Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Was it worth it?” I ask, my voice taut.

  Dune stops pacing. His entire focus is on me. He arches an eyebrow. “Was what worth it?”

  “Killing all those people with your Fusion Snuff Pulse. Was it worth it?” The bitterness in my voice is clear. My eyes fill with tears.

  “Daltrey didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The attack against Swords on your Transition Day wasn’t us.”

  “What do you mean? I was there. I saw . . .” I growl, trying to keep the tears in my eyes at bay. My fingernails dig into the soft fabric of the chair.

  “It wasn’t the Gates of Dawn.”

  “But even Daltrey said—”

  “Daltrey was probably trying to protect you, Roselle. He told me you were fragile when they found you. You were beaten almost to death and barely able to move. He didn’t want to add to it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Those soldiers—the ones dressed like the Gates of Dawn—that wasn’t us. Those were Swords dressed as Gates of Dawn—Admiral Dresden’s special death squad, your mother’s people. Her spies uncovered our technology, the Fusion Snuff Pulse, and she used it, attempting to kill you on your Transition Day and make it look like an enemy strike.”

  I shake my head in denial. “No! They had on uniforms. They had masks.” A tear slips from my eye. “She wouldn’t do that! She wouldn’t risk her firstborns like that—her reputation—”

  “She would—for Gabriel, she would. They knew our protocol. They knew our route. They knew everything. If they’d been Gates of Dawn, explain how they got into Swords.”

  “You let them in!” I accuse. “You told them where and when to attack us!”

  “I would never risk you in that way. Those ships could’ve easily killed us—we barely survived. You saw my face, Roselle. You saw me.” I did see him. He was surprised. He wasn’t expecting what happened that day. A part of me believes him—the other part of me feels murdered by what it means, left bleeding beneath the broken ships.

  “Gabriel knew,” I mutter numbly, putting it all together. “He sent Hawthorne to find out if my mother had killed me.” Hawthorne had been told to search for me and make sure the Gates of Dawn didn’t take me, but really, that was just a cover so that no one would know The Sword did this to her own people—so she could murder her own daughter.

  “Deep down, you’ve always known it was her,” he replies, “and you’ll survive it.”

  “Will I?” I ask in the same kind of shell shock that I’d felt that day.

  Dune squats down in front of me, using his large thumbs to wipe away the few traitorous tears that escape. “I’m your family. You’re more my daughter than you’ve ever been hers.”

  “Did you ever love her?” I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve, relieved when no more tears fall.

  “No, I never loved your mother, but I know you do, even as unworthy of that love as she is.” He stands and goes to the bar, still within the whisper orb’s sound bubble. A holographic menu appears at a wave of his hand. A fat tumbler rises from the surface of the bar. Ice clinks inside the glass.

  “Why were you with my mother if you never cared for her?” I watch him pour water over the ice from the pitcher beside the tumbler.

  He turns and faces me. “I was her lover so that I could exert influence over her, to make sure that no harm came to you. She was more afraid of you than she was of anyone. The more powerful you became, the more she feared you and The Virtue.”

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  He walks to me and hands me the glass. I accept it, taking a sip. He sits on the tufted sofa. “The Virtue knows he has to protect you if they’re to have any future.”

  My tears are gone now. “I know your endgame, Dune,” I reply, setting the glass down on the low table between us. “You want the complete destruction of the Fates. That’s what the Gates of Dawn desires. Why not kill The Virtue yourself and have your way?”

  “Killing one man or two will do nothing. The regime keeps going—”

  “Unless you kill it from within.”

  “You can bring us peace, Roselle—an end to the barbaric society we live in.”

  “What if I can’t? What if I don’t want the job?”

  “Unacceptable,” he growls. His eyes pierce me with a predatory stare, just like they used to when I’d forgotten some lesson he’d taught me.

