Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  The steel arm of a medical drone nudges me aside, its cylindrical silver body hovering over the soldier. A blue light scans her from head to toe, assessing her injuries. Other medical drones arrive, scouring for survivors. I step back and right into someone standing behind me. Masculine arms encircle me. Turning around in his embrace, I stare up into the visor of a Fate of Swords soldier, noting the shiny black broadsword embossed on its matte-black surface. The visor retracts in sections, revealing a wicked smile and gorgeous, steel-colored eyes.

  The soldier jerks the wool away from my nose and mouth. Lifting his hand to reposition his headset microphone, his deep voice resonates into it. “I’ve located her.” He pauses, listening. “I’m sure it’s her.” He grasps my wrist, takes an identification processor from his belt, and positions it over the side of my hand where my sword moniker usually glows. He pulls the trigger on the scanner. Blue light illuminates my skin. His scanner works—he must have come from outside the snuff pulse’s range. My identity doesn’t register on his device. Usually, a holographic screen with all my vital information would display. Frowning, he triggers the scanner again. Blue light dances over my hand, and then . . . nothing.

  “Her moniker is fried, but it’s her,” he scowls, glancing skyward. “How do I know for sure? I’ve been forced to watch her every day for as long as I can remember. I think I can recognize Roselle St. Sismode. Commander Kodaline is with her.”

  I turn toward the wounded soldier behind me. Dune has taken my place beside her, holding her hand as the medical drone administers combat dressings and medication. The soldier’s hand moves to encircle my upper arm. He turns me back to him. I wince at the pressure of his grip. “Stay where you are,” he orders. His other hand examines my torso. The blood of dead soldiers smears my uniform.

  “That’s not my blood.” I try to brush his hand from me. Chaos swirls around us. Newly arrived rescue ships and drones circle overhead. The breeze has begun to blow the dust and smoke away, allowing us to see and breathe much easier.

  “Hold still,” the soldier orders.

  “I’m not hurt. Please let go of me.” I try again to shrug away.

  “Are you in shock?” he asks in a rush. “Who is the Clarity of Virtues? Do you know what fatedom we’re in?” He runs his hand over my stomach, worry creasing his brow when his gloved hand comes away with more blood.

  I stare at his handsome face, my heartbeat racing uncomfortably. “I’m not in shock, Fabian Bowie is Clarity, and we’re in Swords. Let go.”

  He won’t let go, and I’m not used to being touched, least of all by a domineering soldier whose face makes me feel like my heart is too big for my chest. I drive my elbow into his nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to let him know he needs to let me go.

  He does. He wipes his bloody nose with the back of his gloved hand. “You just struck a superior—”

  I move back. “Technically, I’m still an unregistered secondborn until I’m processed. You’re not my superior anything. I’m not in shock, I’m not injured, and you don’t get to touch me unless I say you can.”

  I feel a rifle muzzle tap the back of my skull. I still. “You need some help, Hawthorne?”

  The soldier’s scowl deepens. He reaches out and pulls me behind him, knocking the gun away. “Gilad, don’t point your weapon at her!”

  Before the second soldier can comply, he’s disarmed by Dune, who detaches the fusion charge from beneath the grip of the rifle, rendering it useless. Dune pockets the charge before handing the weapon back to the young combatant. “Have any of the Gates of Dawn soldiers been apprehended yet?”

  The overconfident one with the incredible eyes stands at attention, giving Dune the respect owed to him by his firstborn rank. “I’m unaware of any prisoners being taken, Patrøn.”

  “What’s your name?” Dune asks.

  “Hawthorne Sword, Patrøn, 11-171971.” He gives only his first name, his Fate, and his number. His last name was taken from him when he was processed. He’s now required to identify with his Fate, to which he’s sworn his loyalty, rather than with his family.

  “And you?” Dune’s gaze rests on the one who put the muzzle to my head.

  The soldier’s visor ticks back. He doesn’t look much older than me, but he has white scars on his brow, nose, and both cheeks. “Gilad Sword, 25-135472.”

