Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Go easy on the poor Star,” Clifton says, leaning down and giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek. Those around us laugh, except for Reykin. Clifton’s lips linger a bit longer than is exactly polite. “Show him what a Sword can do,” he whispers. “I’ll wait for you down by the field.”

  I nod. “Please excuse me,” I say to those gathered around us. “It was lovely to meet all of you.”

  As we walk toward the railing, the Diamond-Fated attendant gives me and Reykin last-minute instructions. “The sparring diamond will elevate from the field. It will latch on to the side of the balcony, and you will both enter the diamond. Begin your demonstration as the hovering platform makes a circuit around the arena. It will land in the center of the field at the conclusion of the demonstration. Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” we both say.

  Dune joins us. He hugs me. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “I know this is difficult, but you’re strong. You’ll get through it.”

  Some of the devastation I feel is assuaged by his words. “I know this is the beginning of a new world,” I say, my voice hitching, “but it feels like the end.”

  Dune’s arms tighten around me. “That’s grief you’re feeling,” he says, “but there’s joy ahead for you. You’ve taught me what happiness is, Roselle. Not the distorted version of it that the world would have us believe—but true joy. Having you as a daughter is the greatest gift my life has brought me. You taught me what love is.”

  I choke back tears. I love you, too . . . Father.

  “We have a purpose now,” he says. “No matter what happens, we endure. And we never stop striving for what we believe in.”

  Suddenly trumpets blare. It’s time.

  Dune squeezes me a final time, then lets me go.

  Spotlights illuminate the field, and the ceremony begins. Competitors parade through the arena to a heroes’ welcome. The applause is deafening. Clad in all-black fighting gear, the secondborn men and women slowly make their way around the field. Some smile and wave, but most appear as though reality is setting in. Tears stream. Trembling hands wring in terror. A few pause along the route to vomit.

  The Diamond-Fated firstborn popstar Sarday, attired in a glittering evening gown, sings a heartfelt rendition of “Stay Alive for Me,” which her grandmother, also named Sarday, made famous decades ago. Firstborns sing along to the melodramatic song with tearful voices. A colossal holographic projection emerges in the air above the Silver Halo like a domed roof of light, footage of past seasons’ Trials, highlights of the more gruesome deaths.

  A silver platform shaped like a diamond rises from the field, hovering up to The Virtue’s balcony. Reykin and I step onto it. Our images splash across the holographic dome. The crowd roars, but I don’t react. I already despise my part in this.

  I vow to make this the last Secondborn Trials ever.

  We face The Virtue, Grisholm, and Adora, seated on their garish golden thrones. Reykin and I sink to one knee. When we rise, The Virtue gives us a limp wave. We face each other on the hovering diamond, and the platform begins its slow lap around the arena, hemorrhaging rose petals in its wake. I draw my sword and ignite it, choosing the lowest setting. Reykin does the same. From the first thrust, it’s clear that my Star-Fated adversary intends to give these firstborns an exciting show.

  In long, elegant maneuvers that play to the crowd, Reykin wields his energy blade, and I am coerced to retreat using a series of high-powered back handsprings. As I come out of my tumble, he catches me near the edge of the platform. I ward off his attack and counter with one of my own. “When were you going to tell me,” Reykin growls as our swords lock and our foreheads nearly meet, “that you agreed to marry Salloway?”

  I let him lean into me, and then I pivot to the side, using his momentum against him. He stumbles past me. “What did you think would happen when my brother died?” I shout back. Our swords whine and blur, coming together in epic clashes of molten energy. We stalk each other in a circle, looking for an opening. “The Virtue wants powerful allies.”

  We turn in spirals. Our swords fly together in sizzling swipes. Reykin breaks from me, steels himself, and then swings his sword at me in a two-handed arc. I crouch, barely keeping my head. Bits of my hair shrivel, burned by his fusionblade. I tumble back.

  “It’ll never happen!” Reykin pants with a murderous glare.

  We fight on, ever conscious of the platform’s edge. I find an opening and take it, making Reykin pay for his crooked left elbow with a thrust that burns his upper arm. The fabric of his uniform singes. The crowd erupts in adulation.

  “Why does it matter?” I stalk him as he resets. “You don’t care, remember?”

