Traitor Born

The Vicolt carrying my mother and my brother mysteriously drops back right before the explosion. The recording doesn’t show what happened to them, but I think I already know. It was staged. They knew it would explode. Whatever just happened, it was a political move to further my mother’s agenda. And it was personal. She’d rather kill innocent bystanders than allow Kennet inside the St. Sismode tomb.

  “My family is fine,” I say numbly.

  “How do you know?” Balmora asks.

  “I just do.”

  We continue to watch the aftermath of the attack for almost an hour. A feminine voice at the door rouses me from the holographic nightmare. “Roselle, there’s a man here to see you.” It’s Quincy. “He’s not allowed to enter, so he requested that someone come and fetch you before he levels the building.” The sun outside is setting. I’ve been here for hours.

  “Who is it?” I ask in a daze.

  “Firstborn Clifton Salloway.”

  “Tell him to go away,” Balmora orders.

  I lurch to my feet and take a step toward the door. “It’s okay. I need to see him.”

  “When are you coming back?” Balmora asks, gripping tighter to my left hand, unwilling to let me leave. Her hair is in disarray, ribbons hanging limply on her shoulders. Her eyes dart to my moniker.

  The stingers in the room react. Their weapons power up noisily. Balmora lets go of my hand when the lethal barrels turn toward her. “Don’t!”

  I get between one of the stingers and her, and it moves off. “Balmora, I’ll come back soon,” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check—trying not to fall apart. Impulsively, I turn and hug her. “I promise.”

  I untangle myself from her and hurry to the door, past the attendant, and through the sunroom made of glass. My stingers trail me. In the hallway, everyone who lives and works in the Sea Fortress seems to be standing around and gossiping. They fall silent when I appear. “Where is Firstborn Salloway?” I ask. An elderly secondborn with a white roiling wave moniker on her hand points.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say, continuing outside and across the courtyard.

  Clifton leans against the portico with his arms folded over his chest, glowering at the Exo guards and death drones hovering nearby. When he sees me, he straightens. My unshed tears blur his features, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I want to say his name, but my throat tightens. When I reach him, he catches me in his arms, hugging me.

  “Roselle,” he says softly, like he’s addressing a tiny kitten. “I came as soon as I could.” He takes off his jacket, wraps it around my shoulders, and hugs me again.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Bribes,” he whispers.

  I laugh and choke on tears at the same time. His arms shift from my back to my waist. We turn toward the shore. The tide has come in, and the sandbar is covered with water. Clifton’s Verringer undulates in the nearby cove, resembling a beautiful swan with its wings up. “I brought an extra pair of hoverdiscs for you, but you don’t have shoes. No matter. I’ll carry you.” He reaches under my knees and lifts me with almost no effort. My arms circle his neck, and I lay my head on his shoulder. The stingers don’t react at all.

  Clifton treads out onto the water, walking just above the surface. “Why were you at Balmora’s?” he asks calmly. I shrug and bury my face against his neck. If I speak, I’ll sob. He seems to understand. “I need to talk to you, but you don’t have to say anything, just listen. I’m going to take you to my airship, all right?”

  I nod. The breeze mists us. Fish swim beneath the surface, some with tiger stripes, some speckled gray and white. The hum of the airship keeps the birds away. I stare toward the shore. Exo guards gather there, pointing at us. The stingers aren’t reacting, though. They trail us like faithful hounds.

  The door opens upward as we near the Verringer. “Stinger R0517 and R6492, remain where you are,” Clifton orders.

  To my surprise, they heed his order, halting and hovering above the waves. He carries me over the threshold, and the door closes behind us. Clifton finally sets me down near a fat lounge chair in the airship’s great room. He takes a seat and leans toward me.

  “Do you know what just happened?” he asks, concern etched in his face.

  I pull his warm jacket tighter around me. “You mean the explosion in Swords?”

  He nods.

  “Yes, I saw the replay.”

  “Then you know it wasn’t us, right?” He’s anxious.

  I swallow down some of my emotion. “I know more than that—I know it was my mother. She’s probably in her office right now, rehearsing the speech she prepared days ago, condemning the Gates of Dawn for the attack. I doubt she’ll be able to shed a real tear, though. Emotion has always been difficult for her.”

