Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and goes to work pulling rusted fasteners from Phoenix’s abdomen. As she works, I watch, asking questions when she pulls out soldering tools and replacement wiring. She runs upgrades on the operating system. After minutes of poking around, Kinjin pulls out a blackened metal part.

  “I don’t have a replacement component for this,” she explains with a sheepish expression. “The lead is fine, but the receptor nodes on either side of it have shorted, and its boards are shot.” She sets pieces of lead on the marble table. “The hover mode won’t work without them. I can requisition replacement parts, but it will take several weeks because it’s not a high-priority item.”

  “Is there somewhere I could get them?”

  Her eyes turn up toward the ceiling, and her cheeks puff out. “There’s a small repair shop in the downtown city center of Purity. They might have them. I can give you coordinates, if you’d like.” I nod. She closes and secures Phoenix’s iron casing. As she repacks her tools in her silver case, she reaches for the damaged lead parts.

  “Can I keep those? I can show them to the technician at the shop. It might be easier,” I explain, palming the parts and shoving them in a nearby drawer before she can say no.

  “Sure.” Kinjin shrugs. Together, we lift Phoenix down from the table. The stout bot seems no less functional for the loss of the small lead bits. Kinjin packs up her tools while Phoenix waddles around sucking up dust from the floor with its vacuum arm. When she’s finished, Kinjin says, “I’ll contact you when I get the parts.”

  I nod. We walk together to the foyer. Once we’re away from Phoenix and the noise of the vacuum, a thought occurs to me. “I wonder . . .” I want to be subtle about what I say next. It pertains to Firstborn Reykin Winterstrom, my contact in the Gates of Dawn resistance. He told me he’s looking for his secondborn brother, Ransom. If I could somehow find this secondborn Star, I’d have something to barter with Reykin and the Gates of Dawn the next time they want something from me. “Kinjin, do you happen to know an engineer by the name of Ransom Star?”

  A flicker of recognition crosses her face. “That’s an unusual name,” she replies.

  “Yes,” I agree, offering nothing further.

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.” Her eyes shift away, as if she’s afraid to look at me.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll notify you if by chance I can get those parts sooner than you can.”

  Kinjin nods without glancing my way. “You have a pleasant evening.”

  “And you, as well.” The door closes behind the Star, leaving me to wonder why she lied.

  Once Kinjin is gone, I panic. That was a supremely stupid risk to have taken for a negotiating tool I’m not even sure would be useful. I just blurted out Ransom Winterstrom’s name, as if a name like that couldn’t get me killed! As if a connection to Reykin Winterstrom and the Gates of Dawn isn’t the most dangerous aspect of my life. Everything is a mess. My hands tremble. I close them into fists.

  Suddenly, this apartment is too small. I need to escape it. Going to the bureau drawer where I stashed the lead pieces, I yank it open. I could leave. I could cloak my moniker with the lead parts and just run away, but where would I go? Not back to Swords—not without speaking to Gabriel first. The moment I cross back into my Fate, I’ll be cut down—unless it’s in secret, and for that I’d need a plan.

  My forehead dampens with sweat—my breathing hitches erratically, my heart drumming out of control. Even though I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m suffering from a severe form of panic, I know the symptoms, which are common among Swords before and during the trauma of combat—and even long after they’re away from any fighting. I drop the lead back into the drawer and close it.

  Moving to a holographic screen in the drawing room, I explain my symptoms in gasping breaths to the Atom-Fated physician on duty. As I wait for a chet to arrive, I pace between the large white-linen sofa and the glass doors that lead to the balcony. The view of the sea beneath the cliff in the distance is gorgeous, but it does nothing to calm my anxiety. Nor does the formal rose garden directly below my balcony.

  The musical bleep from the front door sets me further on edge. The automated voice announces the medical drone’s arrival. Phoenix trundles toward it, but I easily pass the mechadome and answer the door myself. A silver, bullet-shaped medical drone awaits me in the corridor. It scans my moniker. A compartment in its side opens and dispenses the thin paper square. Wordlessly, I take it. The drone flies away. I put the chet on my tongue and allow it to melt. Closing the door, I lean against it and immediately begin to relax. The panic subsides to a faraway feeling of mild angst, but the chet makes me feel sluggish and drowsy.

