Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  Beside the observatory, with its aerial views of the clearing below, Sword-Fated secondborn commanders who will not be competing in The Trials give live demonstrations. Targeting games are set up high in the canopies so firstborns can test their own skills with various weapons. When a firstborn’s aim strays, live ammunition finds its way down to the fields where the secondborns train.

  Grisholm beckons us to the central observation deck. “Tourists!” he growls, shunning the other activities with a scornful sneer. “You’re ruining the sport!” he shouts at the nearest firstborns with their hunting crossbows and grenade-tipped arrowheads. The security team starts to manhandle the firstborns, and they scurry off to a different target, leaving us alone on the observation deck.

  The hovering platform is made of a lightweight material with the look of wood. It blends in with the surroundings. The open face is guarded by an invisible, restrictive energy field that allows air flow but prevents anyone from falling off the edge and plummeting to a horrifying death. Grisholm passes out enhanced telescopic eyewear, and I’m able to observe the combatants on the field below us as if I’m standing right above them.

  He points out his favorites. He has a surprising understanding of their skill sets and knows details down to their vitamin supplements. One combatant is his particular favorite—a man by the name of MacGregor Sword. He’s a redheaded twenty-three-year-old man of epic proportions. I note that MacGregor holds back from aggressive training today. I mention as much to Grisholm.

  “It’s strategy,” Grisholm says with assurance. “He doesn’t want others to know how skilled he is.”

  “It’s pain, Grisholm,” I reply, “not strategy. He likely has a hamstring tear. See the back of his left leg? Notice how the muscle looks lumpy? It’s going to pop soon, and he’ll be useless until it’s fixed. He’s probably taking all kinds of medications to numb it. Look at the way he’s clenching his jaw and favoring his other leg. An injury like that is excruciating and takes a few days to recover from, once the muscle is reconstructed. He only has a few days left until the Opening Ceremonies. It may not be enough time, and that’s if he has the merits to get it repaired. But he can’t back out, can he? Once he committed, he’s in whether he wants to be or not.” That part I say with no small amount of scorn.

  Grisholm must think my scorn is for MacGregor, because he says, “What a scam artist! I bet the odds makers are counting on him keeping his mouth shut about his injury so they can capitalize on it.”

  “Why would he reveal it?” Reykin asks sarcastically. His eyes look right through Grisholm. “It would let his adversaries know how to attack him effectively.”

  “Well, you both need to keep it to yourselves,” Grisholm demands. “Uncovering the winner is only a small part of this. There are other bets along the way—like who won’t survive certain challenges.”

  “Is there a way out of this for him, Grisholm?” I ask. MacGregor probably enlisted in The Trials when he was healthy. Now he’ll likely be killed in a gruesome exhibition.

  “He chose this. He must live with it. Come to think of it, he has to die with it, too,” Grisholm quips.

  Violence touches every part of my life. It’s unavoidable. It’s in every breath I take. Watching the competitors train, I begin to loathe myself for not using all my resources to put an end to it. They might have chosen to enroll in the Secondborn Trials, as Grisholm says, but doing so is a suicide note to the world: You’ve brought my spirit to its knees, and now you may rip apart my body as well. Some probably believe they have a chance, but most know they don’t. They just want their pain to end.

  Grisholm logs everything I say on his moniker. After we exhaust this field of competitors, Grisholm is anxious to move on. Mounting the hovercycles, we fly to the next section, staying close to the ground as we ride. I rest my cheek against Reykin’s back. We pass a small lake, and the air suddenly gets cooler. Passing meadows, the wind grows sweet with lush flowering plants. I’m disappointed when we get to Flabellate Two. I’d rather keep riding, bumping over pockets of air, letting the tension of this world ebb.

  Flabellate Two is hauntingly similar. After it, we tour the other sections until the sun sets and the competitors are excused to scrounge for meals. Grisholm suggests we take a break and find some food ourselves. Mounting the hovercycles once more, we fly to the center of the training matrix.

