoughts away like cobwebs. The female Beth will leave this place. With her males.

  Rage burns like wildfire inside Cyrn. He scented the lust from the other males. Why she denies their connection, he cannot answer. Cyrn shrugs at his own musings. Obviously, any female who would kill herself doesn't know her own mind. A type of lunacy.

  “Cyrn?”

  He spins, crouching low, his arms swinging in arcs at his side.

  Ulric grins, his teeth very bright in the soft nighttime that's moving toward dawn. “It's not easy to surprise you, my friend.”

  Cyrn straightens, a spontaneous smile spreading on his face. Cyrn adheres to strict hierarchy when others are present, but in private, he and Ulric have been close comrades since birth.

  “How fares the female?” he asks softly.

  Cyrn shakes his head. “Why, Ulric?”

  Ulric casts a circumspect look at Cyrn. “You are unmated.”

  Cyrn slowly nods, remembering. “I was not lucky enough to be part of the communal mating that occurred a few moons past.”

  Not long ago, dissenters within neighboring clans tried to break away, and after a battle, lust descended. Not an untypical outcome but one that Cyrn had inadvertently been omitted from as he was guarding the clan.

  Now many of his clanmates were mated to women who had been the spoils of that war. Though they were all willing.

  First Species have no need of raping or coercing females. They bear life and must be protected at all costs.

  Even Beth, as pathetic as she is.

  “They are not travelers, you know,” Ulric says, tilting his face to Cyrn.

  Cyrn perches on a low stool made of wood and bisected tethers from the organic material of the forest.

  He leans back, lacing his fingers and resting his spine against one of the tree house poles. The little chair creaks under his weight.

  Ulric's domain is the highest platform in the clan, with a thatched roof of mud and the strong, dried stalks of the fields. Roughly octagon, it circles a large evergreen tree, spanning to a twin beside it. The two great trees reek of the freshness of the forest and the bodies within.

  Cyrn closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He's always appreciated natural smells. Loving the forest where their clan dwells is a deep-seated joy inside his heart.

  Nothing spoils that. Until this dimwit female arrived.

  He feels his expression sour, and Cyrn pops forward, dangling his hands between his spread knees. He opens his eyes, staring at his alpha and friend. “What are they?”

  “The male—”

  “Who, the fanged one or the pretty one?” Cyrn smirks.

  Ulric chuckles. “He's almost too handsome, yes?”

  Cyrn thinks of the tall, hard male. Pale hair and eyes like cloud cover. “Not by our standards.” First Species males are judged by a different standard entirely. One not just of looks but of prowess, fighting—power.

  They look at each other, and finally Ulric nods. “Yes.”

  “He says his kind are called ʻReflectives.ʼ Natural-born jumpers.”

  Cyrn pulls a confused face. “What?”

  “You saw the female, how one minute she lay helpless and disabled on the field.”

  He nods, giving a significant glance to Ulric. “And the next she dangled off your weapon's belt... and committed the atrocity.”

  They are silent for a moment.

  “Jeb Merrick is his name. He says they are soldiers.”

  “The woman also?” Cyrn asks, but he thinks he already knows the answer, judging by the throbbing of his face.

  Ulric nods.

  Cyrn lightly touches where she slapped him. Still stings. Perhaps. “She is so small.” Cyrn has never seen a female so slight. But the look in her eyes is not delicate. It is hard.

  Ulric's expression bleeds to neutrality, and he meets Cyrn's gaze dead-on. “Deadly.”

  He folds his arms, relaxing back in his seat. “Why are they here?”

  “This Merrick claims they followed Beth Jasper here, because she was injured in a jump between one world to their world of origin.”

  “This is not where they are from.”

  “True”—Ulric chuckles at the ridiculousness of that—“but Merrick claims that to save her a second wound, he slowed the process of their transfer and, in so doing, lost control of the route.”

  “Very confusing, all of that. Give me a solid tether and the moon at my back anytime over this Pathway—”

  “It is not a Pathway travel. Essentially, these Reflectives make their own pathway through objects that reflect. You remember the loot we've taken from the Fragment who dare enter our clan?”

