Secondborn

  “So you protected me yet again. Why?”

  “I wanted to find you myself and tell you what a stupid move it was to bring your family fusionblade to a war.”

  “Really?” He leans forward, forearms on his knees. His shoulder doesn’t seem to be troubling him. His right collarbone is straight under his fashionable dress shirt.

  “No,” I reply. “Not really. I never thought I’d see you again.” I touch my head. It’s wrapped in a bandage, which I begin unwinding.

  Winterstrom sits down on the mattress next to me. He tries to stay my hand. “What are you doing? You have a concussion.” The bandage is bloody by my temple. I probe the wound. It’s deep.

  “I need you to stop fixing me! I need every single bruise and contusion your soldiers gave me. My Fate needs to see my wounds so that they don’t accuse me of being a traitor.”

  “You plan to go back? You’re going to have to explain yourself.”

  “My friends—the ones I came with—are they here, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they hurt?”

  “The male is. The female was untouched.”

  “How bad is he?” I ask.

  “Better than you,” he says grimly. “They’re safe.”

  I exhale in relief. “Flannigan’s man?”

  “He’s here as well. He’s waiting to speak to you.”

  “I need to meet with him now. I don’t have a lot of time.” I inch toward the far side of the big bed. Every move is a struggle. The metal apparatus attached to my right arm slides a little as I straighten my elbow with a small stab of pain. I yank its needle out and scoot to the edge of the mattress.

  Winterstrom rises to his feet. “You’re in no condition to move. You’re weak. You’ve been sedated for two days.”

  “Two days!” I breathe hard with fear. I stand and immediately regret it. A disorienting rush of blood to my head almost knocks me to the floor. I catch myself with both my hands, and Winterstrom helps me back into the bed. I realize that the only thing I have on is an oversize shirt, and by the smell of it—a soft scent of lemongrass—it belongs to him. “How is it that they haven’t found me yet?”

  “We’ve been jamming your signals since you entered our airspace—that includes your moniker. No one knows you’re here. Why did you come?” he asks. “Are you seeking asylum, like your friends?”

  “I have to make a deal—with Flannigan’s man. Do you have my bag?”

  “I gave it to him.”

  “Did you see what was in it?”

  “State-of-the-art moniker chips, thousands of them. Moncalate. Profile programmer. Worth a fortune.”

  “Flannigan died for it. Was it worth her life?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  A deep voice behind Winterstrom answers me. “We’ve been introduced. My name is Daltrey Leon.” He enters the room and closes the door. I remember him as a hologram in the middle of the night at the debriefing with the Clarities. In person, he’s not ghostly. He’s tall, with long dark hair tied back at his crown. His full beard is meticulously well groomed, and his sandy eyes bear an uncanny resemblance to Dune’s.

  “Is that your real name?” I ask. “Your brothers have different ones. It’s so hard to keep up.”

  “So you did recognize me that night we met. I often wondered. I took a chance by not wearing the colored eyewear that I normally use. Your mother is usually so observant, but I think she only had you on her mind that night.”

  “Are there more of you about?” I ask wearily. “I know of three—you, Walther, and Dune.”

  “I’d rather not answer that question.”

  “Why? You know everything there is to know about me. I’m at a disadvantage.”

  Daltrey’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Thank you for arranging this meeting, Reykin. I’d like to speak with Roselle alone.”

  “I’ll stay,” Reykin Winterstrom replies.

  “This is family business, Reykin.”

  “I wasn’t aware she was a member of your family, Daltrey.”

  “She’s my brother’s daughter.”

  “By blood?” Reykin asks.

  “No, but there are stronger ties than blood. Ask her who her real father is. I doubt she will tell you Kennet Abjorn.”

  “She has my protection,” Reykin says.

  “Are you both serious right now?” I ask. “I have a list of demands, and then you’re going to let me return to the Fate of Swords. You can argue about who has more right to hear what I’m about to say after I’m gone.”

