Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  “The weapons before you are prototypes. Only a few of them exist. We’ll be rolling them into production next week. I wanted my friends to be the first to have them.”

  Hawthorne, Gilad, Edge, and Hammon slip on their eye protection.

  I show Hammon the proper way to load the weapon. Edge aims at the target downfield. Gilad fires several bursts with the hydrogen barrel. “Notice how quiet it is?” I ask. Then I show him how to switch to the fusion barrel, with just a flick of my thumb.

  I move on to Hawthorne. He has destroyed the Gates of Dawn silhouette at the farthest point on the range. “What do you think?” I ask him.

  “Can you strip this for me and show me how to reassemble it?” he asks, setting it down on a stone slab counter.

  “Of course,” I reply. He takes a step back. Lifting the weapon, I take out the magazine and begin to disassemble it. Hawthorne inches closer. His nose touches my hair and he inhales. His arm slips around my waist from behind.

  Strong lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear and nuzzle it. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes. Setting the pieces of the Culprit on the counter, I reach up and cup the side of his face, leaning into his kisses. Then I turn in his arms. His hands reacquaint themselves with my curves.

  Edgerton’s voice hollers from two stations down. “Whoo! This is better than flying upside down in a vector spinner!”

  I giggle against Hawthorne’s lips. “What’s a vector spinner?” I whisper.

  “You don’t want to know. I feel like I’m still wearing his puke from it, though.”

  “Aw, you poor thing.” My hands on the back of his neck gently guide his mouth back to mine.

  “I like my present,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

  Edgerton peeks around the wall. “Hey,” he says, chewing on something. “Are these crellas for us, too?” He holds up an already-bitten pastry.

  I nod. “Yes, and drinks to go along with them on the bar next to the—”

  He shows me his other hand. “This?” he asks. Both hands full, he steps toward me and hugs me with his forearms. “You’re the best, Roselle.” Hammon joins us with two sparkling wines. She gives one to me. Gilad passes another to Hawthorne.

  “A toast,” I say, holding up my glass. They look at me funny.

  “It’s wine, Roselle,” Edgerton whispers.

  “Er . . . a toast means . . . never mind. Let’s drink a sip in honor of our little secondborn family.”

  “To family,” Hawthorne murmurs, looking like he’d prefer to have his mouth on me.

  “Family,” I say and take a sip.

  Hammon chokes on her drink and coughs. Eyes wide, she stares at Hawthorne as if he has ordered her into active infantry duty. “Hawthorne,” she gasps with gut-wrenching dread in her voice. “Your moniker has gone golden.”

  He focuses on his left hand. The holographic sword is no longer silver. Hammon’s eyes dart toward me, then to the floor. Gilad stares at Hawthorne as if he has become a walking corpse.

  Edgerton is the first to speak. “Hey, congratulations, Hawthorne. Looks like you won the lottery. We’re all really happy for you.”

  “This can’t be right,” Hawthorne mumbles, as if to himself. “Flint can’t be dead.”

  I turn away, tears stinging my eyes, and pick up the pieces of his Culprit-44. Reassembling the weapon, I place it back in the velvet-lined box and close the lid.

  Hawthorne grasps Hammon’s upper arms. “How long has it been like that?” She stares at him, growing paler. “Do you know?” He shakes her a little.

  “Hey, now,” Edgerton says, touching Hawthorne’s arm. “Take it easy. Erething’s gonna be—”

  “How long?” Hawthorne repeats, more desperately.

  “I don’t know,” she replies. “I just noticed it.”

  Hawthorne turns. “Did you notice it before, Roselle?” I shake my head. I don’t want to face him because I don’t want him to see my tears.

  Edgerton tries a softer tone. “Hawthorne, take a breath. This ain’t such a bad thing.”

  Hawthorne growls. “I have a life here! I have someone I love—who loves me! I have nothing out there!”

  “I get it. I do.” Edgerton rests his hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. “But there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. You’re firstborn now. You has to go be firstborn.”

  Hawthorne backs against the counter next to me. Edgerton’s hand falls from him. “I can fix this. I have to fix this,” he mutters aloud, but he sounds as if his thoughts are in disarray. He grabs me to him. My tears wet the front of his flight suit. He strokes my hair and rains kisses on the top of my head.