  Cyrn does. Very interesting artifacts.

  “The items that show reflection—images. They're called mirrors. They are portals, of a sort, to these people.”

  Cyrn says suddenly, “The female threatens to leave before she is fully healed.”

  Ulric's grin flashes into existence again. “Merrick believes her violent act was a way to disallow our torture, harm, or imparting permanent damage on her person.”

  He laughs at Cyrn's expression. “I know, my friend—we would never harm a female. However, from what Merrick tells me, these Reflectives face extreme danger whenever they move through these mirrored surfaces and travel to another world.”

  “They can leave. We have nothing interesting to offer.” The sooner Beth leaves, the better.

  Ulric's shrewd eyes scan him. “She is not what you think. Beth was here by accident, paralyzed from a bullet remnant.”

  “Bullet?” Cyrn's brows meet, then he remembers the Fragment. “Ah yes, the small projectiles that fly out of the smoking weapons.”

  Ulric nods. “Yes. But these were specialized. They explode upon impact.”

  Cyrn scowls harder. “What deplorable male shot a female?”

  “Not all believe as we do.”

  Cyrn's exhale is pure disgust. He is aware. Though the Band who live peaceably in their fortresses of wood are a fine example of males who do treat females well. Though their alliance with the First Species is uneasy, there is mutual respect. If only they could act together, perhaps they could extinguish the flame of the Fragment's existence forever.

  “Merrick has not spoken with her yet.” Ulric smirks, and Cyrn does as well. The male would have much to heal after they subdued him. “But he insists she acted to protect something they call The Cause, and whatever pathetic way of life they maintain in their home world. He didn't expound, though it sounds like harsh realities have hit their world hard, and they want to leave here safely, find their leader, then return to where they came from.”

  Something doesn't make sense. “Where is their leader?” Cyrn asks slowly.

  Ulric swipes a palm over his head, and Cyrn notes he's in his human form, though it is harder to maintain than gorillan, which is the half form all First Species can maintain effortlessly.

  “Merrick is keeping some things from me.”

  Cyrn gives a sage nod.

  “But this much is sure. They are a ragged group who have not bathed, eaten, or rested in a handful of days. We can see them as guests, then they leave.”

  “Even the female?” Cyrn's voice is sharper than he intended, for he knows how Ulric's mind works.

  Ulric slowly shakes his head, saying in a low voice, “Never the female.”

  Cyrn smiles.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Beth

  Beth's eyelids fly open as a small noise wakes her.

  As she rolls over on her side, the wounds of her body announce themselves, and she bites her lip to keep from groaning. She's so weak her head feels attached by a noodle. She touches the wound and finds the vaguest ropelike scar.

  “Traveler,” a female voice from the railing calls.

  Beth blinks, assessing the woman. She is tall and well fashioned of bone, as they would say in Papilio. Intelligent, with an IQ of... Beth does not know. It escapes her.

  She frowns. Also, the woman is not part of the primate species, yet she is. Her most unusual eyes are the lightest shade of brown that could still be classified as such. Her long dark hair spirals out of control to a narrow waist that swells to broad hips.

  “I am Natasha, Ulric's mate.”

  Beth says nothing, but her eyes stumble over the tray in the taller woman's hands. Food piled high steams in lazy opaque spirals.

  Her mouth waters at the sight and smells. Now that imminent danger has been avoided, the basic needs of water and food have reasserted themselves, and her concave stomach fairly whimpers with reproach.

  She swallows the painful emptiness. “I am Reflective Beth Jasper.”

  Natasha's face takes on a vague smile, as though she is secretly amused by Beth's introduction.

  Beth can't determine what language to use. She can speak passable Fragment—which is simply the archaic speech of both the sphere-dwellers and Clansmen—and remnants of Three in a crude combination. But this?

  Beth is unsure for the first time in a foreign sector. She's studied the languages of all the sectors, going beyond what was needed, even learning much of their slang.

  Now she's on fragile ground. Her training, for the first time, isn't offering Beth the confidence she's accustomed to, and she's weak as a kitten.

  “I don't know what a Reflective is.” The woman’s eyes cast down shyly. “But I have brought food and drink.”

