Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  He flirts with the young women at his table. Jealousy devours my heart. Some of his friends look familiar, but I can’t place them. It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that they’re all firstborn, and Hawthorne is one of them now. A part of me knows I should be happy for him. A part of me will try to be. The other part of me has to leave now if I plan on surviving this.

  I jump out of the tree and storm all the way back to my Anthroscope. Wheeling the airship around, I break several safety laws as I blast out of the city. Somewhere between Forge and Iron, I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my sleeve, vowing never to cry for another firstborn again.

  Chapter 18

  Flannigan’s Man

  The next morning, I apply more concealer under my eyes at the locker room mirror.

  “Do you think I could use some of that?” Hammon asks.

  I pass the makeup stick to her. She brushes it on beneath her eyes, covering her own dark circles. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. I think I just ate something awful last night.”

  “Maybe you should call a medical drone.”

  “I feel okay now,” she replies. “I’m afraid to ask you how it went last night.”

  “Do you want to help me prepare my ship? I’ll requisition for maintenance, and then we can talk about it.”

  She brightens. “Put in the requisition, and I’ll meet you in the hangar after I get my tools.”

  I head to the hangar, and I’m almost to my airship when I see Agent Crow lurking near it. I turn to leave, but he catches me. “Roselle Sword, I need a word with you.”

  “Good morning, Agent.”

  “Good morning. You look tired. Did you have a trying evening? Losing sleep over something, perhaps?”

  “I’ve had a few nightmares lately, but none while I’ve been asleep.”

  “The hazards of being you, I presume. I’ve actually heard that you recently lost your friend. The MPs tell me Hawthorne Trugrave put up quite a struggle.”

  “I’m sure he’s over it now,” I reply.

  “Quite. You wouldn’t know how it is, but the Transition from secondborn to firstborn is illuminating. It’s like being reborn.”

  “You would know that better than I.” Because you murdered your own sister.

  “Yes. I also know that he has all but forgotten you by now. You probably never even enter his mind.” I try not to wince. Agent Crow smiles. “I had a chance to interview the MPs who took you from me that day a year ago. They said Tula did your detention intake.”

  “And?”

  “And she remembers you.”

  “That’s not surprising. A lot of people remember meeting me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work both ways.”

  “I believe that. You’re something of a celebrity, aren’t you?” he says with faux sympathy.

  “I’m just secondborn.”

  “The thing I find surprising,” he goes on, “is that Tula seems to recall another young woman who was processed into detention before you came in.”

  I know he’s talking about Flannigan. “They made a lot of cells for a reason. Bad girls are everywhere.”

  “I have an interview with Holcomb Sword in about”—he glances at his moniker’s timekeeper—“thirty minutes. I can’t wait to find out what he remembers about that night.”

  “Good luck with that,” I reply, with all the confidence I can muster.

  Agent Crow turns to leave just as Hammon arrives with her toolbox in hand. A look of pure joy crosses his features, and he begins to circle back to us with a wicked silver-toothed grin. Hammon becomes alarmed.

  “You’re right, Roselle. Bad girls are everywhere.” He scans Hammon from head to toe. “You’re pregnant, secondborn.” All of the color drains from Hammon’s face. It’s like an aphrodisiac to Agent Crow, and he moves closer, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers. “The thing is, we, in Census, don’t lock up bad girls. We kill them.” He casts a glance at me. “I’ll be back for you both shortly.”

  He strolls away, leaving the hangar. The moment he’s gone, Hammon falls into panicked gasping. Her hand reaches out, bracing her against the side of my airship. I touch the back of her neck. “Take deep breaths, Hammon. Slow and easy. You’re all right.” I feel my own panic rising.

  “He’s going to kill me, Roselle,” Hammon wheezes.

  He is. He’s going to kill her for getting pregnant. He’s going to murder her in the most desperately painful way, and there isn’t a thing I can say or do to stop him. Unless—

  “Hammon, we have to act now. Can you pull yourself together?”

  “He’s going to kill me, Roselle.”

