“No, Sir,” I squeeze out.
“What are you hiding behind that bucket?”
Leander’s face turns red.
“Nothing, Sir.” I feel my throat tighten up.
Slade takes a step toward us. “Out of the way!”
Just before she reaches us, I move, banging my foot against the bucket. It teeters and splatters the floor. Slade pushes past me and I turn. Most of the message is erased—except for the last word, which Leander quickly steps on and smudges away.
She stares at the slimy puddle a moment, then shoves us away. “Incompetents, both of you. Ensign! Get them out of here.” A jittery soldier just a few years our senior appears and escorts us back to our cells.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull the bone fragment from its hiding place and run the tip of my finger against its sharp, jagged edge.
We won’t be here much longer, one way or another.
EIGHTEEN
I barely have time to wedge the bone into a corner crack in my cell when the others are herded back through the cell block at gunpoint by Styles and Renquist.
“We haven’t got all day!” Renquist barks.
The six of them look as bad as I feel. Dark hammocks cradle bloodshot eyes. Their skin is mired in gruesome muck.
As they pass me, both Dahlia and Arrah make eye contact with Leander and me, a mixture of confusion and resentment. They’re probably wondering why we were separated from the rest. At least the two of them look like they’re keeping it together, still holding their heads high.
That’s more than I can say for the rest of the Incentives.
Styles waves his weapon at me and Leander, who’s also standing at the threshold of his cell, across from me. “You two! Get your asses in line with the rest of ’em!”
Leander and I join the formation. Soon we’re trailing through the familiar maze like rats until we reach the showers.
“Strip!” Renquist orders.
No one says anything as we slip out of our clothes. Exhaustion is much more potent than modesty.
Styles lets out a sinewy whistle. He sidles up to Dahlia and tugs at the torn shirt draped over her bare shoulder. “Need any help with that?” he snickers.
She gives him a look that could cut and cauterize and turns away, flinging her clothes at his boots.
His walkie crackles to life. Get the Incentives prepped and over to the tanks, stat!
Cassius’s voice.
Tanks? What is he planning on doing to us now?
Before we can head under the shower heads, Renquist steps forward holding a hose, which uncoils behind him like a monstrous serpent. He’s grinning. “Sorry, folks. Haven’t got time for anything else.”
Styles lets out a whoop as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and spins the valve on the wall. They hose us down.
After what seems like forever, the onslaught stops and we’re left naked and freezing, hugging our bodies, the chamber echoing with chattering teeth and rapid breaths.
“Let’s go!” Styles snarls. He leads the way while Renquist follows behind. From somewhere ahead I can hear the soft sounds of sobbing, but I’m not sure who it’s coming from.
As the passageway veers into a new direction, I again concentrate on memorizing it, the number of steps, every turn, every grate. The corridor finally opens into a large room with gangways crisscrossing pools of black water, almost like the hangar bay the Eel docked in when we arrived.
Instead of submarines, however, dark sacks hang from the ceiling by cables. They’re like chunks of meat hanging in a butchery, except they’re vaguely formed into the shape of a human body. I swallow past the knot in my throat.
There are eight of them—one for each of us.
Armored personnel hustle about like bees in a hive, checking gauges, observing monitors, checking printouts. Styles and Renquist lead us down one of the gangways until we’re all standing directly below the ominous black casings.
A whir of grinding pulleys echoes through the room as the shapes descend until they’re at eye-level. One is noticeably smaller than the others and I glance at Corin, trying to control my sadness and rage.
Then the pods open like metallic jaws. Inside the padded interior I can see a miniature screen at eye-level, as well as small speakers surrounding a headrest area.
The Incentives shall now enter the Bio-Pods.
“Inside,” Renquist growls, shoving the muzzle of his gun into my arm.
Fear bores through my heart and into my stomach. I grip the sides of the pod. The material’s coated with a slimy lubricant and feels like a giant, leathery tongue. I hesitate on the gangway.
“I can’t go in there,” Jorgen gasps. All traces of cockiness are gone. His eyes are riveted on the pod before him. Mr. Ryland looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.
Tristin grips Corin’s hand, both of them silent, expressionless. The kid looks almost catatonic.
Then I’m shoved roughly between the shoulder blades and into my own pod. I have just enough time to catch a glimpse of Leander, Arrah, and Dahlia, their expressions grave as they’re jostled into their respective pods, before the enclosure seals closed with a soft pop, like a dark kiss. I’m plunged into pitch black.
My heart clatters against my ribs. The icy gelatinous mucus of the Bio-Pod closes in all around me, jamming into my ears, my nostrils, hardening against the contours of my body like drying cement. I’m paralyzed. My pulse thrums against the substance. Can’t move. Can’t see. Completely powerless.
Like being buried alive.
The infrared goggles I spied earlier have come online and I can make out the personnel scrambling to perform their duties in the hangar.
In one corner of the screen, superimposed over this image, are four thumbnail video feeds showing Cage, Crowley, Boaz, and Drusilla. They each appear to be barely clad, the guys bare-chested and in briefs, Drusilla in a tank top and shorts. All of them are standing on the bank of a dark body of water, just like the one the Bio-Pods are dangling over.
In the other corner of the screen is a display of readouts, with each Incentive’s name listed. Next to each name is data listed under the headings Oxygen Levels and BPM.
Right now, everyone’s O2 reading is exactly the same: one hundred percent. The heartbeat readings are another matter. Mine seems to be holding steady at ninety-five beats per minute. Higher than normal, but not too bad.
I study the oxygen readouts once again. If they’re keeping track of how much air we have in these prisons, it must mean we’re going to start losing it during the course of this Trial. As the implications sink in, the blip on the screen next to my name increases its pace.
Ninety-eight BPMs.
One-hundred and two BPMs.
Welcome Recruits to your next Trial!
Cassius’s hateful voice startles me in my cramped confines. Cage and the others stand at attention as Cassius continues.
In this Trial, each Recruit will be required to dive into the sea and retrieve the Bio-Pods containing each of their Incentives, which have been marked accordingly.
While the instructions are being relayed, I can feel my Bio-Pod vibrating as the pulleys overhead begin lowering it into the ocean. The bobbing hangar bay I saw before begins to pull away. My stomach churns. The lower half of my goggle screen fills with bubbles, then darkness that quickly devours the remaining light.
Then the black sea is all around me, gulping down my body, which rocks with sickening turbulence as I plummet into the depths.