  “How old are you?” Dune studies them.

  “Nineteen, Patrøn,” they answer in unison.

  More soldiers climb over the embankment of smoldering rubble surrounding us. “And how long have you been wards of the Fate?”

  “I was Transitioned when I was ten, Patrøn,” Hawthorne answers.

  “I was ten, also, Patrøn,” Gilad replies.

  Dune’s lips twist in a sneer. “Secondborn soldiers keep getting younger and younger. Are all of your families afraid of you?”

  The question was rhetorical, but Gilad answers anyway. “Well, yeah.” He smirks, showing imperfect teeth. “We’re scary monsters, Patrøn.”

  Hawthorne glances away, listening to his headset. His eyes shift back to Dune’s. “A transport is en route to intercept you here and take you directly to the Fate of Virtues at the order of Clarity Bowie.”

  “I will accompany Roselle to processing. She is to make her speech—”

  Hawthorne raises his palm. “Negative, Patrøn. You’re to leave immediately for Virtues. Those are orders. A secondborn transport is en route to intercept Roselle St. Sismode.”

  Two ships emerge above us and rapidly descend. Doors open from the top and form ramps leading into the bellies of the aircraft. Gilad tucks his rifle to his chest and walks toward one of the vessels. Hawthorne touches my elbow but pulls his hand away when my eyes shift to it. “We need to go, Roselle.”

  “Wait!” My bleak eyes fly to Dune.

  “Can you give us a moment?” Dune asks. Hawthorne nods and walks away, just out of earshot.

  Dune gathers me into a hug. I smell sandalwood, even through the dust covering us. I cannot remember ever being hugged by him before. I close my eyes, trying not to cry. In a hushed voice, he asks, “Do you remember the name I told you?”

  “Yes.”

  He squeezes me tighter. “Roselle, there’s something you need to know,” he says, so low that only I can hear him. “Walther is not just my secondborn brother—he’s my older brother.” My eyes widen, and I loosen my grip on him. “Now you know my secret. Find me, should you need me. I will be there for you.” Too shocked to speak, I hardly react when he kisses my forehead. Dune straightens and looks past my shoulder. The handsome soldier approaches us. “Hawthorne, should anything happen to her, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  “I understand, Patrøn. I’ll make sure she gets to where she’s supposed to be.”

  I cling to Dune for a moment longer, my head on his shoulder, and then I let him go, taking a shaky step back, and then another. My vision blurs. Hawthorne walks beside me, his rifle in hand, scanning for any sign of the enemy as we move to the waiting troopship.

  Near the ramp, Gilad is surrounded by a squad of soldiers, all about my age, with the glowering stares of thousand-year-old souls. Hawthorne raises his voice over the hum of the aircraft. “You’re in charge of the unit until I get back, Gilad.”

  Gilad smiles imperiously at his assembled unit. “All right, children,” he roars, “this is only a rescue mission if you find someone alive! Let’s uncover Swords who need our help, and beacon them for the med drones to mend ’em and send ’em!”

  Hawthorne gestures toward the ramp. “After you, Roselle.” Walking to the ship, I glance back over my shoulder at the only man who ever truly loved me.

  Chapter 5

  Mine Now

  I enter the drab interior of the aircraft. Rows of black seats line its walls and belly. The airship is empty, except for the pilots in the front and Hawthorne beside me. I select a seat by the ramp. Hawthorne reaches up and pulls down the harness. He locks it in place around me and takes a seat ac
ross from me.

  Through the open doorway, I see Dune amid a unit of firstborn officers who have come to escort him to the capital in Virtues, their snow-white uniform capes turning gray with dust. They don’t know that Commander Kodaline is really Dune Petes, thirdborn Sword—an imposter. He has to be thirdborn if his older brother, Walther, is a secondborn Sword soldier. Panic careens through my veins. If any one of those officers discovers Dune’s secret—that the golden sword-shaped moniker that usually shines on his left hand is somehow a fake—they’d be tempted to execute him where he stands. By every law of the Fates of the Republic, he shouldn’t exist.