  “I won’t let him. We’re getting you out of here. It’s going to be fine. Ask Edge to meet you in our locker room. Don’t say anything else, just get him there.”

  “Right now?” she asks.

  “Yes, right now.”

  With trembling hands, Hammon sends the message to Edgerton as we walk—fast but without being obvious—back to my locker. Opening it, I grab for the black glove that I wear to cover my moniker. “Put this on.” I look around to see if anyone is watching us, but no one is in our aisle. I unhook a latch and slide the heel of my boot aside. Inside are two lead squares. I take them both out and hand one to Hammon. “Put this inside the glove, over your moniker.”

  I stand up and put both hands on her shoulders. “Go to your locker and take out anything you think you’ll need to survive. Put it in a small bag. Bring it back here in two minutes.”

  Hammon nods and leaves. People walk by, but no one is paying attention. I take out my fusionblade and thrust the hot edge against the welds in the floor of the locker. The soldered fragments bend. I pry open the bottom. Inside is the bag full of stolen Census monikers. I pull out the bag and set it aside. With shaking hands, I weld the bottom back in place with my fusionblade.

  Sweat slides down the sides of my face, and I nearly scream when I notice someone beside me. “It’s just me,” Hammon whines, sounding terrified. “I don’t know where Edge is! He’s not responding!”

  I close my locker and settle the strap of the bag on my shoulder. “If he doesn’t make it here in the next few minutes, Hammon, we’re going to have to go without him.”

  “Go where?” Her bottom lip trembles.

  “I’ll explain when we’re in the hangar.”

  My heart is in my throat as we go to the door of the locker room and wait one minute . . . and then two . . . and then three. Edgerton strolls in with a ration packet in one hand and a canister of water in the other. “I told you you’d be hungry after breakfast when you didn’t eat anything,” he says casually. “I just have a second to drop this off to you, then I have to be—”

  I grab the water canister from his hand and thrust a glove into his palm before tossing the water in a bin. “Put this on. Don’t ask questions. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when we get to the hangar. Move!” Edgerton is a soldier. He follows orders. When he has the glove on, I shove the lead square over the top of his moniker. It goes dark. “Follow me.”

  We make it to the hangar. No one is watching us. Entering my airship, I wave Hammon and Edgerton in and close the door.

  “What is going on?” Edgerton demands.

  “I’m pregnant,” Hammon whispers. “Agent Crow knows, and he’s going to kill me.”

  Edgerton is struck dumb.

  “We’re leaving,” I tell him, “and where we’re going could get us all killed, but it’s the only shot Hammon has now, so we have to try. Agent Crow doesn’t know you’re the father, Edge. You don’t have to come with us. It’s up to you, but we have to leave now, and when we do, you’ll never see Hammon again. So decide what you want to do while I go get clearance to leave the Base.”

  “I’m coming,” Edge says before I can move.

  “Good. There’s a compartment under the floor. You can hide in it. Stay here until we clear all the checkpoints. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.” He nods. Hammon
moves to the seat beside the door to the cockpit and straps in.

  I turn and run to my seat in the front of the airship, skip the pre-checks, and contact the Tree Fort to get clearance for the flight. Clifton has arranged for overnight access codes. I just have to hope that Agent Crow doesn’t detect that I’m leaving. As I wait for the Tree Fort to respond, every movement in the hangar gives me panic attacks.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Hammon moans behind me.

  “You can be sick,” I reply in the calmest voice I can manage. “I’ve got you, Hammon. I’m going to take care of you.”

  She groans. “They’re going to kill us all, Roselle. I’m murdering you and Edge.” I hear her vomit.

  “No one is murdering me,” I reply. “We’re at our best in our darkest hours. This is pretty dark, so we’re going to be okay.”

  “He knew, Roselle! He just looked at me, and he knew!” Hammon sobs.

  “His super power is observation,” I reply. “That’s why he’s so good at his job. He’s only around because of me—it’s my fault this is happening. I have a plan, but I don’t know how it will play out. Luckily, I have a bargaining chip.”