  “Thank you,” Beth says then tenses as the woman draws nearer. She is quite tall and, Beth suspects, timid.

  Natasha carefully places the tray on the edge of the bed, at the farthest point from where Beth sits.

  Delicious smells assail Beth. Pheasant, berries, and a mixture of deep green vegetation lay a meter from her gnawing belly.

  Beth keeps a wary gaze on Natasha, and with a hidden blade at her ankle, she extracts the weapon and uses the tip to carefully hook the edge of the tray and slowly slide it closer.

  Natasha's eyes widen at the sight. “You are armed?”

  Beth nods, giving a crooked smile. “Always.”

  “What are you?”

  Beth's lips quirk higher. “A woman.”

  Irritation flickers across the other woman's features, and Beth has a momentary pang of regret. She really shouldn't bite the hand that feeds her.

  “A Reflective is a soldier.”

  Natasha's mocha-colored skin puckers between her brows. “A soldier of what?”

  “Worlds.” Beth slaps her hand on a large pheasant portion, and by feel, she grabs the correct part and lifts it to her lips. After tearing off the meat with her teeth, she slowly chews, never taking her eyes from Natasha. She's almost dizzy from the heady fragrance of the meat and restrains the groan that tries to break free.

  “I won't harm you,” Natasha says with a puzzled smile, shaking her head.

  Beth nearly chokes on her food. “You couldn't hurt me,” and after a moment's pause, “but I won't be attacked, either,” Beth says through her food. She gulps the entire load down and tears off more, taking sips of icy water between bites. Her belly begins to fill but cramps at the sudden consumption after being empty for so long.

  Natasha sighs, her brows coming together, and she folds her arms underneath her breasts. “You are smaller than me.”

  Beth forgets she's eating, smiling through the juice of the berries she's crushed between her teeth. “I could take down two of your males at once.” She lifts a shoulder, because it's of no consequence. She mentions it only for clarity.

  Beth wants to leave here, acquire Rachett—and get the hades back to Papilio.

  These other considerations—Jeb's binding to her, her existence—are secondary to The Cause.

  Beth's people are depending on the few Reflectives who remain to save their way of life.

  Natasha laughs, and the sound doesn't match her sultry voice. It's a high and bright tinkling. Contagious.

  Beth smiles despite her recent circumstances, fatigue, and abating hunger.

  “The Men of the Tree are fierce.” Her pale amber eyes search Beth's.

  “Is that what they call themselves?” Beth muses aloud. Because she's curious. Reflectives don't explore, they police. But Beth has always dreamed of a time when she didn't need to restore order but could be a part of foreign chaos as a visitor.

  Natasha clearly begins to lose patience, crossing her arms and tilting her head. “You are a female, the same as me.”

  “I am female—I am not the same as you.”

  Natasha's hands fist. “You don't know what I've been through—who I am.” Her voice has gone low with anger.

  Beth's lips curl. “And the same can be said about myself.”

  They stare at each other.

  Natasha throws her arms out, indicating the dwelling Beth eats within. “One of our males cured you; Cyrn saved your life.”

  Beth acknowledges her comment with a chin dip. “I thanked him for that.”

  Natasha crosses her arms. “You don't seem very grateful.”

  Beth sighs, swinging her legs around to the edge of the bed, and stands. Her head swims, and even though Beth slept soundly, she is weak, and the food has not had sufficient time to restore her strength. Which, in turn, makes her angry. Beth hates feeling vulnerable.

  “You are not well.” Natasha's eyebrows draw together, and she steps nearer.

  “Stay where you are.”

  Natasha spreads her palms. “Why don't you trust me?” She looks stricken.

  Beth tilts her head. “I don't know, might be because your males are so bossy and violent.” She thinks of Cyrn. “And I was fed blood.”

  A distrustful expression overtakes her face. “You sound like you're Fragment.”

  “I hear your accent. You try to bury it, but I hear it.” Beth lifts a shoulder. “So I speak as you do.”

  “I hate the sound of their words.” Natasha's voice is soft—careful. The girl's pale brown eyes shine with unshed tears.

 
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