  Thirdborn laws allow few exceptions. It’s considered greedy to deplete resources on a third child. Clarities, who are required to have two children, are usually the only ones who can produce more than the allotted offspring, but there have to be special circumstances. Gabriel or I would have to die before my mother could give birth to another child. She would need special permission acquired through a petition and legal channels. It has happened, but it’s not common. A whole division of the government called Census is devoted to the detection and elimination of violators of the thirdborn rules, and its authority is almost absolute. I shiver, knowing that I can never tell anyone what Dune just told me. If I do, he will be hunted down and slaughtered.

  If Walther is secondborn, then who is their firstborn brother?

  “Are you okay?” Hawthorne asks. I stare at him blankly. “You look as if you might faint.”

  “How long until we get to the Golden Circle?” My voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s gravelly and raw—dry from the dust coating everything and the emotions choking my throat.

  He shrugs, settling back in his seat and pulling down on the harness above his head to lock it in place. “Less than twenty.”

  I nod and look away from him. The ramp rises and obscures my view of Dune. It thumps hard against the side, sealing us in. The sound of it reverberates. Dim lights illuminate the interior as the aircraft lifts straight up. I get an aerial view of the destruction through the transparent aisle beneath my feet. Several buildings have toppled over. Fires rage over entire city blocks. Broken airships lie like skeletons across the scorched ground.

  This is the first strike my fatedom has suffered in this war. Usually, we’re pounding cities in the Fate of Stars, the Fate of Atoms, and the Fate of Suns, cities suspected of harboring Gates of Dawn soldiers or sympathizers. Mother is probably beside herself, the first Sword in several centuries to fail to protect her people—her firstborns. She doesn’t care about anyone else.

  I glance up through my tears. Hawthorne studies me, and I realize I’m trembling, my body reacting to trauma. Unlocking his harness, Hawthorne shifts to the seat next to mine. From a compartment on the side of his thigh armor, he extracts a square packet. He cracks it with both hands and shakes it. “Here.” He places it in my hand. Heat radiates from it. He nudges my hands together, letting the packet warm them both. Unwrapping a gauze bandage from his medical supplies, he uses a water spritzer to wet the material. Setting the water aside, Hawthorne extends the cloth to my face.

  I lean away from him, avoiding his hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning you up. You’re a mess.”

  “Who cares what I look like?” I ask, bumping his arm away.

  Reaching for a chrome lid to a power source generator, he pulls it off the unit and holds it up so that I’m confronted by my reflection. I resemble a weeping ghost. Gray dust covers my skin. Streaks of tears create desolate lines through it.

  “I’m not crying. I have dust in my eyes,” I lie.

  “I know,” he lies, too. He replaces the chrome lid. The wet cloth nears my face once more. This time I don’t pull away as Hawthorne gently presses it to my cheek and wipes off the soot.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “About your nose.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve had worse. It’s been broken a few times.”

  “You can’t tell.” I bite my bottom lip anxiously. He winks at me. My heart flutters, and my face flushes hotly.

  “I get it fixed whenever it’s broken. Gilad teases me about it. He says it’s a waste of merits because it’ll just end up broken again. Probably by him.”

  “What are merits?”

  “Special privilege units. You earn them by doing things better or faster than everyone else. Or by doing things others can’t do.”

  “Are there any other ways to earn them?”

  “Sometimes you can earn them for being a turner—reporting other secondborns for infractions of the rules. I wouldn’t advise it, though. Turners have a way of not lasting very long in most units.”

  “You mean they’re killed?”

  “I mean they have an accident that they never recover from.”

  “What else can you use merits for?”

  He stops cleaning my face and sits back. “All kinds of things—extra rations, novel files, magazine files, soap, hair products, sweets, entertainment—”

  “What kind of entertainment?”