  “I think she’s delirious, Daltrey,” Reykin says, reaching out to touch my forehead. I would swat his hand away, but it’s cool and soothing against my skin. “You should come back after she’s had more time to recover.”

  “No, this is who she is,” Daltrey responds. He picks up another chair and brings it to the side of the bed. “She’s been taught to think—to reason—to strategize. She’s performing to the high standards of her training, and I’m very interested in what she has to say.” Reykin’s hand slips away, but he doesn’t leave my side. He’s sticking around. It’s somewhat endearing.

  “You have Flannigan’s bag?” I ask Daltrey.

  “I do. Thank you for delivering it to me.”

  “She had a message for you.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “She said, ‘Tell him it was nearly flawless.’ And then she said to tell you to miss her every day.”

  A sad smile touches his lips. “Tell me how she died.”

  I explain in detail our meeting and subsequent foray into Census. “I’ve had the monikers for a year. I haven’t known what to do with them—who to contact.”

  “You didn’t need anything until now,” Daltrey replies. It’s a harsh assessment that paints me in a self-serving light.

  “Oh, I’ve needed plenty, Daltrey,” I counter angrily. “I just had to survive on my own.”

  Daltrey studies me. “Until now, but you have very little to bargain with, Roselle—I’m in possession of everything you and Flannigan stole from Census. You held nothing back from me. You’ve lost your position of power.”

  “Have I?” I ask calmly. “That’s interesting, because I feel like I have all the power in this room. You may have the bag, but it’s useless without a way to upload your fake profiles. If they never make it into the Republic’s networks, then what do you really have? A bunch of holograms that won’t scan.”

  “We’re Stars—infiltrating networks is what we do.”

  “It’s what you used to do. Your network of spies has been decimated. Admit it. Your operatives in the field couldn’t get out with their copycat monikers and were all cut down. Those still alive have had to go to ground. You’re losing everything.”

  He’s unruffled. “You have set us back as well, Roselle—you and your hydrogen-powered alternatives. You’ve made the antiquated method of weaponry sexy. Our best hope for winning this conflict is being thwarted by you.”

  “I’m interested in saving the lives of secondborn Swords. All your Gates of Dawn soldiers are doing is killing secondborns. It’s completely senseless, your war. You’re changing nothing. If you want to rebel, rebel against firstborns. Instead, you’ve let them go on with their lives while you murder us in droves. You can choose to walk away anytime you want. Secondborn Sword soldiers have no choice but to fight you or die. Either you kill us or they kill us. There are zero options for Swords.”

  “Secondborn Swords have options,” Daltrey replies. “You could lay down your weapons and revolt against firstborns. You can join us whenever you wish.”

  “We can cross your line and get our heads beaten in, you mean.” I touch the wound on my temple.

  “The secondborns of your Fate need a leader to show them the way,” he replies.

  “I can help you with your moniker problem, and then you can leave me alone. I’ll never tell who is really a thirdborn or a spy.”

/>   “You have no power to make demands, Roselle.”

  “I fail to see your point of view.”

  “I have your friends. You’ll do as I say or I’ll kill them, and then I’ll kill you.”

  “I think this is called mutually assured destruction, Daltrey. Without me, there is no more you. I’m your best chance to operate in the Fate of Swords—or any of the Fates of the Republic. If you don’t return me, a certain arms dealer will come looking for me. He makes weapons that are not currently accounted for in any ledger. A lot of those weapons find their way here. He’d hate it if his spokesperson didn’t come back. It could make him very angry.”

  Daltrey gives me a genuine smile. “Dune will be so proud. What are your demands?”

  “My friends each get a new moniker and new lives as firstborns—someplace near the sea where they can live without the constant threat of war. You protect them with everything you have. I’ll provide currency for them to live on. We will make arrangements for the transfer when I’m back in my Fate.”

  “You have money?” he asks. He doesn’t seem at all surprised.

  “I’m a spokesperson for a weapons dealer during a civil war. Money is not hard to come by.”