  Clifton leans back in his chair, studying me. “Your military acumen is exceptional.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I just know Othala.”

  “Things cannot continue the way they are now,” he warns. “You know this.”

  “I know. Someone has to stop my mother. She doesn’t care about her people, just her power.”

  Clifton glances at the windows behind me. He swears softly. I look over my shoulder to see Exo soldiers manning boats. “I came to reassure you. The Virtue has you under his thumb now, but it won’t be for long.”

  My eyes meet his. “What are you planning?”

  “It’s better you don’t know,” he replies.

  “You have control over the stingers following me.” It’s a fact, not a question.

  “Who do you think made them? The first rule for anything I create is an indefinite moratorium against harming me. The second is a built-in assurance that it follows all my orders.”

  Something about that makes me smile. He really is quite brilliant. “The Virtue doesn’t see you coming, does he?”

  “No,” he replies. “I will take care of you, Roselle. You won’t be a prisoner here much longer.”

  “It’s hard to know who to trust,” I say, almost to myself.

  “You can trust me.” Clifton is dangerous, but I’m determined to be dangerous, too. “My concern right now is for your welfare. You’ve been lucky up until now. You defeated your assassins. I want to make sure that trend continues. To that end, we’ve developed a new fabric we’re calling ‘Copperscale.’ It’s a defensive material. I want you to use it. From now on, all your clothing will be provided by Salloway Munitions. I’ll clear it with the Halo Palace until we can make other arrangements.”

  “Defensive, how?” I ask.

  “We created a textile that acts like armor. It conducts energy away from the wearer, but the fabric is lightweight, and to all outward appearances, you won’t look to be wearing anything out of the ordinary. We’ll reinforce whatever normal fabric you choose with it. The jacket you’re wearing now is made from Copperscale. Here, let me show you.” He uses his moniker to pull up a holographic display. Footage shows lab demonstrations of tactical munitions being fired at a secondborn test subject wearing what looks like ordinary street clothes. Although the subject survives a fusionmag pulse at close range, he is lifted off his feet and propelled backward several yards.

  “Please tell me you gave him hazard pay,” I murmur.

  “He volunteered,” Clifton replies, “but, yes, he was well compensated. It’s not perfect. You’d be hurt by a direct fusionmag pulse, but it won’t kill you.” I run my hand over the sleeve of the jacket. It’s a little coarse, but the inside is lined with cashmere, which makes up for it. “We can line the inside of your clothing with Copperscale and use a different fabric as outerwear, if that suits you better.”

  “This jacket won’t protect from a head shot, Clifton, unless . . .” I drape the garment over my head like a veil. When I pull it back, I find him grinning.

  “We’ll have to learn how to duck,” he says.

  Outside, boats draw up to the Verringer. Someone pounds on the metal door, and the sound echoes through the airship. Clifton growls in ange
r. I want so badly to be able to talk to him about everything I know, including the Gates of Dawn. I need the Rose Gardeners and the Gates of Dawn to agree to coexist. Can I build a bridge between them? Can the Rose Gardeners change?

  “The mortician is missing,” I murmur.

  “I’m sorry, the what is missing?”

  “The master mortician who worked on my father’s body and prepared him for burial. He went missing . . . and then my father’s hearse blew up.”

  “You think this mortician had something to do with it?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, but Agent Crow was with him. I saw them together. It means something. I just don’t know what.”

  More thumps on the door. Clifton clenches his jaw. “You’re not to go around asking questions about it. I’ll look into it. Do nothing.”

  “If Census agents are involved, this is bigger than the vendetta between my mother and my father, bigger than the Rose Gardeners. This is an alliance between Census and the Sword.” The thought horrifies me, and it seems to have the same effect on Clifton.

  “I’m serious, Roselle. Not a word to anyone. I’ll make inquiries.”

  I was afraid before. Now I’m terrified. I nod in agreement. Impulsively, Clifton leans forward, kisses my forehead, and takes both my hands in his. “You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.” He rubs his thumbs over my skin. It reassures me. He’s shelter.

