Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  We approach a street vendor selling holographic masks. They shine and blink on a hovering wire rack in the front of the pavilion. The vender takes one look at Christof, recognition dawns, and he quickly looks the other way, as if he’s afraid of the boy. I stare at the masks on display. Some mimic wildlife—elephants with long gray trunks made of light, swine with triangular ears and round snouts, wolves with long muzzles and sharp teeth. Others suggest eerie monsters with viper fangs, or mouthless beasts. Christof choses a black panther mask with black triangular ears, long whiskers, and yellow eyes. He hands it to me. “That’s you for sure,” he says. “A cat.”

  Lifting it to my face, I pull the strap over my hair and tug my cowl down once more. Unable to help myself, I touch his cheek. “You take care, Christof.”

  “You, too, St. Sismode.” Why he chooses to call me by my old last name, I don’t know, but I have no time to wonder. I set a brisk pace to the news hovervan before Franklin Star leaves without me.

  The news van has a big, bold blue holographic iris surrounding a black pupil on its side. Every few seconds, the eyelid blinks and the iris changes color. Beside the eye, a sandy-haired secondborn paces, consulting his shooting star–shaped moniker. Crowds of people jostle past him on their way to different party venues. Sidling up to the secondborn, I murmur, “Franklin?”

  A scared scowl crosses his face, and his glasses go askew when he jolts. He rearranges them on his nose. Grasping his heart, he tries to see me beyond the hologram of my mask. “Who sent you?” he whispers. His thin body leans closer to me.

  “Balmora,” I reply.

  He looks around, deciding whether we’re being watched. Finding no one, Franklin gestures to the side with his head, motioning to the hovervan’s sliding side panel. He ushers me inside and closes the door. In the dark, the smell of stale beer assaults me. My eyes adjust to the dimness. One side of the van is a command center. The other has metal racks bolted to the floor. Inside mesh bins, drone cameras lie charging, their green-spotted lens eyes seeming to stare into my soul. A workstation is next to the drones. It has a couple seats, folded away. I sit down on the dingy steel floor toward the rear of the vehicle.

  Franklin gets into the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder he says, “If we get caught, I’d appreciate you saying that you stowed away in here without me knowing.”

  “Sure, Franklin,” I agree.

  “Keep your head down.” He starts the hovervan. With a low rumble and a sway of the hulking van, we’re off. Wires on hooks jumble around. Equipment I have no name for rubs against other equipment I have no name for. I lie on the cold, dingy floor and stare up. Moonlight glints through the dirty window.

  We’re not stopped or checked as we exit the Trial Village. No one seems overly concerned that we’re leaving. Franklin attempts to make small talk, but beyond confirming that I want to go to Club Faraway, I ignore his questions. After a few minutes, he gives up and focuses on the route.

  It’s not until this moment that I allow myself to unleash what I’ve stuffed down deep inside since agreeing to do this. Goose bumps prickle over my skin. Fear grabs me by the throat. This could be a setup. Even if it’s not, I’m not optimistic that I’ll make it out of this alive. I’m about to storm into a drug den and attempt to kidnap my firstborn brother, the heir to the deadliest Fate in the world. I could paint this as a selfless act—wax poetic about how noble it is to save Gabriel and reunite him with the love of his life—but that’s not why I’m doing it. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m terrified of Gabriel dying and forcing me to take his place. Othala will never forgive me. Not that I care, I tell myself, even as shame burns my cheeks.

  But there’s more to it than that. If Gabriel dies, and I become firstborn, I’ll be something I’ve come to despise. If I’m required to take over, there are no guarantees that I won’t be worse than Gabriel. I’m significantly more vicious, and I know this about myself. If I became firstborn, any faction seeking to destroy me or attempting to wrestle away my power would be met with ruthless retaliation . . . just like my mother’s. Othala and I will never again be on the same side. The problem is, if I can’t maintain power, the odds of me descending into some nightmarish prison of Othala’s or Bowie’s or even Crow’s making is high. If Othala is aligned with Crow, I can include soul-crushing torture.