  “How will you convince your Fate that you were the victim of circumstance here? You look guilty—flying in here with your friends and landing in enemy territory.”

  “It’s not going to be easy. I might not be able to convince a certain Census agent, who wants me as his personal punching bag, that I’m innocent. He might have to die.”

  “That can be a problem for you. Maybe you should rethink your options and remain with us.”

  “That would be bad for you. You need me to go back. You just let me win our argument—you want me to think I’m not being controlled, but I’m really doing exactly what you want me to do. All this, this war, it’s an exercise in futility.”

  His stare sharpens, and he sits up straighter, waiting for me to explain.

  “This has all been a lesson so that when you make me The Sword, I do things differently—so that when I have true power, power you’ve given me, I change things.”

  He tries to suppress a smile, but it’s there, in his eyes. He’s impressed that I’ve figured it out. “You know what it’s like to be a Transitioned secondborn, Roselle. The one person you’ve loved your entire life is a thirdborn. Your moniker was disabled before you were processed. You were exposed to the lawlessness of Census, hunted by an agent who subjected you to his unwavering cruelty. You’ve been embroiled in a war where no one wins—where you’re expected to slaughter wounded soldiers.” He gazes at Reykin before looking back at me. “Many people have died to show you just how bad things are in our world, and you alone will be in a position to change things.”

  I was only guessing, but it really is true. “If I become The Sword, I’ll have Fabian Bowie and his son Grisholm as my constant adversaries. One word from either of them and my position of power would vanish in the wind.”

  “Your charisma and your mind far exceed theirs. They are pure entitlement, but you will win the hearts of your people. I have faith in you, Roselle. You have not disappointed me once since you were born. You are the Crown of Swords.”

  “There’s just one thing—I love my brother.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “It changes nothing in your eyes, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “I need to go back to my airship. I’d like to leave by tonight.”

  “I don’t think that’s the best option. You’ll leave the airship here. They won’t be able to check the logs and your ruse of a malfunction won’t be discovered. We’ll get you passage back to Swords on a watercraft. Reykin can make the arrangements. He’ll also provide the self-replicating malware that will allow us to penetrate their industrial control systems. You’ll simply have to find a way to deliver it. And since you and Reykin have an affinity for each other that goes deeper than with anyone else I could assign, he’ll be your contact. It’s best to have a natural connection, and he’s smarter than he seems. With the exception of your scar, he rarely makes a mistake. And he’s a bit more ruthless than most, which has its uses. I trained him myself to fight—I also trained Dune, so you’re well matched.” Daltrey rises from his seat. “If you need me, get a message to me through Reykin.” He glances at the younger man. “Make sure her scar is removed before she returns to Swords.”

  “It’ll be done,” Reykin agrees, then he stands and walks Daltrey to the door.

  “Hawthorne . . . Hawthorne Trugrave,” I call after them. “Was he ever a part of this?”

  Daltrey looks back. “No,” he replies. “He was never one of us.”

  “Did you kill his brother Flint to separate us?”

  “No, we liked the secondborn Sword. He made you happy. I believe it was your other ally who killed his brother—your arms dealer.”

  And there it is. The thing I feared since asking Clifton to take Hawthorne out of the infantry. I showed Clifton how to hurt me.

  “The Gates of Dawn are interested in change, Roselle,” Daltrey continues. “Your other allies—the Rose Garden Society—they’re committed to the status quo, the preservation of the firstborn hierarchy. Don’t confuse us. We only overlap when it comes to your welfare.”

  The door closes behind Daltrey. I stare at the ceiling. My head pounds. I can’t find a comfortable position. Everything hurts. “What would you do if someone killed your brother, Reykin?”

  Reykin is quiet. He walks to the window. Standing in the sunlight, he resembles a sculpted god. “I’d take my fusionblade to the battlefield and kill as many of my enemy as I could find until I was cut down, and then saved by a little Sword soldier.” He pulls something from his pocket. It’s my penlight. He studies it. “I’d return this, but I’ve grown rather attached to it.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “A Census agent killed Radix. He was only ten years old.”