  He rises from his seat and moves to the door. Opening it, he swears at the waiting security outside. An argument breaks out between the lead Exo guard and Clifton. I rise from the chair, walk to the entrance, and lay my hand on Clifton’s arm. “Firstborn Salloway, thank you for the tour of your Verringer. It’s really quite lovely. I believe you should definitely make those changes to the Dual-Blade X16 that we discussed.”

  I try to hand him back his jacket. “Keep it,” he says, still scowling at the guards.

  I step into the boat, Clifton’s coat securely around me, and settle between two well-armed Exos. The stingers follow us when we pull away from the airship. I stuff my hands in the pockets and find Clifton’s cigar case. I pull it from his pocket, and I’m about to ask to go back so I can give it to him, but we’ve almost made shore, and the Verringer is already in the air. I climb out of the boat and make my way back to my apartment amid a swarm of bodyguards.

  I pat Phoenix’s head on my way in. Settling onto the sofa in the den, I stare up at the ceiling. Phoenix parks itself in front of me, so I know it’s Reykin. “Phee, can you get me a crella from the commissary?” The mechadome leaves the room. I shove my hand into the pocket of the jacket and pull out the cigar case. Thin brown cigars, the kind with the scent of roses, lie in a neat row. I check for a secret compartment and find one with a thumbprint scanner. Testing it, I’m surprised when it opens for me.

  A small holographic screen projects up from the case. Clifton’s face, made of blue light, is grinning at me. “Hello,” he murmurs. “Do you like your new communicator?”

  “You could’ve just given it to me,” I reply.

  “Where’s the fun in that? I had a bet with my technicians. I said you’d find it in under an hour.”

  I rise from the sofa and carry the communicator with me to the door. Closing the door, I lock it and return to my seat. From inside a compartment of the cigar case, I lift a metallic bracelet and examine it. It’s a device that I’ve seen once before at the briefing after the attack on the Sword social club. It’s the mirroring technology that reflects whatever moniker it’s closest to. Right now, it’s showing my moniker, without my crown-shaped birthmark. Clifton notices the device and says, “We’re calling that a ‘looking-glass moniker.’ We’re working on reverse engineering it, but that one is an original; we found it on one of the assassins you killed.”

  “Why are you giving it to me, Clifton?”

  “There may come a time that you’ll want to, shall we say, ‘part company’ with The Virtue,” he says. “Should that time come, I’d like you to have all the tools you need to take your leave. You’ll find codes inside your cigar case that will allow you to take control of your Halo stingers, just like I did today.”

  It’s just like Clifton to be a few steps ahead of everyone else.

  “Tell me about the rest, Clifton.”

  Chapter 13

  The Bottom of the Sea

  Reykin wears black. I wear white. We spar with fusionblades, and I imagine it’s like watching someone sparring with a shadow. We tangle and fold in on each other. Our swords are dialed down to their lowest training setting, but if they weren’t, neither of us would survive. As it is, skin regeneration treatments are required after each interaction in Grisholm’s sparring circle. We savage each other. I’ve taken to using protective eyewear when I fight him because he has nearly cut my eyes out on a few occasions. He dons eyewear, too, for the same reason. Neither of us has yet to win a duel.

  Grisholm snorts, watching us. “The sexual tension in here is savage. Find a way to be together so I don’t have to be subjected to your mating dance every day.” He takes a sip of water, still breathing hard from the training I put him through. He’s slowly getting better with his fusionblade. It’s been a month since I began training him, and I’m just now losing some of my worry that he’ll chop off his own leg.

  Reykin pauses and scowls at Grisholm. “She’s secondborn.” His tone contains no small amount of disgust. I murder him with my eyes.

  Grisholm takes another sip of water. “Hey, I know, it’s slumming, but I do see the attraction.” A backhanded compliment, the best I can hope for, though it still makes me want to skewer him with my sword. Instead, I walk away, toward Grisholm’s spa, to get my burns treated. They trail behind me.

