Secondborn

  “Why . . . did you . . . do that?”

  “It isn’t right,” I reply. “You’re helpless.”

  It doesn’t mean he’ll live. I reach into my pouch and extract a red beacon, placing it on his boot where the black one had been.

  “What? Why?” His face scrunches up in agony.

  “Because you’ll die if I don’t get you help. You don’t have a moniker. The medical drone won’t help you if it can’t identify you.”

  I use my fusionblade to slice off the hand of the dead Sword soldier, pick up the hand, and hurriedly rest it on top of the Star-Fated man’s. The medical drone arrives and scans the moniker. Nothing happens. It hovers idle. Then, a bright burst of laser light shines from the belly of the automated medic. It cuts the Gates of Dawn soldier’s armor open. I hold my breath as the medical drone goes to work. A syringe emerges and sticks in his neck. He closes his eyes, and the pained expression on his face eases. He loses consciousness. I release the breath.

  The ground shakes again. A mortar shell explodes so close that dirt rains down upon my head. I have to stay until the medical drone finishes. If I don’t, he’ll be shipped away on a hovering stretcher to a medical evacuation ship that will take him to the Twilight Forest Base, right into the hands of interrogators who will do far worse to him than what the death drone had planned.

  Sword soldiers stumble past, retreating. I close my visor and move around the man I’ve chosen to sticketh with, pushing corpses to shelter him. Crawling to his side, I make myself as small as possible. The robotic arm sutures singed edges of his skin. It dresses the wounds when it’s finished. My resolve to stay begins to wear thin.

  The medical drone hoists the Gates of Dawn soldier, loading him onto an inflating stretcher. It secures him to it and flies away. The stretcher lifts to hover, but I destroy the homing mechanism on its side with my sword. It rapidly deflates. With the toe of my boot, I kick the soldier’s fusionblade next to his hand, then extract my penlight and prop it against his left thigh, turning it on and facing it toward the sky, hoping it will help his people find him. Then I run.

  The roaring thunder of an explosion sends burning flack streaming down on me. I’m knocked sideways. Falling, I’m stunned for a few breaths. I rise to my feet and keep running. Fear makes my stomach heave, but I swallow the bile down. I glance behind me. The flash of fusion fire singes the side of my visor, just skimming over its surface. I turn my head back and keep going.

  Ahead, troopships are firing up. The closest one shuts its door and lifts off, leaving me behind. I force myself to push on. My thighs burn with exertion. More fusion fire flies past my shoulder. I get closer to the next troopship, but the door of it closes before I can make it there. It lifts off right in front of me.

  I cry this time. “Stop!” I scream. “Please! Stop!” Panicking, I sob as the ship ascends and grows smaller in the sky.

  All around me, broken boy soldiers lie discarded. I trip over one, almost falling, but I right myself again and keep going. The pull of changing wind sucks me forward as a small airship descends in front of me. The door is already open, lined with Sword soldiers. Fusion-rifle fire hums by, the airship soldiers shooting into the gathering storm of the enemy behind me. A few of them jump from the belly of the airship and surge out near me. One tall Sword soldier grabs my arm and drags me back toward the aircraft. No ramp extends when we reach its open door. The tall soldier picks me up and throws me inside, where I hit the floor hard and tumble. The other Sword soldiers jump inside one after another.

  The tall one makes a circular gesture with his finger, and we ascend amid exploding mortar shells. The airship shakes and I’m tossed around. The tall soldier falls on top of me, holding me to the floor. The other soldiers hold on to grips on the walls.

  I wheeze and try to catch my breath. We stabilize, and the bucking of the airship eases. The tall soldier slides off me. He presses the external button that retracts my visor, and the sword-shaded screen ticks back. Reaching out, I push the button on the side of his helmet. His visor falls away, and the most beautiful storm-cloud eyes gaze back at me. Hawthorne.