  The fan-shaped training fields encircle the Trial Village. Reykin slows the hoverbike as we near the epicenter for firstborns and the media, a wooded glade filled with fantastical architecture and surrounded by gleaming walls of fusion energy. Round orbs of light float above and cast a glow over the bustling crowds. Security is tight here at the enormous arching stone portico to the modern-medieval village. Armed Exos stop us at the entrance. As part of Grisholm’s entourage, we’re waved through, but others—those not high enough on the aristocratic ladder—are turned away.

  Grisholm and Reykin park their vehicles. Reykin’s hand drops from the throttle. His fingers skim the outside of my thigh. The gesture is possessive, even if it’s brief. He climbs off the bike and extends his hand to me. This suddenly feels very intimate. I’m not sure why. He’s told me that he doesn’t care about me. I should listen. Reykin always means every word he utters, but it’s confusing nonetheless. I decline his help and climb off on my own.

  A cool wind blows through the trees, rustling the needle leaves. A gorgeous starry night peeks through the redwood canopy. Paved paths lined with wrought-iron lampposts branch in several directions. I pull my jacket closer around me.

  “Are you cold?” Reykin asks. His dark hair is windswept, but no less attractive for that.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”

  A festival atmosphere prevails. Dressed for clubbing, the throng around us is jovial, thrill seeking. I’ve never been in a crowd this happy before. Firstborns are dance-walking, moving to the beat of live instruments. Glitter tints the women’s hair and skin in vibrant colors, with small holographic fireworks displays bursting around them like crowning laurels. Strings of holographic bluebirds fly around the heads of others. Some men sport holographic angel wings that flutter with white light. Others carry miniature holographic monsters that sit reaper-like on their shoulders and lurch out at passing women, whose screams mix giddy fascination with surprised terror.

  Unsettled by the strangeness of it all, I reach for my fusionblade, but I don’t have one on me. I feel exposed. Reykin’s hand brushes mine as we walk. He seems closer than normal. I can still feel his shape against me, and I wonder if he feels mine. The paved path forces us closer still as we follow Grisholm, surrounded by his security force.

  I recognize a famous face as it passes—Firstborn Gerard Hampton, a Diamond-Fated actor who plays a secondborn Sword in a popular drama. He’s with a Virtue-Fated firstborn woman I don’t recognize. He recognizes me, though. He says my name and gives me a soldier’s salute as we pass. It makes me want to crush him. He’s clueless about what it’s like to be secondborn.

  We see more film stars and musicians. Some are working, but most are here as spectators. Everyone steps to the side for the heir to the Fate of Virtues, and they whisper about us behind their hands after we pass.

  Drone cameras and news crews occupy live-coverage booths, and roaming commentators narrate the ongoing action for a worldwide audience. The carnival atmosphere extends to the vendors. Salloway Munitions Conglomerate has a multilevel, interactive showroom in the Trial Village, prominently featuring the latest in advanced domestic weaponry for the private sector. The featured weapon is the new Culprit-44, complete with neon-tinted energy filters that render hydrogen rounds in a variety of rainbow colors. My holographic image runs through the mock battlefield on the outside of the Salloway showroom, acrobatically maneuvering and destroying fake enemies. My cheeks feel hot as I watch it. Reykin gently squeezes my waist, but I pull away. I don’t need his sympathy. I do what I do to survive. In that, I regret nothing.

  We keep walki
ng. Around every bend is a fanciful bronze water fountain composed of statues of victorious secondborn competitors. Most are depicted in their final challenge along with the loser at the defining moment of victory. One stands before us with his bronze fist entwined in the hair of a severed head, holding it aloft. Glorious? Maybe. Gruesome? Definitely. I’m glad that we don’t linger.

  We come to a restaurant in the shape of a spike of barley several stories high. Made of gold-painted steel and gold-tinted glass, each barleycorn on the stalk boasts a private room with its own chef, Grisholm informs us. We’re escorted to the golden elevator and taken up to a tear-shaped private room. An exquisite table is prepared on the edge of a balcony. The smell of fresh-baked bread surrounds us. Reykin helps me off with my jacket, handing it to a waiter. He pulls out my chair for me. I sit beside him, across from Grisholm. Beer and wine are served in abundance. Appetizers on wooden trays litter the table. Meats and cheeses melt in my mouth, and I think about how much Hammon and Edgerton would love this place.