  He wads up the dirty cloth and throws it at a bin. “Well, there’s films and music . . . date night.” He gives me an appraising look and smiles. My heart thumps harder in my chest. “You get to go on a date—each person pays merits to meet each other. They match you with someone you’d be compatible with, and then they allow you to meet and . . .” He waves his hand in a gesture that indicates a next step. “And whatever.” He raises both of his eyebrows.

  I just stare at him.

  He frowns. “Please tell me you know what I’m talking about.”

  I shake my head.

  “Sex, Roselle. I’m talking about sex.” I straighten in my seat and look away from him, embarrassed by the turn our conversation has taken. “You know what sex is, then?” He laughs.

  “I know what it is. I don’t know why anyone would waste merits on it. It’s not like you’re allowed to have a child. We’re secondborns. We’re forbidden to procreate. What would be the point of date night?”

  He looks up at the ceiling. “What would be the point?” He turns to me with an incredulous look. “Pleasure, Roselle. Pleasure is the point. We both take a pill before the date starts so there’s no chance of offspring.”

  “So you pay for the privilege of having a . . .”

  “The word you’re looking for is girlfriend, and no, no one gets a girlfriend. We aren’t allowed to have an ongoing relationship. The next time I have a date, it will be with someone new.”

  I want desperately to change the subject. “Have they located any of the Gates of Dawn soldiers? There was one soldier with a night-sky visor. It had a swirling black hole on it”—I drag my hand in front of my face from my forehead to my chin—“here. He confronted my hover.” My cheeks are on fire, and I want to slap the arrogant grin off Hawthorne’s face.

  “I don’t know. No one is speaking to me at the moment.” He taps the ear of his headset.

  “How do we find out?” I try to wipe dust off my sleeve, anything not to have to meet his eyes.

  “I’ll probably be briefed on the status of the investigation later. You, more than likely, will be questioned for what you know about the attack. What do you know?”

  “I saw the first soldier not too far from the Heritage Building.”

  “But the attack happened farther from there. Why didn’t you alert someone to their presence sooner?” His cocky smile has evaporated.

  “I wasn’t sure what I saw.”

  His eyes dart around to see if we’re being observed. He covers the microphone of his headset. “Don’t tell anyone what you just told me,” he whispers.

  “Why? He had a golden sun mask—”

  He hushes me, looking over his shoulder before turning back to me. “You didn’t report the soldier immediately. It could be seen as aiding the enemy.”

  My voice drops several octaves. “I was confused. I’d just left my home—it was traumatic—I wasn’t thinking.”

  He reaches out and touch
es my wrist. “I know what that moment is like—when you realize you’ll never see home again.” He stares into my eyes, and I see my pain reflected back at me. “But you can’t tell them anything about that soldier. Just start at the point you were attacked. Trust me. I’m trying to protect you. Do you understand?” I nod. “Good.” He drops his hand from the microphone.

  Hawthorne continues to watch me with worry in his eyes. Our troopship descends in a rush of speed that makes my stomach flip. It touches down in the middle of an airship pad on the outskirts of a military Base. The door of our aircraft opens, exposing us to an overcast sky. Tall, gray pillars rise up from the ground in front of us like tree trunks in a stone forest, tapering the higher they go into the clouds. Each must be a few city blocks in diameter. Docked to each structure’s tree branches are kidney-shaped airships, each large enough to harbor a few thousand troops. They’re mobile barracks designed with sleeping quarters, mess hall, and training facilities that can also airlift troops to war zones and other military Bases. Assessing the stone forest of ships, I see there must be hundreds of thousands of soldiers at this Base alone.

  Hawthorne rises from his seat. He takes the warming pack from my hands and disposes of it in a bin. “C’mon.” He waits for me to stand. “I’ll get you where you need to be.” Holding his rifle close to his body with the muzzle pointed at the ground, he gazes around at the Base outside before exiting the aircraft. I follow him.

  “Why didn’t we just dock in there?” I ask. “It looks as if the grounds surrounding the Base have been cleared.”

  “You’re not allowed in there until you’re processed. They try to make it appear as if you’re being indoctrinated into a secret society of knights.”

  “And you don’t believe that?” I study his profile as I walk beside him.