  Chapter 15

  A Beautiful Crime

  Back at the hangar, I lean against the airship wall, feeling the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand next to mine. All the other soldiers have left the aircraft. It’s just Hawthorne and me who remain. Our fingers touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Commander Aslanbek gave me clearance to track your moniker.” He probably thought I was dead. My moniker didn’t move for a long time out there. But Hawthorne fought to find me anyway.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  His hand moves to cover mine. I wince and cradle it in my lap.

  “You’re hurt.” Hawthorne tries to look, but I won’t let him touch it.

  “I’ll get it looked at later,” I reply. The crest etched into the hilt left its mark, and it will be like a death warrant for the Gates of Dawn soldier and his family if my regiment discovers it. It was monumentally stupid of him to use his family fusionblade in combat, or else extremely arrogant. If I ever see him again, I’ll sticketh my boot up his ass.

  Hawthorne’s voice is soft. “Do you know what went through my mind when I found out that they took you in the middle of the night and dropped you off somewhere on the battlefield, Roselle?” I shake my head. His expression turns bleak. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s it, then. She’s gone. She won’t survive that. They’ve figured out a way to kill her as some kind of sick revenge against her mother, and now my life will go back to normal.’” He scowls. “Then I started imagining you on the battlefield—abandoned. Alone.” His teeth clench. “I had this pain—this unbelievable ache in my chest. I didn’t know why at first, but I do now. I used to worry about active duty because I might be killed. Now I’m terrified that it’ll be you who dies out there, and I’ll have to go back to a life without you in it.”

  “You hardly know me, Hawthorne.”

  “I’ve been in love with you since I was ten, Roselle . . . maybe even before that.”

  I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve watched you forever—for as long as I can remember.”

  Disappointment rises in me. “I’m not that person you grew up watching, Hawthorne. I mean, I was her, but ever since I left home and Transitioned, I’m not her anymore. She’s not me.”

  “You’re right. You’re not her. You’re better. You think for yourself, and you never back down when you believe you’re right. And you’re not perfect, like they made her seem. You have flaws, but your flaws are sexy. You’re naïve and jaded, smart and gullible, ferocious and delicate. Men will break themselves against your fragile smile.”

  “And you? Will you break, too?” I ask, a little breathless.

  “I’m already broken, Roselle.”

  His hand reaches over to cup my cheek. For a moment, his warm fingers rest on my nape, his thumb brushing my skin. I’ve lost the ability to breathe, as if the air is too thin. His face is half in shadow. He leans closer.

  Something rattles outside the airship. Hawthorne drops his hand from me. We move apart, afraid to be seen. Another airship is landing in the hangar. We peek through the open door. Twilight soldiers are waiting outside. I recognize a few, Carrick among them. Tolman is with him.

  “I know them, Hawthorne,” I whisper. “They sent me to the front line this morning.”

  Hawthorne points with two fingers, first to his eyes, then toward the front of our airship. I nod and follow him to the cockpit. He switches on an audio feed that picks up voices from outside our airship.

  “Why is that St. Sismode brat still breathing my air?” an angry voice barks.

  “She got lucky. We’ll take her again tonight,” another voice responds. “No way she survives a second time.”

  “I want you to deliver a dead secondborn to me!” the first voice screams. “It has to look like the Gates of Dawn
are responsible. Contact me when you have her body. I’d like to deliver it personally.”

  The door of the other airship closes, and the gathered Twilight soldiers move away. Hawthorne is the first to speak. “I’ll take care of it, Roselle. I have friends. I’ll reach out to everyone in our unit who ever owed me a favor.”

  “That was a commander. This goes higher up than even him. You can’t help, Hawthorne. I’ll think of something. They cannot suspect that we know or they’ll act sooner.”

  “They’re going to act tonight!”

  “Then I’ve got time.”

  When I get back to my capsule, I decide I have no other option but to talk to Clifton Salloway. I search my moniker for his contact information. Surprisingly, he’s not listed under “Inter-Fate Playboy” or “Panty-Dropping Smile.” I’m forced to resort to Salloway Munitions. I expect some kind of secretary, but I’m linked directly to the man himself.

  “Roselle St. Sismode. What a pleasure it is to see you.” His good looks shine through even in holographic form.