  Grisholm, Reykin, and I enjoy a quiet meal together with our security team discretely hanging back in strategic positions. Grisholm does most of the talking, discussing the champions while he devours a rare steak and a half a loaf of bread.

  Reykin watches me. The candlelight of the table casts a certain smolder in his eyes, like light from the setting sun on water. Shadows play upon his black hair and the angular planes of his face. He looks dangerous.

  The communicator hidden on my upper arm keeps softly vibrating, alerting me to Balmora’s attempts to contact me. Placing my napkin on the table, I murmur, “Gentlemen, please excuse me.” I rise, and Reykin does, too.

  Grisholm settles back in his seat. “May I remind you that she’s secondborn?” he teases.

  I follow the corridor to the bathroom. My Halo stingers scan it before allowing me in alone. Once inside, I lock the door. From inside my sleeve, I pull down the wrist communicator, its face shining with blue light, and contact Balmora.

  “You’re at the Barleycorn?” Balmora’s holographic image says as soon as she answers. She’s tracking me.

  “I am.”

  “I’ve arranged for your transport to Club Faraway. Your contact is Secondborn Franklin Star. He’s a drone operator for the Daily Diamond. He’ll take you there in less than an hour. You have to meet him at the news hovervan.”

  “You’re kidding?” I ask, frustrated. “I’m surrounded by Grisholm and his security.”

  “You’re going to have to lose them.” Her voice is brittle with anxiety.

  I exhale deeply. “Where’s the hovervan?”

  “Sending you the coordinates now.”

  I study the holographic map. It isn’t far. The problem is losing my entourage, getting there alone, and trying not to be recognized along the way. “I’m going to need a weapon—fusionblade, preferably.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Balmora says.

  “I’ll be in touch with you after I make contact.” I end the transmission and push the communicator back into my upper sleeve.

  Returning to the table, I find the men ready to leave. Grisholm, in particular, is anxious to get to the betting houses. He goes over his potential wagers with me while I don my jacket and Reykin pays the bill.

  In the elevator, Reykin’s hand presses the small of my back. Possessive. I wonder about it until we reach the ground floor. Grisholm insists that we go to the Neon Bible, the high-end bookmaking establishment a few doors away. The indoor-outdoor betting house thumps with action. As we approach the entrance, Reykin turns to Grisholm, saying, “I have to check on something. Keep an eye on the secondborn for me.”

  Annoyed, Grisholm sputters, “Can’t it wait? I want to get my brackets set before I’m locked out of the odds for the evening!”

  “I’ll be just a minute. There’s a weapon at Salloway’s that I’ve had my eye on for months. Just watch her for me.”

  Grisholm gives me a scowl, as if I’m some sort of child thrust upon him. “Fine, but be quick,” he growls. “I’m not placing bets for you.”

  Reykin walks away with a secretive look on his face. Getting away just became immensely easier. Grisholm and I continue into the Neon Bible. The crush of people inside is harrowing. Firstborns grind against one another on tiered dance floors. Some dance above the crowd using hoverdiscs. We’re shown to a higher, more private deck several levels up. The music here is muted, but I can still watch the action below from the railing. All the men on this floor are in evening attire. Very few women are about. My attention is drawn to the dangerous men in the room, most with fusionblades and fusionmags from Salloway’s arsenals.

  Grisholm begins greeting the men. I recognize Valdi Shelling’s associate, Pedar. I know him as Firstborn Albatross, the Sword-Fated man who groped me during an arms deal with Clifton almost a year ago. He appears to be the proprietor of the Neon Bible.

  Pedar notices me almost immediately. Although he’s a smaller man than Valdi, he still cuts a brutally large figure. His dark hair is slicked back and well oiled. In his late thirties, he looks like he could bend steel with his bare hands. So it’s ironic when he has the same reaction I did upon seeing him—the strong man cringes a little. I nod to him in acknowledgment of the awkwardness.

  Pedar turns to the nearest member of his staff and says, “Get our guests anything they want, on the house.”