  Reykin attacks, driving me back. His sword arm is a golden blur, and I’m forced to take a burn to my thigh so that he won’t reach my heart. I wince, feeling the sting and smelling the smoke from my skin. I break away from him and circumvent his position. Lurching forward, I run at him, and Reykin simultaneously lunges toward me, his knee bent. Our swords meet. I step on his bent knee, intending to wrap my other leg around his neck, but he avoids the takedown by swiveling and pushing me up and over his shoulder. I tumble to the mat.

  “Ahhh,” the crowd moans.

  We’re now coming abreast of the Sword balcony. As we do, I glance at the Sword thrones, where three Census agents, two men and one woman, are seated. I recognize Agent Crow, slouched, his feet up on the railing. His long black leather coat seems a bit warm for the occasion. An amused grin plays upon his lips. The kill tallies notched near his eyes highlight the blue of his irises.

  In his hand, a silver orb shines.

  I’ve seen its like only one other time in my life: on my Transition Day.

  And then he presses the button, igniting the Fusion Snuff Pulse.

  Instantly, everything powered by fusion energy dies. All the lights go dark. Our swords blink out. Fear grips me. I tense, expecting the entire arena to plummet. It doesn’t. The colosseum isn’t fusion powered. Our platform doesn’t crash either. Both must use the same magnetic technology employed in gravitizers. Our platform continues its slow hovering path around the arena. Since I have a Salloway Dual-Blade X16, I flip the switch and reignite my sword with hydrogen power. It glows silver in the sudden darkness.

  Anxious voices ripple through the crowd, and then a different glow begins to emanate. Silver light shines from the eyes of firstborns scattered throughout the arena, at first just a few, then more and more. Soon they’re everywhere. Goose bumps rise on my skin. The silver-eyed silhouettes seem to be in a trance, as if watching something the rest of us can’t see.

  Suddenly they twitch, in unison, as if collectively possessed, and simultaneously hiss like one seething creature, “Zero rise!”

  Emergency lighting kicks in across the arena, and in the next instant, horrific screams break out everywhere. It’s hard to believe my own eyes. Moments before, the entire crowd was rapt, rooting for me or Reykin, but they’ve changed. They sound like demons screaming. It’s as if they have their own language. The silver-eyed firstborns scream streams of words that sound like negotiations, but for what I have no idea.

  My eyes are drawn to one man in the crowd with a silver stare. His moniker’s light turns dark and assumes the shape of a shadowy zero. I see another moniker change, and then more. Like dark matter bullying light, black zeros ignite throughout the crowd.

  Then the deep, demon-like voices cease, all at once, as one.

  Then they attack.

  The firstborns with black zero monikers launch themselves at the others like ferocious beasts, tearing into flesh with their teeth, ripping open throats. Clawlike hands eviscerate anyone in their paths. It all happens in the blink of an eye. There are as many of them as there are average citizens. A chaotic stampede begins, but the attackers are horrifyingly efficient, disemboweling people with their bare hands, aided by steel claws that project from their fingertips.

  The monsters move in a collective wave. They pile
on top of each other, a tide of bodies climbing up each other, cresting toward The Virtue’s balcony. Exos fire hydrogen-powered weapons at them, blowing pieces off some, exploding the heads of others. But the convergence continues until it reaches the balcony’s edge. Sheer numbers overwhelm the Exos, and Fabian, Adora, and Grisholm are immediately surrounded.

  Then the pack turns on Dune.

  He fights the first few off with a hydrogen blade, but it’s futile. The monsters are not deterred by the deaths of the others. Dune can’t fight them all. Their numbers swiftly overwhelm him, and he succumbs, falling beneath a pile of jaws and claws. They devour him like maginots would.

  And then everything begins to move in slow motion.

  The Exos on The Virtue’s balcony are killed with agonizing efficiency. Each murder plays out in gruesome detail. Adora doesn’t even flinch when a silver-eyed monster rips into her jugular with razor-sharp claws. Grisholm tries to defend himself with his fusionblade, but the mob takes him down, biting off pieces of his face as he screams in vain. The Virtue is the last one standing. At first, the monsters seem careful not to kill him. They slowly tear his limbs, one at a time, prolonging his suffering. Then they rip his head from his torso, and I snap back into the moment.