  But the final reason that I welcome this fight tonight is because it may be my one shot at having a family again. I had love, a makeshift family, but I’ve lost it, and there’s a gaping hole in my heart where it used to be. I need to be honest with myself. Hawthorne isn’t coming back. He’s going to go on with his life—his firstborn life. He would’ve contacted me by now if he planned to be a part of the rebellion—or to see me. It’s been weeks. He knows where I am. He also knows the odds are against our fixing anything. We have a better chance of making things worse.

  Saving Gabriel could be my only shot at happiness. If Balmora, the secondborn of the Fate of Virtues, and Gabriel, the firstborn of the Fate of Swords, can unite and fight for change, then maybe there’s a better world ahead for all of us. Maybe together, they can bring us peace.

  Chapter 15

  The Consolation of Oblivion

  Franklin stops the hovervan on the street corner one block from Club Faraway. Before I even close the door, he speeds away. Taking off the cat mask, I toss it into a garbage receptacle. The streets aren’t very crowded in downtown Purity. The upscale metropolitan area is more office building than residential.

  Slowly, I follow the navigation on my wrist communicator. “I’m approaching the club,” I whisper into the device. “Have you located a weapon?”

  “Go look under the bench in front of the mechadome clinic,” Balmora replies through the communicator.

  I spot the hovering bench in front of a mechadome storefront. Different types of bots are on display. None of them resemble Phoenix. Attached to the bottom of the seat bench, I find a generic fusionblade, tear it away from the adhesive, and strap the thigh sheath to my right leg.

  “Got it,” I mutter into the communicator.

  “Good. You’re clear to go.”

  “Copy.”

  I tighten the belt of the long black jacket that Clifton’s team made for me. My hand smooths down the Copperscale. I hope it’s as good as Clifton claims, or I’m dead. The navigation points to a posh, fin-shaped skyscraper. The outside of the slender building resembles gray shark skin. It’s intriguing without being overt. Club Faraway is nestled on the corner, next to other elegant facades of what appear to be average-looking office buildings.

  The drug lair doesn’t overtly advertise. No signs. No patrons milling around outside. Balconies speckle the side of the building, reminiscent of an elegant hotel. The rooftop has a penthouse at the peak of the dorsal fin. At street level, glass doors filled with undulating blue water blur the view inside. Pushing one open, I take a cautious step in. The door closes behind me. Bright light from the ceiling and the floor make it hard to see. Security traps me in the vestibule between the outer and inner doors. I’m in a faux tank, the walls all filled with water, blurring everything on the outside. “This is a weapons-free zone,” an automated feminine voice sounds. “Please check all weapon in the receptacle.”

  A silver cylindrical apparatus rises from the floor, and a round chute opens inside it. My heart sinks. I have to give up my weapon if I want to get in. I consider leaving, but if I do, I’ll always ask what-if. Reluctantly, I pull the fusionblade from the sheath on my thigh and deposit it in the receptacle. The weapon disappears, and an orange plastic disc emerges. I place it in my pocket. The bright light fades. The doors slide open.

  The pristine lobby is dimly lit. The floor shines with wavering aquamarine light, like sunshine filtering through water. Softly lit chandeliers barely push back the shadows. Clusters of dark velvet chairs with high seat backs float above the floor. I gaze around for elevators, hallways, or other attached rooms. There aren’t any. For a drug club, it isn’t attracting any
customers.

  Soft instrumental music plays. A woman with thick dark glasses sits in the corner facing the door. Her hair is white, with blunt-cut bangs in the front. A fat tumbler of amber liquid rests on the table beside her. A rose-colored cigar sends a curl of fragrant pink smoke up from her ashtray. A glove masks her moniker. On the opposite side of the room sits a thin, well-built man. He’s hollow-cheeked, and dressed as if for the opera, drinking a wine spritzer. I don’t judge: wine spritzers are delicious.

  A clerk—middle-aged, a Virtue-Fated secondborn with slicked-back hair and a dark suit with a high collar—stands at a blue wave-shaped desk at the back of the room. The wall behind it is a shark tank. Holographic screens in the desk cast hieroglyphic symbols up onto the clerk’s face.

  “Hello and welcome to Club Faraway.” The secondborn smiles. His teeth glint. His glittering diamond ascot pin twinkles. “Do you have a reservation or are you here to meet a party?”