  “It better be a big chip.”

  “It’s the biggest.”

  My headset turns on with a soft hum. “You’re go for mission, 00-000016.”

  I hardly wait for the hangar door to open before lifting off and setting a course for a Salloway Munitions facility that borders the Fate of Stars.

  “You can go get Edge out now,” I tell Hammon when I cross the final checkpoint.

  I hear her unbuckle her harness. She stands, comes to me, and rests her hand on my shoulder. I reach up and cover her hand with mine. She lets go and walks back to the hold.

  Edgerton joins me a while later, settling into the copilot’s seat. “Hammon is lying down in the back. She’s a wreck, Roselle.”

  “How are you, Edge?”

  “How am I?” He curls his bottom lip out. “I’m pretty bad. I really messed up erething. I’ve killed my best friend. She’s dead if they find her—all because I couldn’t leave her be. And I just allowed another friend to smuggle me out of the place that has been my home for most of my life—from the only world I know how to operate in. I’d say I’m pretty messed up right about now.”

  “Yeah, but other than that, how are you?” I ask.

  He laughs grimly. “You’re what my granny called an ol’ soul, Roselle. I knew it the first time I seen you atop a pile of rubble, siftin’ through it like the people underneath it meant somethin’.”

  “They did mean something.”

  “To you, maybe, but not to this world. This world just don’t care.”

  “Someone once saved my life, Edge, and when he did, you know what he said?”

  “Wha’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘You can’t go back in. They’ll kill you. From this moment on, we go forward. We never look back.’” A tear rolls down my cheek.

  “Was that when you left home?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer in a raw voice.

  “But Hawthorne’s back there.” He gestures with his thumb.

  “I haven’t heard from him since he left, Edge. It’s like you said, he’s firstborn now. He’s gone.”

  “Nothin’ is too late if you’re still breathin’.”

  I wipe my tears on my sleeve. “Then we’ll have to keep breathing.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “We’re never going to make it to the Salloway Munitions testing facility.”

  “We ain’t?”

  I shake my head. “I’m going to make it look like this airship malfunctioned, and then I’m going to land it in enemy territory. We’re going to the Fate of Stars.”

  His face falls. “That’s your plan? We’re going over to the other side?”

  “It’s our only shot to keep Hammon alive.”

  “Then what—the Gates of Dawn kill us, right?”

  “I hope not. Your job is going to be to protect Hammon—you tell them whatever you have to tell them. You make sure they know she’s pregnant, and you’re seeking asylum. Just keep saying it.”

  “What about you?” he asks.

  “They’re going to hurt me, Edge.” My voice cracks. “There’s no getting around that. They’re going to hurt me until I can get someone to listen to me—then everything will be all right. I have something they want.”

  It’s dodgy near the border. Alerts ping my headset, one after the other, warning of the dangers this close to the border of Stars. Airships do enter the Fate of Stars, but they have authorization and take secured routes patrolled by fighter pilots. Edgerton takes the controls and shows me how to fly at a low altitude to avoid detection. He guides us into the area where the most recent fighting took place. The ground below is covered with bloated bodies and blown apart by war machines.

  He lands us in an open field. “What do we do now?” he asks.

  “We wait.”

  Soon a crowd of Gates of Dawn soldiers circles us. My knees knock as I rise from my seat. “This is it, Edge. I’ll go out first. You stay with Hammon and protect her for as long as you can.”

  “I should go first,” he retorts.

  “No. You should stay and protect your baby. I know what I’m doing.” It’s a lie.

  He grits his teeth and nods. With Flannigan’s bag over my shoulder, I walk out with my hands raised. Armed soldiers shout conflicting orders at me. I walk a few feet, and then stop. “I need to talk to a man, to Flannigan Star’s man. I have an important message for him.”

  “Never heard of him,” a brutish soldier replies.

  The crowd of warriors begins shouting: “Kill that bloody bitch!” “It’s Roselle—The Sword’s daughter!” “Take her head off!” Mud is flung at me, striking me in the face and chest. I don’t try to wipe it off.