  Reykin is frantically screaming my name.

  On every balcony in the arena, the monsters are slaughtering Clarities, their families, and their guests. All except for the Sword balcony, where Census agents are celebrating, toasting, smoking fat rose-colored cigars, and slapping each other’s backs.

  “They’re Gabriel’s monsters!” I scream to Reykin, trying to be heard above the cacophony of demonic voices. “The Zeros!”

  Another crest of Zero monsters nears our floating platform, jumping over each other in a grotesque wave of bodies. Reykin rushes the control panel of the hovering platform. We begin to rise, but we’re not fast enough. The Zeros climb nearer. We only have my hydroblade between us.

  “You have to fight!” Reykin yells.

  I grip my sword, though my hand trembles.

  At my feet, fingers begin to creep over the edge of the platform. I slice them off, and the steel claws, implants extending from beneath the monster’s fingertips, remain embedded in the platform. A woman’s face looks over the edge, her silver eyes shining. I shear off the top of her head, exposing her brain, and see circuitry sparking in the rippling pink flesh of brain matter before the woman drops into the undulating sea of bodies beneath us. I kill everything that attempts to gain purchase on our small floating oasis, and Reykin furiously works the platform’s control panel, but the Zeros are gaining.

  We need to shed weight. Reykin must be thinking the same thing, because he runs to the back of the platform and begins stomping on the machine that’s spewing rose petals. The bolts bend with each kick until the metal casing dislodges. It falls from the platform, striking crazed monsters on the way down. Still the creatures rise.

  Desperation shows in Reykin’s eyes. He looks at me, then over the edge. He takes a step closer to it, his shoulders rounded in defeat. He looks back to me, and the sadness in his eyes is the same sadness I saw when he intended to kill himself on the battlefield when we first met.

  “Don’t you dare jump, Reykin!” I yell. “I’ll kill you myself if you try. Do you hear me? You sticketh closer than a brother!”

  “You’ll be okay, Roselle,” he says. “Take this hovering piece of crap to the training field. Find transportation. Get to Stars—to Daltrey. He’ll know what to do.”

  “No!” I scream. “They’ll tear you apart!”

  “I love you,” Reykin says, inching nearer to the edge.

  “Wait!” I fling my unlit sword to him. Reflexively, he catches it. “Agent Crow won’t let them kill me, Reykin. He wants me alive.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m willing to gamble. I know Agent Crow. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s his need to lord his victory over me. It wouldn’t be enough to let me die here. He needs to witness my suffering.

  A monster lurches up onto the platform. Then several others. I punch and kick the first one that comes at me, but it’s as if he doesn’t feel pain. Another throws his arms around me, snorting as he presses his nose to my throat, sniffing my neck like a maginot. His claws retract.

  “Reykin!” I scream, struggling as I’m hauled to the edge.

  “Roselle!” Reykin shouts, swinging the sword as more horrifying creatures stumble onto the platform.

  “Find me!” I shout, just as the monster leaps from the platform with me in his arms.

  We plummet, but then I’m jolted, caught by upraised hands and cushioned like a fragile egg. I’m moved along atop the bodies, clutched and passed from one to the next, surfing over a sea of Zeros. Above me, the hovering platform accelerates above the fray of bodies until they can no longer reach it.

  I’m carried by the wave to the Sword balcony and thrown at the feet of the celebrating Census agents. Agent Crow breaks away from the revelry and approaches me.

  “Ah, Roselle.” He beams. “Right on time. The party is getting rather dull, and I’m ready to leave now.”

  “You’re a monster, Crow.”

  He tsks me. “Is that any way to treat your host?” He lifts his hand and places a small black disc to his temple. It adheres to his head, and a glowing blue dot lights up in its center. The horde of monsters surrounding me take a step back in unison. A familiar face emerges from the back of the balcony.

  It’s Hawthorne, but it isn’t. His eyes glow with silver light.

  My breath catches. “Hawthorne!” I sob.