  “A party,” I say. “Solomon Sunday.”

  His nostrils flare, and his finger hesitates on the virtual screen. He has been expecting me.

  “Firstborn Sunday is—” His eyes widen in terror. I duck. The clerk’s neck and jaw explode from a fusionmag shot, spattering brain matter onto the tank behind him. I don’t look back but jump over the desk. A second fusionmag blast strikes me in the back between my shoulder blades. Judging by the angle, the shot had to have come from the wine spritzer man. The Copperscale of my coat absorbs part of it, but the impact is like being hit by a speeding hovercraft. I slam into the shark tank and slide to the floor. The clerk’s corpse twitches beneath me. I wheeze. My lungs feel turned inside out. Flecks of the clerk’s blood mar his diamond tiepin. I pluck the tiepin from the cloth.

  Footsteps draw nearer. Ignoring the pain, I lurch up and throw the tiepin at the man who shot me. The needle and diamond slice into his pupil. Wine Spritzer screams and holds his hand to his bloody eye. I reach across the desk, grasp his other hand, and turn his fusionmag. We shoot at the white-haired assassin stalking toward us, but she dives to the floor. I twist the fusionmag in Wine Spritzer’s hand again and shoot him through the chin with it, blowing off the top of his head. As he crumbles, I tear the weapon from his hand.

  The woman on the floor fires again. The pulse hits my right bicep. My jacket absorbs most of the pulse, but it still knocks me off my feet. My fingers go numb. I can’t hold on to the fusionmag, and it drops to the floor and slides. Straightening, I reach for it with my left hand. The woman walks around the desk, and her perfect cherry lips gape open when she sees I’m not dead. My fusion pulse blows her shattered heart out of her chest. She flies backward and hits the ground, bouncing.

  I stagger to my feet as the numbness in my arm gives way to aching tingles. It still works, but it aches like hell. Moving my fingers to get the feeling back into them, I search Wine Spritzer with my other hand. A spade-like knife is concealed in a leg sheath. He was waiting for me. Whoever planted the assassins in the lobby knew I was coming—or someone like me. I remove his glove. No moniker—but a scar where it used to be.

  I move to the woman. Her hair is a wig, and when I pull it away, she’s bald. Gruesome scars cover her scalp. I pluck the dark glasses from her face. Brown eyes with a silver tint stare up, unseeing. I don her glasses and wig, stuffing my long brown strands beneath it. I untie her rose-colored scarf, wrap it around my throat and the lower half of my face, and remove her glove. She doesn’t have a moniker either—it was cut out. I take her fusionmag and shove it in my pocket. Back at the clerk’s desk, I use the spade knife to cut out his secondborn moniker, stuffing it inside my glove so that it shines through the mesh.

  Then I use the holographic screens above the desk to find Gabriel. He’s registered in the penthouse suite. I do another search. Solomon Sunday is registered to a suite on the eighth floor—the Euphoria Room. Maybe it wasn’t Balmora who set me up. Maybe Gabriel is here after all. Maybe my mother knew someone might come to kill him, now that he’s in Virtues, and set a trap here and in the penthouse.

  The wall behind me slides sideways. Straightening in surprise, I realize that the wall was merely a holographic illusion. An entryway to a drug den lies open. Everything inside is red. Huge, round, ruby-colored lanterns hang from the ceiling. It’s like a multilevel casino, but instead of gaming tables and machines, there are tall transparent cylinders containing bodies. The bodies are suspended behind the glass. Some are alone in their tubes and simply float like dreamy fetuses in wombs. Others are suspended together in massive glass cylinders, entangling each other in orgies of passion. Decadent crimson furniture surrounds some of the glass tubes, occupied by firstborns watching the haze of smoke and naked bodies.

  People walk the floor like zombies, with pallid skin and unbalanced gaits. A Virtue-Fated firstborn with bloodshot eyes stops in his tracks next to me. He’s stooped and unsteady on his feet. “Is this real?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply, making my way into the red-poppy haze. The wall slides shut behind me, hiding the lobby. Serpentine clouds of red smoke hang in the air. The scent spins my head in lazy circles, even through my scarf. Red banners hang, curling and floating, from beams above, blooming like poppies—opening and closing, opening and closing.