  Pounding on the metal door breaks us apart. “Military Police,” a deep voice yells through the door. “We’re looking for Hawthorne Trugrave.”

  Hawthorne and I are bred to be cautious. We’ve trained ourselves always to show restraint, to avoid getting caught, to stay one step ahead of anyone who would tear us apart. But as Edgerton moves to open the door, I know it really doesn’t matter now. Hawthorne and I will be separated, and there isn’t a thing either one of us can do about it. All of our concealed caresses, all the times I forced myself to look away so no one would notice the love written all over my face—all for naught. I’m still going to lose him.

  MPs wander into the gallery. The one with the bushy eyebrows gazes at the holographic image of Hawthorne shining up from his moniker’s screen. He finds Hawthorne. “You’ve Transitioned, Firstborn Trugrave. We have you scheduled on an airship leaving in twenty minutes for Forge. Your possessions will be sent to you. We need to go—”

  “I’m not ready,” Hawthorne growls, like a cornered animal.

  The MP remains friendly. “Of course you’re ready. Just come with us. Everything else can be taken care of. Your family needs you now.”

  “I said I’m not ready!” Hawthorne’s hands ball into fists.

  The MPs look at one another with here-we-go expressions. “Everything will be fine,” one says in a placating tone. “You’re going home.” All three MPs grab Hawthorne, who thrashes and bucks like a wild beast. Edgerton holds my arm.

  “Roselle!” Hawthorne yells. “Just wait!” He struggles against the MPs. Spittle flies from his mouth. The cords of his neck muscles strain as he wrenches. “Roselle! You don’t understand. I need to protect her. They’ll find a way to bury her. This is where they’ll bury her! I have to fix this. I need to fix this!”

  “Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” one of the MPs growls as they drag him toward the door.

  “Don’t hurt him!” I shout through tears. Edgerton holds me back. I clutch the black box.

  “Let ’em take him,” Edgerton growls in my ear. “He’ll fight harder if you get in the middle of it, and they’ll hurt him worse.” I know he’s right, but it takes every ounce of willpower not to pull the firearm from the box. The MPs drag Hawthorne from the room, and it’s over almost as soon as it began. And then he’s gone.

  I don’t remember returning to my capsule, but I can’t imagine ever leaving it again. This is where they can bury me.

  Chapter 17

  Shattered

  No one, not even Gilad, has heard from Hawthorne in two weeks. I’m becoming desperate. Tritium 101 is scheduled to go active soon. If I can’t get in touch with him, I might not talk to him until I return from the Twilight Forest Base—if I return. I’ve tried to contact him, but all the overtures I’ve made have been declined. Whether by him or by my commanding officer is unclear.

  I can hardly sleep. But finally, I get Hawthorne’s address, and from an unlikely source. As it turns out, Emmy can be bought with crellas and a daily gossip visit. I hate using her, but I’m desperate.

  It’s been hard waiting to leave the Stone Forest Base, but first I have a private luncheon scheduled with Clifton and some buyers. I haven’t asked who, and he hasn’t said. It’s better this way.

  At least I get to pilot the Anthroscope to Copper Towne. The moderately sized city is near the border of Swo
rds and Seas. Usually Clifton and I leave together from his apartment on Base, but he has something scheduled this morning in Forge and requested that I take his chauffeured airship, but I harassed him until he agreed to let me meet him in Copper Towne. I’ll dine with Clifton, and then if all goes well, have dinner with Hawthorne.

  I change into a stunning rose-red dress and black heels that I find in my locker. Clifton’s assistant provides my “uniforms,” coordinating them through my Stone attendant. Pulling the long, fingerless satin gloves to my elbows, I breathe easier, knowing my scar is covered. The thigh-high stockings are next. I pick up my black wrap and clutch, and make a dash for the hangar.

  After receiving clearance for takeoff, I plot a course for the border of Swords and daydream about what I’ll say to Hawthorne when I see him tonight. The trip takes several hours, but I arrive at the Salloway warehouse a little before our appointment.