  “What about Harkness Ambersol?” I ask. “From what I’ve heard, he’ll kill it from the inside by sheer incompetence.” This kind of insolence is new territory for me. I’ve never spoken to Dune like this in my life, but I find I don’t care what he thinks of my tone.

  “You jest,” he replies, “but you hold the lives of every secondborn and thirdborn in your hands. For Harkness to be in a position of power, you’d have to die, and that is completely out of the question.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “You think I want this for you? I tried with everything in my power not to destroy the sweetness in you. If there’s another way, I don’t know it.” His definitiveness scares me. He always seemed to know every angle of every situation.

  “You’re talking about the destruction of the Fates Republic.”

  “I’m talking about a new world order—one that doesn’t tolerate Census agents or government-owned slaves.” Fear so strong it makes my knees weak courses through me. He means a world without Transition Days, without people like Agent Crow. I’m afraid of wanting that world, because it’s not real, and allowing myself to hope for such a place could crush me. Dune reads my fear. His voice is gentle when he says, “For now, you’ll be Grisholm’s mentor. You can handle that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “What about Reykin? Did you know he’s here and he hijacked my mechadome?”

  “I know. He briefed me before I came to find you. He’s protection for you. Cooperate with him. He’s here to help you.”

  “He’s annoying,” I mutter.

  “Is that why you saved him on the battlefield? Because he annoyed you?”

  “I couldn’t kill him like they wanted me to—like a coward would kill.”

  “So, you saved him instead. That’s why you’re the one who will change our future.”

  “I love my brother,” I blurt out.

  “I’ll do everything in my power to save Gabriel, but he’ll never be The Sword. He’ll have to accept that.”

  “He’ll never accept it.”

  “Then that’s on him. Do you want me to call a medical drone for your neck?”

  I touch my throat, where my blood has mostly dried. “The assassin shouldn’t have tried to slit my throat. He should’ve just stabbed me from behind—thrust his knife through my nape.”

  “You wouldn’t have made that mistake,” he replies.

  “I should’ve killed the third one.”

  “No, taking him alive was optimal. You would’ve followed him into the water had Reykin not stopped you?”

  “Of course.”

  This brings a small smile of approval to Dune’s lips. “Reykin was right to stop you,” he says. “You cannot take risks like that. Your life is very important.”

  Dune and I talk late into the night. He asks me questions about the past year. He’s especially interested in Clifton Salloway and the Rose Garden Society. I don’t seem to know anything more about the Sword secret society than what Dune does already, but I’m not sure, because he isn’t as forthcoming with his information about the Rose Gardeners as I am.

  “You haven’t spoken much about Hawthorne,” Dune says.

  “We’re friends,” I reply with a shrug. I feel very protective of Hawthorne. Members of the Gates of Dawn have been watching us—Daltrey admitted as much.

  “He helped you when you needed him.”

  “That’s how it is when you’re a secondborn soldier. We have each other’s backs.”

  “But he’s firstborn now.”

  I don’t like what he’s
implying. “You’re basically firstborn, Dune, but you’re still loyal to thirdborns.”

  “Be cautious with Hawthorne. The lifestyle of a firstborn of the aristocracy is seductive. The longer he’s a part of it, the more he may get to like it.”

  Dune’s words anger me, not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right, and in direct opposition to what my heart wants. The thought of not being able to trust Hawthorne again tangles with the love I feel for him and puts me in an even fouler mood.

  “I’d like to speak to Hawthorne,” I say.

  “That’s not possible now. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

  My hands form angry fists, and I rise from my seat abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, the evening has caught up to me, and I wish to rest now.”

  “Of course. Forgive me for keeping you so long.”

  I wave my hand, dismissing his apology. “I missed you, and I wanted to see you.”

  “I’ll make time for you whenever you need me, Roselle.” Dune lifts the whisper orb from the table. The iridescent bubble around us bursts. “I’ll walk you to your apartment.”

  “I can manage it on my own.”