  “We need to meet.”

  “Would this be for business or pleasure?” He grins.

  “Business.”

  “Pity,” he sighs.

  “I have a proposition. When can we speak?”

  “How about this evening? I’m en route to Twilight now. We can discuss your proposition at my private quarters on the Base.”

  “I would love to, but some Twilight Forest officers have been having a bit of fun with me. They plan to send me out to the front line again this evening. In a few hours, I’ll be knee-deep in mud and blood.”

  “Don’t worry about armoring up tonight. I’ll take care of it. I’ll send a hovercar and an escort for you at twenty-two hundred.” His tone brooks no refusal. I nod and sign off.

  I have two hours.

  Slipping from my capsule, I make my way to Hawthorne’s bunk. I knock gently on the door. It opens almost immediately. I put my finger to my lips and climb down the steps. He follows me. I lead him to the locker room, into an empty shower closet. I lock the door behind us and face him. “I found a way to avoid being sent to the front.”

  “How?”

  “You’re not going to like it.” His face loses its cautious smile. “I contacted Clifton Salloway. I’m going to meet him.”

  Hawthorne closes his eyes and turns away. “When?”

  “Tonight. It’s not what you think. I’m going to make him an offer—one that will be profitable to him. It’ll ensure that he’ll do everything in his power to keep us from the battlefield.”

  “Explain.”

  “Later. I have to get ready to meet his escort. You have to trust me.”

  Hawthorne leans against the shower door. “You think your plan is going to work?”

  “I do. I’ll be safe tonight anyway.”

  “You understand who he is, right?” Hawthorne asks. “He’s an arms dealer. He sells weapons, legally and illegally. Men like him make their own rules. Men like that don’t do favors for free.”

  “I’m going to make him seem more legitimate. I still have the St. Sismode name. It’s synonymous with weapons. I’ll use the name they tried to take from me.”

  Hawthorne holds me in his arms. “I wish I could protect you.”

  “I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t found me today.” My fingertips slip beneath his shirt, inching it up, exploring his ribs. As I lift the shirt over his head, it turns inside out, like my heart. I let it drop on the floor. Hawthorne’s chest is broad and strong.

  His hands go to the hem of my shirt, peeling it away over my head, exposing my military-issue bra. Midnight-blue cotton covers my breasts, a light blue string cinching in a crisscross at my back. Hawthorne reaches around me and unties the lace. The string slips from my back. He keeps the ribbon, tucking it inside the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

  I arch my brow.

  “It has your scent,” he answers in a gruff voice. He leans his face nearer.

  I tilt my lips up to meet his mouth. His kiss weakens my knees. He gathers me closer to him, and the warmth of his forearm against the small of my back is seductive. His fingertips move to my shoulder, sliding off the blue strap. He kisses my skin, and I shiver. An ache builds inside me. My hand slips to his back, feeling the play of his muscles beneath his smooth skin. The tips of my breasts rub his chest. An explosion of heat drenches me.

  Hawthorne lifts me in his arms and presses my back against the wall. My legs wrap around his narrow waist. I feel the hard length of him against me. My mouth finds his again. He holds my bottom, his strong fingers digging into my flesh, his tongue caressing mine.

  “I don’t want your first time to be in a shower closet,” he says.

  “What does it matter where,” I whisper, “as long as it’s with you?”

  “When I make love to you, Roselle, it’s going to take longer than a few minutes, and we’ll need protection. They’ll kill our baby and you, too, if you get pregnant. I’ll never let that happen.”

  Being secondborn is a curse that never ends. “I hate them,” I hiss. “I hate them all.” Hawthorne sets me on my feet. I pick up my shirt and hold it to me. Angry tears threaten.

  “Shh . . .” He embraces me again. “Don’t cry. It’s no good hating them. They can’t feel it, and it will only turn you bitter.”

  “We need to change things.”

  “We need to stay alive, Roselle. We can work around the rules and still be together. Let me show you.”