  Walking back to the drawing room, I sit on the soft sofa. My shoulders round forward. The room spins a little. Slowly, I lie down, rest my head on a velvety throw pillow, and pull my feet up. Closing my eyes, I try not to think of anything. Not the Gates of Dawn. Not the war. Not my insane family. Not the brat named Grisholm. And especially not the one person I worry may already be dead. Hawthorne.

  Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang—Phoenix’s rapidly shifting steps bang on the floor directly in front of me. I open my eyes to see its glowing red ones just inches from my face. It’s night. Only one small lamp on the side table lights the apartment. I must have fallen asleep. I rub my eyes and raise my head from the pillow. Suddenly, fingernails dig into my scalp, yanking me up by my hair. A meaty arm around my neck chokes me in a brutal stranglehold. The arm moves. A dagger at my throat cuts into my skin.

  Phoenix’s vacuum arm whines to life. The mechadome points its cannon-barrel-shaped limb at whomever is behind me. My hair whirls and rips toward it. The vacuum arm grows longer. The man’s hand yanks free from my neck, the powerful suction from Phoenix pulling it away. Grunts of pain and frustration come from behind me. The assailant lets go of his knife, which disappears inside Phoenix’s arm. A hatch blows the weapon out of a round chamber in the robot’s upper back, and the knife sticks into the wall.

  Phoenix’s extended vacuum arm locks on to my attacker’s wrist and sucks the large man’s forearm to the round metal opening. Phoenix’s vacuum retracts, jerking the man forward. He lets go of me, wrenched by his arm, falling to his knees and sliding toward Phoenix’s feet as the vacuum shaft continues to shorten. The crunching of bones is barely discernable over Phoenix’s loud whirring.

  The man struggles, but it’s no use. In one grotesque motion, his forearm folds in half and disappears inside the vacuum. Harrowing screams bleat from behind the man’s dark mask. The powerful suction dislocates the assassin’s arm as he feebly punches his free hand against Phoenix’s metal limb and bellows in agony.

  A shadow crosses my peripheral vision, and I lurch off the cushion just in time to avoid a fusionmag pulse to the head. The pulse strikes the man on the floor, exploding his brains all over Phoenix’s iron fasteners. Most of the blood vaporizes in the heat.

  I land on the floor beside Phoenix and brace for the next fusionmag shot, but Phoenix reverses his arm-cannon, spewing out pieces of the dismembered limb at the second assailant, knocking the fusionmag from his hand.

  While the second assassin scrambles to pick up his weapon, I dive to the wall and force the knife blade from it. Twisting, I hurl the weapon just as the second assailant rises to aim the fusionmag at me. The knife sticks in his Adam’s apple, and he reels backward. His gun bounces toward me as he hits the rug. I tumble to it near the side of the sofa. He twitches on the floor, blood spurting from his throat as he dies.

  On my knees, I reach for the fallen weapon. Another pulse flashes before my eyes, and I flinch, expecting to feel it burn them right out of my head, but Phoenix’s stout body lurches in front of me. The pulse connects with the mechadome, making a sizzling sound that quickly dies out, probably because Phoenix is lined with lead, the worst conductor of fusion energy in this room. The little robot stomps from foot to foot, its infrared eyes glaring at a third intruder sta
nding by the balcony door.

  My hand closes around the grip of the fallen fusionmag. Lifting the weapon, I fire a shot. The glowing pulse strikes the third man in the shoulder where I intended it. I want him alive. He pitches to the side. Wounded, the man spins and escapes over the balcony railing.

  I’m on my feet, sprinting to the balustrade. Reaching it, I peek over the edge. One floor below me, the third assassin stumbles away, holding what’s left of his shoulder, disappearing behind a hedgerow of the rose garden.

  I grip the line, secured to the railing of the balcony, that he used to leave. Clutching the fusionmag in one hand, I wrap the line around my forearm and step over the barrier. The line stretches like elastic, setting me down on the ground with minimal impact. Disengaging from it, I run in the direction of the escaping man.