  “I know you can handle yourself, but I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”

  “I insist. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  I’m out of step with our new relationship. Dune wants us to pull the pin on this world and watch it explode. He’s willing to risk everything for change. I’m worried about who will be left standing.

  Disappointment shows in his eyes. “A lot has happened in a year, hasn’t it? At least allow me to walk you to the lift.” I nod. Dune escorts me to the opulent foyer. “Rest for a day, Roselle. Grisholm’s training can wait.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that.”

  I retreat into the glass elevator car. When I look back at Dune, there’s sadness in his eyes, just like on the day we were forced to part. This man, no matter what he says to the contrary, will always be my mentor—or much more than that. Before the doors close between us, I lurch out of the elevator and into his arms. He squeezes me tightly, resting his chin on the top of my head.

  “You’re my father, Dune,” I whisper so only he can hear me. He acknowledges my words with an even tighter hug. When he lets go, I enter the elevator and descend from the halo.

  Chapter 4

  Phantom Star

  It takes me a while to find my way back to my apartment from the glass lift. I get confused and lose my way. All the small conveniences of my moniker, such as navigation maps, become huge irritations the moment I no longer have access to them. I finally end up asking an Iono guard for help. He summons a mechanized domestic to lead me to my corridor. The tall, lanky android with its holographic humanoid face and features is foreign to me. We never used them at the Sword Palace. My mother never trusted them, calling them a “security liability.” She barely tolerated the maginots. I see her point. If the enemy were to infiltrate automated soldiers, an entire army could be turned in a single moment. If the automated soldiers themselves gained a greater awareness of “self,” the result could be the same.

  My apartment’s corridor is cordoned off and crammed with Iono guards who have probably been here since just after I reported the attack. One of the guards behind the barrier lets me through when he recognizes my face. Hovering stingers are positioned on either side of the door of my apartment. As I near them, they don’t react to me.

  My moniker is scanned, gaining me entry. Inside the apartment, a swarm of Exo guards investigates the crime scene. Among them is Firstborn Jenns. She’s on the balcony outside, staring out into the garden below. A couple of Census agents are also there, recording their findings using databases accessed through their monikers. They were probably called because the corpses didn’t have monikers. I stay as far away from them as possible without appearing to.

  A team of Exos and drone cameras documents the scene. They’ve already removed the bodies. Now they’re pawing through everything in the apartment, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t have any personal items here because I was taken from the Fate of Swords during the middle of the night and not allowed to pack. Everything I have has been provided by The Virtue.

  I lean against a wall near the entrance to the drawing room and watch the activity. An hour later, the investigation winds down. Exos and Census agents trickle out until only Firstborn Jenns and a few of her people remain. She comes in from the balcony and secures the door. “The assailants’ DNA profiles aren’t in any of our databases. It’s as if they don’t exist. Census was called, and they’ll be handling that aspect of the investigation. Expect questions from them.”

  Dread over speaking to a Census agent makes my stomach clench. “Who do you expect is involved?”

  “All signs point to Gates of Dawn.” I know she’s wrong, but I refrain from saying as much because I have no evidence to the contrary. “We’ll post stingers in the corridor and by your balcony for now. Extra Iono patrols will remain in the garden, but don’t expect that to last. Grisholm doesn’t like a large security presence. He cherishes his privacy.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I reply. “Thank you for your help, Firstborn Jenns.”

  “Call me Vaughna. If you need me, contact me on my moniker.”

  “I can’t. Mine has been restricted.”

  She points at Phoenix. “Then send that little guy to find me.”

  I don’t bother to tell her that it would take Phoenix a long time just to walk down the corridor. I simply nod. Firstborn Jenns and the rest of the investigators collect their equipment in hovering transporters and exit the apartment. A small army of mechadomes cleans up the blood from the fallen assassins. Phoenix’s iron exterior is scrubbed and buffed by a particularly advanced domestic robot. When they’re finally finished, my apartment is even cleaner than it was the day I arrived. The last mechadome out closes my apartment door.