  “I need to speak to Flannigan’s man,” I insist. “I have something for him.”

  The man in front of me snarls and spits in the dirt. “I have something for you!” He swings his meaty fist at me—a left hook.

  I sidestep it and try again. “Flannigan Star is female—a privateer. I need to talk to the man who will ask about her. I have a message from her. An important message!”

  An ugly soldier throws an uppercut. I jump back, colliding with someone else’s fist. It knocks me sideways. My ear rings. The crowd around me cheers and laughs. My instinct is to reach for my fusionblade, but I can’t. Someone will kill me before I can get away, and then they’ll kill Hammon and Edgerton. I have to take my beating.

  Fists rain down on me from every angle. I stagger and vomit, wheezing and doubling over. The blows to my kidneys are excruciating. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but the sharp edge of a boot in my sternum leaves me seeing spots, and then nothing.

  My head feels solid. I can’t see anything except a red light. I try to open my eyes but my eyelids won’t move. “Hey, you. Wake up!” Someone slaps my cheek.

  “For your sake, don’t hit her again!” a man roars. “The next person who hits her is dead! Do you understand? If she dies, I’ll slaughter every last one of you stupid, filthy animals!”

  “You weren’t delirious, Reykin,” another voice says. “Roselle St. Sismode really did save your miserable life. Look at her hand!”

  “I can see it!” the first man barks.

  I retch again, my body wracking with dry heaves. An arm behind my shoulder and another behind my knees pick me up. I moan. My head slumps against a solid chest. “I know it hurts,” a low voice says. “I’m not going to let them near you again. Get her bag, Danny, and take it to him. Tell him she’s with me in triage.”

  I smell like blood, pee, and vomit, but mostly pee. I try to open my eyes, but something slimy covers them. I try to pull it off, but someone grasps my hand and holds it gently in his own. “Don’t touch them. The leeches will fall off on their own.” A man’s voice.

  “Medieval . . . torture . . .” My voice doesn’t sound l
ike mine.

  “The leeches will take the swelling down so that you can open your eyes. Do you know where you are?”

  “Stars . . .” I rasp. “Dawn.”

  “That’s right—a Gates of Dawn base. Do you know who I am?”

  “Flannigan’s . . . man . . .”

  “No. I’m not Flannigan’s man.”

  I growl in despair. “Need him.”

  I feel his thumb trace the scar on my palm. “I’m a friend . . . and a friend sticketh closer than a brother, even to a black-hearted angel.”

  I lick my lips. “You.”

  “Me.”

  “Hurts . . .”

  “I know. You can sleep now.” Something sharp jabs into my arm.

  I jerk awake, groaning with a half sob. I’m in a bed in a beautiful room, but I feel as if I’m lying on embers. I’ve been in pain before, but never like this. Everything aches. My eyelids feel thick and heavy. My head throbs. Focus, I tell myself.

  Mahogany wainscoting lines the walls. Snowy-white curtains drape over the large windows. I see a high ceiling with decorative molding and bright chandeliers above me. Maybe this is what death is like.

  My hand moves over the blankets. The bedding is masculine, but no less gorgeous for that, soft sheets like those at the Sword Palace. As I turn my head on the plump pillow, my neck muscles revolt. I wince and moan.

  The man has aquamarine eyes and dark hair shaved close on the sides, but the top is longer, like Gabriel’s fashionable style. He looks to be around twenty-four or twenty-five, a year older than when I last saw him on the battlefield. “Winterstrom.”

  “You know my name,” he replies in the deep voice that I sometimes hear in my dreams. I lift my right palm out to him so that he can see his crest burned into it. “Why didn’t you get it removed?” he asks.

  I drop my hand, mostly because holding it up hurts so much. “I would’ve had to tell the physician how I got it. They make a point of reporting wounds like this. They would’ve researched the crest, like I did, and then Census agents would’ve been dispatched here to find you.” I look down at myself. I’m clean. Someone bathed me. I hope it wasn’t him.