  Salt air and the sound of crashing waves greet me at the end of the formal garden. The ocean is ahead, at the bottom of a perilous cliff. The stairway to the beach is in another direction. This is a dead end. I push on, seeing movement in the darkness. The assassin runs toward the edge of the cliff. I contemplate killing him from here, but then I won’t be able to question him, so I run as fast as I can, expecting him to slow down. Instead, he reaches the cliff’s edge and jumps.

  “Roselle!” a harsh voice snarls behind me. A strong arm captures my legs. I fall forward, hitting the grassy terrain hard. We slide almost to the brink of the cliff. The man above me flips me over, glaring at me in the moonlight, and I stare up at the Star-Fated soldier who invades my dreams almost every night.

  “Reykin,” I whisper, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter 3

  Star at Midnight

  Reykin lets go of me, shoving himself up to his feet.

  He moves to the cliff’s edge and gazes down. I join him there. Below, the swirling ocean waves crash over jagged rocks. In the darkness, it’s impossible to see if the assassin survived.

  Reykin’s clean-shaven jaw tightens in anger. He runs his hand through his thick dark hair, smoothing it back into place. “Were you going to follow him over?” he demands. I just stare at him. I haven’t seen him since I left his home in the Fate of Stars and sailed away on a rusted cargo ship. He’s just as handsome as I remember—all hard angles and savage intensity. “Were you?” he asks, latching on to my upper arms.

  I knock his hands away. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m protecting our asset from her ruthless family.” He moves away and scuffles our dewy imprints in the lawn, covering our tracks.

  “How did you even know I was out here?”

  “I hacked your mechadome.”

  “You what—how?”

  “Kinjin uploaded a program into your Class 5Z. I took over from there.”

  “So . . . you woke me up?”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies angrily, grasping my chin and turning it sharply, making me look up at him. “Never mention my brother’s name again. To anyone! Do you understand?”

  Guilt makes me hesitate for a second, then I bash his hand away with my own. “I was just trying to find him for you,” I reply with a scowl.

  “Don’t,” he orders. His impossibly bright aquamarine eyes are discernable even in the moonlight. He leans nearer. “You’re hurt,” he says, his tone softened. He reaches for my throat.

  I push his hand away again. My fingertips go to my neck, exploring my injury. The assassin’s knife cut me. “It’s nothing. A nick.”

  Which probably would’ve been a big, gaping hole if Reykin hadn’t hacked my mechadome. Reykin leans in. His scent triggers something I don’t expect, a feeling of safety. He saved me once from the worst beating of my life, and I want to cuddle up to his side and have him comfort me now.

  Which is confusing. I take care of myself.

  “Let me see it,” Reykin says.

  “No,” I reply, backing a step away.

  “Why not?” he asks mulishly. Typical firstborn, used to getting his own way.

  “Because you’re a horrible medic. I still have a star on my palm to prove it.” I shove my right palm in his direction. He takes my hand in his and rubs his thumb over the small, raised star scar—a leftover from when his fusionblade hilt seared his family crest into my hand on the battlefield where we first met. The gesture is unmistakably tender. His shooting star moniker casts a golden glow between us. “How did you get into the Halo Palace undiscovered?” I ask. As part of the rebellion, a secret Gates of Dawn officer, Reykin risks being eviscerated by the Fates Republic government if they find out what side he’s truly on. But first they’d torture him to find out what he knows, and he knows plenty.

  “I’m a guest,” Reykin replies, dropping my hand abruptly. He turns away and heads toward the formal garden. His broad back is clad only in an undershirt, and he wears gray pants that qualify as sleepwear. His feet are bare.

  “Whose guest?” I blurt out, following him.

  “Grisholm’s guest.”

  “Grisholm?” I hiss. “How do you know him?”

  “Go back to your apartment. I disabled the night owl bots out here, but that won’t go unnoticed for long.” He points to a tree where an all-too-real-looking owl clings to the bark, unmoving. “We’re fortunate Grisholm doesn’t allow roaming maginots in his area of the Palace.”

  “Doesn’t he have maginots?”

  “No, the automated wolfhounds tended to kill his late-night female guests, so he banned them. I want you to alert Iono security to the break-in in your apartment tonight. Mention nothing about me to them.”