  I walk unhurried to the front offices of the Salloway Munitions satellite warehouse and testing facility. It’s not the exquisite headquarters—that’s in Forge. This building is “serviceable” and “secure,” according to Clifton. Entering through the front doors, I pass through a full-body scanner. Inside the large lobby, sophisticated, masculine-leaning furniture sits beneath a sword the size of a blue whale. I choose the leather chair directly beneath its sharp point.

  Ordering a very potent alcoholic beverage from the table unit, I watch as a short, fat glass with two perfect ice cubes pops up through a hole in the veneer. I touch my lips to the rim, marking it with red lipstick, and take the tiniest of sips, just enough to have it on my breath. Then I lean back in my seat, cross my legs, and wait. After ten minutes, Clifton approaches. I let him devour my legs with his eyes. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Clifton remarks by way of greeting.

  I try not to giggle. My boss reaches down and takes my hand, helping me to my feet. He kisses both of my cheeks. His lips linger a little longer than appropriate. Then he indicates a brutal-looking man with a thick red scar that runs from his temple to his cheek. “This is Valdi Kingfisher.”

  I’m given first names only, with last names of birds—it’s a hallmark of the business. I nod. “Firstborn Kingfisher.”

  “This is Pedar Albatross,” Clifton continues.

  “Firstborn Albatross,” I reply, with another nod.

  We take the hallway to the main weapons-testing room. Clifton runs through the specs of the new prototype Culprit-44. He gives them each a weapon without the magazines and gestures in my direction. “Roselle, if you would.” I approach the station, and they crowd around behind me as I assemble the weapon in under five seconds. I enable it and pop off twenty shots at twenty targets in twenty seconds—all head shots. Clean. They’re duly impressed. I casually look at my red-painted fingernails and trigger the weapon, spraying the targets in a barrage of silver hydrogen energy, decimating them. That has them whooping with glee.

  Pedar sidles up to me as I put the weapon into its case. He leans in close, about to say something, and then I feel his hand on my bottom. I’m debating the best way to kill him when the distinct whine of the Culprit-44 powering up sounds next to us. Pedar and I glance at Clifton. His face twists in a scowl. “Never touch her. She’s not for sale, only the weapons.”

  Pedar drops his hand. Valdi smacks him upside the head, ordering the smaller man out of the building to wait in the airship.

  “My deepest apologies,” Valdi says to both Clifton and me. “He’s an animal. I will deal with him later, on your behalf.” I nod, but Clifton is fuming.

  “Shall we have lunch?” I interject.

  Clifton takes my arm and places it in the crook of his own. Wordlessly, we leave the testing room. A light repast is set up in the penthouse office suite. We sit around a table with luxurious white linen. Above the table, a chandelier with hummingbird crystals sparkles with golden light. As we eat, I sit quietly while Clifton and Valdi discuss quantities and delivery dates.

  Dessert arrives, a confectionary bird’s nest with two ice cream eggs. I eat some, then sit back and sip coffee. The conversation turns to the Secondborn Trials. Valdi and Clifton discuss the merits of last year’s competitors, especially the winner of The Trials, a burly Sword-Fated man named Nazar who decapitated a Star-Fated woman in the “Headless-Friendless” challenge and torched a Sword-Fated man in the “Shade of the Sun” winner-takes-all finale.

  “I’m sorry,” Valdi says to me. “Are we boring you with our talk of brutality?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Were you able to follow it?”

  “Quite able. You’re an odds maker, Firstborn Kingfisher. You make money not only by calculating the likelihood of a winner, but also by making sure that the person who’s least likely to win doesn’t.”

  He chuckles. “That’s exactly right. I’m curious, Roselle. Why is it, do you think, that a Sword wins the Secondborn Trials each year? One could argue, and many do, that a Star or an Atom, with all of their ingenuity, should have better odds of winning the title.”

  “You’re asking me if I have a theory?”

  “Yes, Roselle, what’s your theory?” He raises his cup to his lips, watching me over the rim.