  He takes my shirt and tosses it to the floor by the door. Blue light flashes from the scanner on the wall when he swipes his left hand beneath it. The showerhead turns on. Warm water soaks us both. A smile tugs at my lips. I look up at him. Water runs over his face and drips from his chin. He returns my smile, staring into my eyes. His hands cup my cheeks. His mouth finds mine again, kissing away everything awful about today.

  I lean against him. Hawthorne’s hand strokes my wet hair. His steely muscles tense under my fingertips. I discover he’s a bit ticklish when my unhurt palm caresses his side. He chuckles, his lips grinning against mine. I feel his hands go lower, following my spine to the waistband of my pajama pants. His hand slips underneath the fabric—past my sturdy underwear—to my bare skin. He cups my bottom. I almost melt in his arms. My heart flutters wildly as he explores my body. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough to discover the vastness of him, but the seconds tick by. My fingers tangle in his wet hair. The water turns off. Hawthorne reaches over and swipes his moniker again. It turns back on.

  “How did you do that?” I ask.

  “I’m a higher rank than you. I get a longer shower.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say breathlessly.

  “Are you complaining?” he teases. “Because I could—”

  Rising up on my tiptoes, I kiss him. His tongue strokes mine. He inches my pajamas down, and I step out of them.

  I’m naked. With him.

  I slide my hand inside his waistband, over the smooth skin of his backside, and his clothes pool with mine on the floor. He groans. “You’re so beautiful, Roselle.” Softly uttered, his words fill my head. Tender kisses fall on skin. Desire tears through me like fragments of an artillery shell. Its sharp shrapnel travels everywhere with devastating effect. The heat of it is almost too much to bear. “Terribly beautiful,” Hawthorne amends.

  I’m inexplicably linked to this man, as if he owns pieces of me—shards of my heart. The intimacy existing between us was forged in battle and by circumstance, sealed by a searing need for something real to cling to in a world of disposable people. And I do cling to him, consumed by the upheaval of passion that he elicits in me as I learn his body and he, mine.

  The water turns off again. Hawthorne hangs his head. “I’m out of shower credits for today.”

  It’s difficult for me to let go of him, but I must. I move away to the shelf by the door. I take a towel from the small stack of them, wrapping it around me, and then I hand him one. “I’ll leave first, and th
en you,” I whisper.

  “Wait!”

  I turn back around.

  Hawthorne takes a step to me and kisses me again. “I didn’t get to kiss you good-bye.”

  I want to linger here with him, but I force myself to leave the shower. On the way to my locker, I toss my wet clothes into the phloem. Selecting my uniform, I take it to the bathroom closet, towel off, and put it on. Back at my locker, I apply cooling ointment to my hand and rewrap it in a dry bandage. Closing the narrow door, I walk to a sink with a mirror above it. I twist my hair into an attractive coil and secure it with pins. I pinch my cheeks, adding some color, but they’re already flushed, and my lips are full, swollen from kissing Hawthorne. Evaluating myself in the mirror, I have a glow that was never there before.

  “You’re stunning, Roselle,” Hawthorne says behind me. He has changed back into dry pajama bottoms. His T-shirt is draped over one bare shoulder. The other shoulder leans against the wall. He’s so handsome that it’s hard not to melt into the floor.

  “Do I look different?” I ask as I blush. “I feel different.”

  “To me you do, but I don’t think anyone else will notice,” he replies softly.

  “I don’t have any makeup. Firstborns are used to makeup.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  “You’re biased. You’ve loved me since I was nine,” I tease him.

  “I have. I still do—love you.”

  “How could I not feel pretty now?” I whisper.

  My moniker vibrates. I have a message. I read the holographic words.

  Meet me at the main gate atrium of your Tree in twenty minutes.

  —Clifton

  I frown.

  “What is it?” Hawthorne asks.

  “It’s a message from Firstborn Salloway. He wants me to meet him at the main entrance of the Tree. He was supposed to send an escort, not come himself. I’ll see you soon.” Impulsively, I move toward him to kiss him good-bye, but then I stop and look around. At the other end of the row, soldiers are brushing their teeth. I look down. “This is going to be difficult—not touching you.”