  “How do you know Grisholm?” I don’t like being surprised or kept out of any plan they might be hatching, especially if that plan involves me as the “asset.”

  He keeps walking, weaving around hedges in the garden. “Now is not the time for explanations.”

  I know he’s right, but I need to know one thing. “The program I uploaded into the maginot,” I ask breathlessly, following him, “did it work?”

  Reykin pauses and faces me. “Of course it worked. We’re saving thirdborns every day.” A burst of fear, and maybe relief, turns my belly to ice and weakens my knees. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Stay alert. Those assassins may have found you because you ordered a chet. Maybe they saw where it was delivered and followed it to you. Or your mother has her own spies here. Either way, never use the Atoms at the Halo Palace for anything. I don’t trust them. If you need more chets, tell me. I’ll get them for you.” He turns and walks away again.

  This time I don’t follow him. Shame over my weakness today makes my cheeks burn. I should be able to control my fear without using chets. Putting my hands on my knees, I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my heart, which bludgeons my sternum. Slowly, with Reykin gone, my anxiety subsides. I straighten, find my way back inside, and alert the first guard I find to the horrific homicide that took place in my room.

  I surrender the fusionmag. Two Iono guards conduct me to the underground security level of the Halo Palace. The subterranean interrogation room, devoid of everything except a metallic table bolted to the floor and a few stiff chairs, is as sterile as it is spare. Bright lights shine down from the ceiling, heightening my fear of exposure as a spy. The two guards, both women, listen with skeptical expressions as I report the murder attempt on my life. After asking me very few questions, they leave to investigate. The door closes behind them. I test the door. It’s locked. I’m confined to the room. I return to the metal chair and sit. It’s cool down here. I notice I neglected to put on shoes during the chaos. My feet are grass-stained. Alone in a small interrogation room, I stare at my dirty toes.

  Hours later, I’m virtually in the same position, seated at the small table, when the door opens and an Exo officer enters. She’s probably in her early thirties, fit, with a firstborn sword moniker shining golden from the back of her left hand.

  “Roselle St. Sismode,” she says, pulling out a metal chair across from me and taking a seat.

  “It’s Roselle Swor
d,” I reply.

  “How about just Roselle?” she asks with a small smile. “I’m Vaughna Jenns. I’m in charge of this investigation.” She sets a metallic mug of what smells like coffee on the table in front of her and pushes it in my direction. “Thirsty?”

  I am, but she’s a Sword. She could be working for my mother and brother. “No. Thank you.” I give her a polite smile.

  “I can take a sip of it first, if you’re worried.” She leans back in her chair.

  I pretend I don’t know what she means. “Did you locate the man that dove into the sea?”

  “We recovered two bodies from your apartment, but as for a third, that one seems to have gotten away.”

  I cross my arms, wishing I’d followed the killer off the cliff. Not knowing for sure if my brother ordered the strike stirs intense fear within me. If it wasn’t by Gabriel’s order, then I have more to worry about than the power struggle with family. I’ve committed treason for the Gates of Dawn. I’ve made an enemy of Grisholm by usurping Malcolm Burton’s position in the Halo Palace. I’ve done things in the name of my Fate as a secondborn soldier that could lead to retribution. I’m also a high-profile figure in the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate—it’s face. “What Fate were they from?”

  “We don’t know. Their monikers were removed.”

  “Let me see the bodies. Maybe I’ll recognize them without their masks.” She complies, using her moniker’s holographic screens to show me the bodies in my apartment. They’re both young—my age or younger. I don’t recognize either man and exhale in frustration. “They’re not familiar.”

  Firstborn Jenns extinguishes the images. “Can you think of a reason why someone would want to kill you?” she asks with a straight face.

  “We’re at war. I’m a Sword.”

  “You’re in the Halo Palace. The Virtue—or his heir—would make for a better target than you.”

  “Find the third assassin, and we’ll have our answers,” I reply.

  She purses her lips. Perhaps she expects some kind of theory from me? She must know that if I were to accuse my mother or brother of plotting my death, I could be convicted of treason. I’m secondborn. I don’t have the right to make any unsubstantiated claims or statements against firstborns—especially not The Sword.