  Grisholm practically cackles. He rubs his hands together in anticipation and orders a “Death Defier.” When the drink arrives, it’s black, with swirls of milky-white liquid resembling a skull and crossbones. Grisholm stirs it with a long spoon and drinks it in one gulp. He wheezes a little, handing the glass and spoon back to the waiter, and walks toward the nearby holographic displays running commentary on the competitors in The Trials.

  His security entourage follows. Pedar’s gray eyes catch mine again. He approaches and says quietly, “I never had the opportunity to apologize to you. I was gravely out of line.”

  I lift my chin a notch, meeting his gaze. “All will be forgiven if you do me a small favor.”

  He smiles slowly. “You have but to ask.”

  “I need to slip away for a moment to run an errand. No one with me can know I’ve gone until I’m away. A firstborn Star will join us shortly. I need him to receive a private message.” Pedar eyes the two hovering Halo stingers behind me with a dubious look. “Don’t worry about them,” I tell him. “They’re not a problem.”

  Pedar’s eyebrows rise, but he says nothing. He lifts his hand, and another burly man comes forward and listens as Pedar whispers something in his ear. The man nods, turn to yet another man farther away, and says, “Get Christof.”

  A ten-year-old secondborn boy is brought forward. He’s a Sword, made from Pedar’s mold. Dark hair hangs in his face, and he has broad shoulders already. The young secondborn comes forward and stops in front of Pedar. Pedar leans down and whispers something in the boy’s ear. He nods, sizing me up. “Ready?” he asks.

  “We’ll distract the Exos for you,” Pedar says. “You will be taken out the back way.” He makes no move toward me, maybe having learned his lesson from our previous encounter. Then he nods his head, and suddenly a fight breaks out on the dance floor below. People brawling and throwing punches. The noise and chaos is deafening. Everyone rushes to the railings to watch. Grisholm is enthralled.

  “Thank you, Pedar,” I murmur. “All is forgiven.”

  Christof Sword moves toward the back of the club, with me on his heels. We escape through a secret door in the wall and down some back stairs. My Halo stringers still follow me closely. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Christof dismisses the guards on duty there. They turn and go, as if he’s the boss. He opens the door that leads outside.

  I turn to the hovering black hardware behind us and rattle off the stinger code that Clifton gave me. “R0517 and R6492, return to the Halo Palace.” They hesitate. My heart beats hard in my chest. The boy beside me watches the heavily armed stingers with sus
picion. Then, as if they finally recognize the command, they fly past us, out into the night sky, and disappear into the darkness.

  With the machines gone, it feels as if a weight has been lifted from me. From the hollowed-out heel of my boot, I extract a black fingerless glove and a small piece of lead. I cover my moniker with them. The silver sword goes dark. I take out the looking-glass moniker and turn it on before slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. It reflects Christof’s moniker beside me. He watches everything I do.

  “What’s your message, and who do I give it to?” he asks.

  “Find Reykin Winterstrom,” I reply, and then describe him. “He’ll come to the Neon Bible. Tell him to cover for me. Tell him I will meet him back at the Halo Palace tonight.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “The boss says you need cover to blend in,” Christof mutters.

  “I do,” I reply. I use the hood of my jacket, pulling it over my hair and as low on my forehead as I can.

  “This way,” Christof says, taking my hand. It’s strange, being led around by a ten-year-old boy who acts like a thirty-year-old man. Not that I expected him to act like a child. He’s not firstborn.

  “Are you Pedar’s son?” I ask as we maneuver through the frolicking crowd, which grows louder and bawdier by the minute. I try to keep my chin down.

  “Might be,” he replies with a stoic expression, “but he ain’t sayin’, and I ain’t askin’. The one they says was my father is dead—killed by the Gates of Dawn . . . but I heard he was just someone who couldn’t pay what he owed.” I wonder about how Pedar operates. If someone fell into debt with the firstborn Sword, that person might have to do whatever was demanded of him to get out of it—maybe even marry and pretend his wife’s children are his. Christof bears such a resemblance to Pedar that I could see that.