  Alone, I deflate a little. It’s past dawn. The sun is bright. Phoenix toddles over from the drawing room toward me. I squat down and run my hand over its head. “You look better, Phee,” I whisper, my voice a little shaky. Its rudimentary mouth curves up.

  I find my fusionblade where I left it upstairs in the bedroom. My own investigation of the lower floor doesn’t uncover any monitoring devices left behind. On the balcony outside my apartment, the two hovering stingers guard the entrance. I use privacy mode to turn all the windows and glass doors opaque.

  Hunger drives me to the kitchen. I order a meal via the commissary unit located on the wall. When it arrives on a golden salver, I find that I’m afraid to taste it, worried that it’s poisoned. Tears well up in my eyes. Phoenix lumbers in, the top of its head barely reaching the surface of the table. Lifting its vacuum arm, it delicately sucks in a few bits of pasta from the side of my plate. Humming and churning noises ensue. Words written in red laser appear in the lenses of its eyes, detailing a list of ingredients. I study it for a second, not understanding. Then I realize that Phoenix has analyzed my meal on a molecular level. Nothing about the list appears lethal. Its eyes return to glowing red.

  “You’re sure this is okay to eat?” I ask in a soft tone.

  Its lenses move up and down in a nod-like gesture. I lift my fork, taking a small bite, and then a much larger one when I don’t notice anything unusual about the flavor. Shoveling the food into my mouth, I finish the entire portion in a few more bites, hardly tasting it at all. We repeat the process for several more dishes and beverages, until I have a small food baby in my belly and eater’s remorse.

  “Are you Phee?” I ask, setting my fork aside. The burly mechadome’s eyes move side to side. “Are you—” Using its right hand, the one that’s like a claw, it lifts my hand and points to the small star on my palm. Reykin. I stiffen. “I’m going to bed,” I murmur. “You should do the same.”

  Leaving the kitchen, I trudge to the stairs and start to climb them. Behind me, Phoenix’s feet clang against the floor. I pause, turning around to find th
e small bot running into the bottom step, trying to follow me upstairs. It points to the sofa, clearly wanting me to sleep there. “No,” I reply. “I’m sleeping in my bed.”

  More clanging sets my teeth on edge, but I ignore it. I take a quick shower and change into sleepwear that I can fight in if need be. The first-aid kit in my bathroom has liquid stitches and bandages. I use the salve to sterilize and glue my frayed skin together, and a bandage to cover the wound on my neck. Returning to my bedroom, I climb onto the enormous mattress. I grip the silver hilt of my Halo Palace–issued fusionblade and, with supreme effort, try to keep my eyes open.

  A murderous nightmare leaves me breathless. I’m jerked awake by something brushing up against my arm. In my right hand, my fusionblade ignites, and I strike, but it’s met by an equally strong dual-blade, the X16 model I helped design. The energy of our blades growls where they meet, spitting and sizzling in protest. “It’s me,” Reykin hisses between clenched teeth. The golden glow of the blade makes him look like a statue of an ancient deity—maybe even Tyburn himself. “You’re having a bad dream.”

  My eyes narrow, and I look around from my half-reclined position on my bed. My bedroom is the same as before, except the fat chair that’s usually by the window has been moved to the corner. It has a small blanket draped over the arm and a large indention in the cushion.

  I withdraw my fusionblade and power it off. Reykin does the same. The soft light beside my bed illuminates when I touch its base. “What are you doing here?” I demand. Everything is hazy and my voice sounds groggy, even though I have adrenaline coursing through me. My nightmare was particularly horrific—my mother’s soldiers were destroying the city of Purity to get to me.

  Reykin retreats to the chair, lifting it and moving it back where it was. His hair is sticking up on one side, and his dark, expensive trousers are wrinkled. The broad expanse of his back is completely bare. He turns, and I see a large handprint on the side of his cheek.

  My eyes widen. “You slept here!”