  The sophisticated spa area is just down the hall from the main pool. Its tranquility comes from rough black tile on three of the walls. There isn’t a fourth wall. It’s just an opening with an indoor-outdoor pool and pool deck providing a stunning view of the sea. Ocean breezes stir large potted palms. Atom-Fated secondborn technicians wait for us at hovering medical tables.

  I change into an emerald bathing suit and join the Firstborn Commander and Reykin. Grisholm is lying facedown on one table while an attractive female secondborn works on the burns I gave him across his back and calves. Reykin, bare chested and attired in a black swimsuit, sits on the opposite table, holding his forearms up to his female attendant. I take the middle table. My attendant is a tall, leggy female, too. Grisholm selects them. Like Reykin, my arms need attention, but nothing else.

  “We’re still on for tonight,” Grisholm says. “You’re not going to back out on me, are you, Winterstrom?”

  “No,” Reykin replies. “I’m still in.”

  “And you’re coming, too, right, Roselle?”

  I sigh heavily. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” they both say in unison.

  “You’re my slave,” Reykin says. “We need you to assess the competitors.”

  “Then I’ll be at your stupid Secondborn Pre-Trial event.”

  “You make it sound horrible,” Grisholm replies with a chuckle, “but it’ll be fun.”

  “It is horrible,” I retort, “if you’re on the other side of it, Grisholm. Are you sure your father said it’s okay for us to go?”

  The Virtue only just agreed to let The Trials move forward. I’d hoped that when Clarity Bowie postponed the Secondborn Trials, it would be indefinitely. It’s only been two weeks since the chaos of my father’s funeral. The Virtue declared a state of mourning, and secondborns slated to be in The Trials were shipped back to their Fates to resume their duties. Now, apparently, they’re all coming back to compete. Well, most. Some of the Swords have gone into active duty or died fighting the Gates of Dawn.

  “Of course I’m sure!” Grisholm replies. “And I’ll wager that, by the end of the evening, you’ll place a bet on someone, Roselle.”

  “I bet I won’t.”

  Grisholm hisses at his attendant. “Are you using a wire brush t
o scour my skin? Why don’t you try numbing it first!”

  “Stop being a baby,” Reykin replies with a smirk. “You don’t hear Roselle crying about her burns.”

  “That’s because she has no feelings,” Grisholm replies. “I’m convinced she’s a cyborg.”

  “Is that true, Roselle?” Reykin asks with a condescending grin. “Are you a cyborg?”

  For some reason, his question stings. Maybe it’s because it’s only one of a handful of words he’s said to me in the past two weeks. He has kept his distance from me since the night I last saw Hawthorne. Reykin and I see each other almost every day, at training or in council meetings, but he never comes to my apartment anymore—at least, I don’t think he does. I’ve awoken a few times and thought I heard the door close. And sometimes, I think I smell his scent when I wake up, or see the indention of his shape in the chair by my bed, but I can’t be sure.

  “Sometimes I wish I was,” I reply, “but I can assure you that I do think for myself, and my heart is my own.”

  As soon as my skin is repaired, I slide off the table and go to the tranquil pool. I wade down the stone steps, plunge beneath the surface, and swim underwater to the far end. When I emerge, I’m in the sunlight, squinting. I lean my arms on the stone deck of the pool. A shadow falls over me, and I gaze up directly into Agent Crow’s killer stare.

  “Did you miss me?” he asks, crouching. He’s the most dressed down I’ve ever seen him, in rolled-up casual pants and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. “I came to see you.” He smiles, his steel teeth glinting in the sunlight.

  “I don’t want to see you.”

  His icy eyes turn colder. “Last time I checked, you’re still secondborn. I don’t need your permission.”

  Grisholm and Reykin wander out onto the pool deck toward us. “Census,” Grisholm says, “do you have information for me?”

  “There’s been an interesting development that I thought you might not be aware of,” Crow says.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s been reported that the Second Family of Virtues, the Keatings, have suddenly misplaced their newly minted firstborn heir, Orwell. It’s such a shame. Firstborn Rasmussen Keating is murdered. Now his brother is missing. The Keatings will lose their position as Second Family of Virtues. They might even find themselves having to leave Virtues altogether because they no longer have an heir to guarantee their position in society.”