  Agent Crow chuckles. “It’s no use talking to him when he’s in Black-O mode. He’ll never understand you. They don’t speak our language, or so the technicians tell me. Collectively, they stopped using it a long time ago. It’s barely above gibberish to them. He’s a new conversion, but he has all their technology embedded in his brain now. And, of course, I can use that technology to make him do whatever I want.”

  Hawthorne stalks toward me. His eyes don’t show an inkling of recognition. I thrust out my hands to stop him, but he winds back and punches me in the stomach.

  “Hawthorne,” I gasp in utter despair.

  And now I know I was right. Agent Crow won’t kill me, even if I beg him to.

  He reaches out and lifts my chin so that I meet his eyes. “Welcome to the future, Roselle.”

  Sneak Peek: Rebel Born

  THE POISON OF OUR AGE

  My wrists are bound with steel cuffs.

  Hawthorne viciously prods me forward. I stumble behind Agent Crow, through the blue banners and out of the Sword balcony. I glance over my shoulder, but it’s not the ache of betrayal that wrenches my heart. It’s fear that whatever has happened to Hawthorne is irreversible. His eyes glow with a distinctive silver light. I might have caught a glimpse of it the last time we were together, but I can’t be sure. I can hardly process what’s happening now.

  Shrill screams of terror echo throughout the Silver Halo’s corridors. I am surrounded by no less than a dozen Zeros. None of the others approach us. Instead, the monsters busily butcher everything with a pulse. Unafflicted firstborns and the secondborn competitors attempt to escape from the floating colosseum, but hordes of killers intercept them.

  My pulse races. I can’t help anyone!

  Another shove compels me forward. We pass by a gondola station. Blood and carnage litter the platforms. Some firstborns jump to their deaths from the floating colosseum rather than be caught by the Zeros. The hairs on my scalp stand on end.

  “Why are you killing firstborns?” I growl at Agent Crow.

  “Why not?” he replies in a blasé tone, reaching to brush wisps of my hair from my face as we walk. I recoil from his touch. “They won’t do well in our new society, Roselle. We’re doing them a favor.” His mouth curves up at the thought, exposing the steel teeth that stand in stark contrast to his supple lips. The black disc adhered to his temple blinks with eerie blue light. It must be how he ma
nipulates the silver-eyed cyborgs. Their obedience to him seems absolute. He doesn’t have to say a word. He somehow just thinks, and they respond.

  I shudder. He’s depraved. The inky tattoos around his eyes and on his throat are deceptive. Although there are hundreds of the so-called kill tallies visibly etched into his skin, they only represent a fraction of the deaths he’s caused. He would have to be covered from head to toe to represent all the people whose slaughter he has brought about tonight.

  Agent Crow guides us to a staging area where a nondescript medical supply airship awaits with its ramp down. No cargo is on board. The Census agent enters the front of the ship, and I’m shoved up the open ramp by the demonic-sounding killers behind me. Inside the tail, I find that the airship doesn’t have seats. I’m flung to the metal floor by the monster that was Hawthorne. Sitting up, I push myself to the wall, lean back against it, draw my knees up to my chest, and rest my forearms on them.

  I’m not sure how smart these things are when they’re in Black-O mode. The silver-eyed woman who latched the cuffs on me made the mistake of securing my arms in front of me. If I can reach a sword, it will be no problem to cut them off. But there aren’t any swords. No weapons of any kind here in the cargo hold. It’s just me and the Zeros.

  The airship door closes, sealing us in. My throat tightens. Dim lights come on, but it’s still dark. The Zeros’ eyes glow like small moons in the night sky. Gore mottles their mouths, their clothes, and their fingers. The steel claws seem to have retracted into their fingertips, but I know they’re there.

  The airship rumbles and lurches upward. The Zeros don’t move. They don’t talk. They gaze straight ahead. They seem barely alive. Hawthorne sits across from me and several bodies away. He isn’t smeared in carnage like the others. I don’t think he was in the fight at the Silver Halo, which means Agent Crow wants to use Hawthorne some other way. More than likely against me.

  My wrists tremble on my knees—or maybe it’s my knees trembling—or maybe it’s both. I thread my fingers together, but it doesn’t stop. Panic seizes me. It’s hard to breathe. I feel dizzy. Sweat soaks the back of my white sparring outfit. Wisps of damp hair cling to my cheek.