  I set down my cup. “The average secondborn Sword soldier is Transitioned by the age of twelve. Many of us go earlier, though, as young as ten. I was taught to fight since I could walk, by one of the most skilled assassins of our lifetime. By the time you stopped sucking your thumb, I knew a thousand ways to kill you with mine.” I hold my red-painted thumbnail out to him. Then I lift my spoon and pick delicately at my bird’s nest. “That’s not strength, that’s ingenuity, problem-solving, and training. The average secondborn Transition age for the other Fates is eighteen. No one fears them like they do us, because only secondborn Swords have to struggle every day to survive, with or without a Trial.”

  Valdi sets his cup down on the table and holds out his palm to Clifton. “I’d like one of those rose pins, if you have one to spare.”

  After we say our good-byes to Valdi, I check the time. It’s taken longer than I thought, and I’m anxious to leave. Clifton sits back in his chair, stirring his coffee. “I’m sorry about Pedar. That will never happen again, I promise you.”

  “I wasn’t surprised.”

  “You weren’t?” His golden eyebrow rises in a cunning arch.

  “You named him Albatross for a reason.”

  He chuckles. “You are insightful.”

  “I can see why he was confused, Clifton. You weren’t just selling arms today—you were selling me and the Rose Garden Society.”

  “I was garnering support for the cause.”

  “That cause being keeping me alive?”

  “That is my main concern.”

  I set my napkin aside and rise. Clifton frowns. “You’re leaving so soon? I thought we could spend the evening in Copper Towne. We have another luncheon scheduled tomorrow. It will save you the trip back and forth.”

  “That sounds lovely, but I can’t. I only have day-pass access codes. I have to be back on Base by lights out, unless you’ve cleared it with Tritium 101?”

  Clifton sighs, annoyed. “Forgive me, I forget sometimes that you’re not . . .”

  “One of you?” I ask.

  “Precisely . . . you’re not one of us, and you’re not one of them. You’re something else entirely.” Whether he’s speaking of firstborns and secondborns, I’m not exactly sure. Clifton rises from his seat. “I will walk you out.”

  He takes my arm, and we catch an elevator to the lobby. He kisses my cheek at the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Plan on staying in Copper Towne tomorrow night. I want to take you to a show.”

  I cannot get to the Anthroscope fast enough. I plot a course to the address I have in Forge. On the way, I go over all the things I want to say to Hawthorne. My palms sweat as I enter Old Towne, the historic district in Forge. Goose bumps break out on my arms as my airship approaches the Sword Palace. I hadn’t recognized the address, but
it is among the residences of the Sword aristocracy.

  The sun has gone down by the time I find an available hoverpad about a block from the address. Gigantic old buildings line this street. They’re classic estate homes that have the feel of the Sword Palace in their stone and design. Old trees line the walk.

  Pausing in front of a gray stone residence, the largest estate on the street, my stomach churns. The home takes up almost the entire block and the block behind it, with unimpeded airspace above. The flag above the frieze has an elaborate crest. Who are you, Hawthorne?

  I move down the street and around the block. A high security wall encloses the back of the estate. If I attempt to scale it, it will likely trigger an alarm, and the last thing I need is to get caught in Forge stalking a firstborn. I walk back to my airship in the dark and retrieve my emergency bag from the storage unit in the back, where I have a training outfit, tools, and a half-dozen weapons. I quickly change into the midnight-blue outfit and boots. Disassembling the rifle’s scope, I bring the eyepiece with me, leaving everything else behind.

  Returning to the estate, I climb a tree until I’m above the security wall. I lift my scope and place it to my eye. A part of me knows just how wrong this is, stalking my love at his home, but I’m way past talking myself out of it. What I see through the windows makes my heart squeeze painfully. Hawthorne is having a dinner party.

  I lean forward on a branch. Soft lights shine through the windows of an elegant dining suite. Hawthorne is dressed in an exquisitely tailored black coat, laughing, a beautiful blond female seated next to him. He lifts a glass of wine from the table and takes a sip. She touches his other hand. My face floods with heat. I feel the burn of tears rising and force them down.

  He’s not hurt! No one is preventing him from contacting me. He can visit me anytime he wants. He can accept my transmissions. He can do anything he pleases. He’s firstborn!