  A young boy, maybe eight, takes my hand. Wordlessly he leads me to a jewel-red counter where a secondborn—wearing a mask with a painted poppy over her nose and mouth—dispenses a menagerie of mind-altering substances from behind glass. Holographic menus display on the glass.

  “Do you have aerosol?” I ask the Moon-Fated attendant. “Something that will make me sleepy?”

  She languidly twists pieces of her garnet-colored hair around her finger. “Of course. Hazy Daze-99.” She holds up a cylindrical can and depresses a button on top of it. The aerosol mists in a short burst. The arch of it forms a rainbow. It doesn’t seem to affect her. “How many?”

  “Everything you have and a mask like yours.”

  Her eyes bug out. “Do you want that on a hovercart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Scan your moniker,” she says.

  I scan the clerk’s moniker as she loads a few dozen aerosols into a hovercart. The cart passes through to me.

  “Do you know where the lifts are?” I ask the little secondborn boy at my side. He nods, calls the lift with his moniker, and tugs my hand. As we walk to the lift, I ask, “What’s your name?”

  He shrugs lethargically. I make a mental note to come back for him when I have the power to change his life by rescuing him from this awful place.

  I enter the lift alone and wait for the doors to close. Then, opening the lid of the hovercart, I take out several cans and place them on the floor. I slip the mask over my nose and mouth and wrap it with the scarf. I lift a can and spray the cameras in the elevator, puncture several other cans in the hovercart, and close the lid.

  The dial on the hovercart is set to “Follow Mode.” I reset it to “Propel Mode.” The hovercart hits the doors and grinds against them. Positioning the clerk’s moniker beneath the scanner, I select the eighth floor. The elevator rises. I lean back into the corner where the walls of the elevator meet. I lift one foot and place it on one wall. My other foot pushes against the other wall. With my feet on each of the two corner walls, I use the leverage to scale them and press myself against the ceiling near the doors. When the car stops and opens, armed guards are waiting, their fusionmags drawn. The hovercart idles forward. One of the guards opens it. An aerosol cloud wafts out. Their shoulders round, and their arms grow heavy. Thumps resound as the guards topple over.

  Someone calls, “What is it?”

  I drop down from the ceiling.

  A guard glances at me and smiles dopily. “Adreana,” he murmurs. He must think I’m the female assassin from the lobby. He slumps against the wall and slides down it.

  Sounds of pounding feet grow near. I puncture more cans and toss them into the hallway. Billowing fog fills the air. Feet slow. Bodies hit the floor. When the fog c
lears, I peek my head out and draw it back fast. A dozen guards sit limply against the walls—some lie on the floor, weapons fallen haphazardly beside them. It’s rainbow fields forever out there.

  Following the trail of bodies, I reach the door at the end of the corridor. No sounds come from the other side. Pulling out my fusionmag, I aim it at the door, and then, on second thought, I hide the weapon behind my back, and knock. The door opens partway. “You’re supposed to be in the lobby,” a tall, burly man says. I kick in the door. He stumbles back, drawing his fusionmag. I shoot him in the chest. His colleagues are gathered around a virtual screen watching a pre-trial training session. They draw weapons. I lift my fusionmag and pull the trigger in rapid succession. Bodies twist and fall like discarded puppets. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If I were here to kill Gabriel, they wouldn’t have stopped me because they were too busy entertaining themselves.

  I bar the door and cautiously creep to the main apartment. It’s empty. In the master bedroom, I find Gabriel alone, passed out on the bed. His dark hair is in disarray. Cadaverous eyes rimmed in dark circles sit atop his hollowed cheeks. His elegant silk shirt is open, revealing his sunken chest. His rolled-up sleeves reveal scabs and bruises. He trembles. He’s either done too much or not enough.

  I tug the scarf and mask from my face. “Gabriel,” I whisper. Tears prickle my eyes. I touch his shoulder and try to rouse him. He finally opens his eyes and squints at me.

  “Who are you?” he whispers.

  I pull off the white wig and glasses. “Fabriana Friday,” I murmur through my tears.

  “Are you here . . . to save . . . the world?” he asks weakly. It’s something he would’ve said when we were kids.