  “Was he thirdborn?”

  Reykin gives a humorless laugh. “He was fifthborn, but they don’t know that. They thought he was thirdborn. They killed my mother as well, and dragged her body through the streets of our town.”

  “I’m sorry.” I glance at his left hand. He has a new golden shooting star moniker. “You’re firstborn.”

  “Yes. I still have three younger brothers. The two youngest are in hiding. I’ll make sure they both get one of the new monikers you brought.”

  “Where is your secondborn brother?”

  “I haven’t been able to locate him in the two years since he Transitioned.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ransom Winterstrom. My father had an offbeat sense of humor. I’d introduce you to him, but he died last year, defending my mother.”

  It’s no mystery now why Reykin was on the battlefield that gray day last year when I found him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know Ransom, but I’ll make inquiries for you.”

  “Maybe he’s better off not knowing anything that happened here. I wasn’t always the best brother to him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to see me.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’ll want to see you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  He turns to face me. Something about him tugs at me. Maybe it’s the sameness I see in him. He was trained like I was—his mentor trained mine. I recognize the intensity and control with which he holds himself. He looks at me as if he sees me, not just the girl that grew up in front of cameras. “You’re going back to protect your brother,” Reykin says softly. “It’s what I’d do, if I were you. Know this, Roselle, so that there are never any lies between us. I’ll kill Gabriel if or when I’m ordered to. I won’t hesitate to cut his throat, and there will be nothing that you can say or do to stop me.”

  Chapter 19

  A Serious Hat

  The girl who comes to bring me clothes gives me a once-over and sets a pile of fabric on t
he bed. “I’m Mags,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “I work for Firstborn Winterstrom. He said you need something to wear.” I sift through the stack of extremely feminine clothing and groan in irritation. “What? You don’t like them?” Mags asks, eyeing me like I’m a spoiled firstborn.

  “It’s all very lovely, but . . .” I study her outfit, a serviceable ensemble of black trousers and a simple white blouse. It will blend in with everyone around me. She’s about my size, just a little taller. I can work with this. “Could I trade you?” I ask. “I promise you won’t get in any trouble for it.”

  “Oh, I never worry about getting into trouble here. Firstborn Winterstrom is like family. He lets me see my own family whenever I want to, and they come here to stay sometimes.”

  It irritates me that Reykin is beloved by his staff. He’s a ruthless killer who I let live and who is now a credible threat to my family. The irony is almost more than I can take. “He sounds like the best firstborn ever,” I reply, trying to keep my total lack of sincerity from eking out. “I’m happy for you.”

  She begins to unbutton her blouse. “I know what you did for him.” My own hands pause on the buttons of Reykin’s oversize shirt. “He was in a bad way when he left to join the war. At first we thought he was no better when he came back. He used to scream for you in the night—he’d call you ‘Little Sword’ or ‘black-hearted angel.’ We were all scared that he was losing his mind after all he’d been through with his parents and Radix.”

  “He told you about me—about how we met?”

  “He did, but that was one of the reasons we thought he was losing his mind. He said Roselle St. Sismode saved his life.”

  “I don’t know if I saved him. I just didn’t kill him, which is not the same thing.”

  The Stone-Fated girl takes off her blouse and hands it to me. She puts the new one on. “You saved him. You called a medical drone and it patched up what was torn apart in him—and I’m not just talking about his sword wounds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you mended his faith in humanity. He’d lost it the day they killed Radix.” She locates my boots and helps me put them on. I walk slowly with her through the enormous house, more modern than the palace I grew up in. Its beauty is tempered by its size. She takes me to the back door of a kitchen the size of our locker room in the air-barracks. In the closet, she finds a cloak and hands it to me. Once outside, we follow a stone path to a small cottage behind the main house.