Secondborn

by Bartol, Amy A.

  Rising from the bed, I stumble to the bathroom. Undressing and kicking away the ugly blue clothing, I turn on the shower and step in. The heat of it soothes the kink in my neck. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a robe that I find in the cabinet. I leave the bathroom and venture into the drawing room. At the bar, I find a glass and pour myself some cold water from the tap. Sipping from it, I see Edgerton, alone and staring at me. He’s made a bed of the enormous sofa.

  “Hello,” I whisper, not wanting to wake anyone else.

  “Sun ain’t up yet. You shouldn’t be neither,” Edgerton whispers. He’s shirtless, his gun propped next to his hand. He’s skinnier than Hawthorne and Gilad, but he has the wiry muscles of someone who knows how to fight.

  “I had a bad dream.” It’s such an awkward thing to say. I immediately regret it.

  He doesn’t know what to make of me standing in front of him with wet hair, in a robe that’s four sizes too big, its hem dragging on the ground, sleeves hiding my hands. “Oh,” he replies. “I despise bad dreams.”

  “I do, too.”

  “You gotta close the door on ’em.”

  “How do I do that?” I set the glass down. He has my full attention.

  “You gotta tell your friends about ’em—talk it out—no matter how many times it takes, and then poof”—his closed hand opens and his fingers spread apart—“the monsters go away.”

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “You are?”

  He nods.

  “Why?”

  “Because when you look at me, you’re seein’ me, not some good-for-nothin’ cold-water hick from the mountains of Swords. You can tell me about your demons—I’ve experience with ’em.”

  Sitting beside him on a fluffy chair, I tell him about the dismembered corpses, the hands that don’t match their arms, the heads on sideways. I leave out the part about the Fusion Snuff Pulse. I’m forbidden to tell him, and he’d be in danger from the authorities by knowing it. He listens, not making a sound until I finish.

  “Erebody dies, Roselle. It were their time. This is war. Nobody gets to pick when they go or how. It just happens when it happens. Ain’t no sense worrying about it.”

  “They were murdered, Edgerton.”

  “Most of ’em Swords done some murderin’ of they own—it’s been going on longer than the few days you’ve been in it. We’re soldiers. We kill things. We get killed by things. That’s the job. You want a different job, you picked the wrong birth order and the wrong Fate to be born into.”

  “What if I don’t want to kill things—what if I want to save things?”

  “You mean, not be a secondborn Sword?”

  “Yes.”

  “If there were a choice, what Fate would you pick?” he asks.

  I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t know. They all have drawbacks because I’m secondborn. I have no voice in any Fate.”

  “That’s never gonna change. You have to make peace with it or it’ll destroy you.” He reaches for the strap of his gun. Fishing through a compartment on it, he extracts a white stamp wrapped in cellophane. “I have a chet. I was savin’ it for something really bad. Here,” he says as he extends it out to me. “You can have it. It’ll relax you.”

  “No, you keep it.” I rise to my feet, not taking his offer. “I have to be sharp for the press conference.” Edgerton nods and puts it back.

  “She’s too strong for that, Edge,” Hawthorne says from the archway. He has his arms crossed, his back against the wall.

  “How long have you been there?” I ask. My face burns with embarrassment.

  “We all have night terrors,” Hawthorne replies sympathetically.

  “Hammon has bad ones.” Edgerton sits up and reaches for his shirt, dragging it on. “Sometimes I have to hold her all night, which ain’t as easy as it sounds cuz neither of us is allowed in the other’s capsule.”

  “You and Hammon are . . .”

  “She’s my girl.”

  “But that’s . . .”

  “I know. That’s why we hide it. I’m telling you cuz you’ll find out anyway. You see erething. Are you gonna keep my secret?”

  I nod. “You wouldn’t have told me if you thought I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re right. You strike me as someone who has secrets of her own that are a lot bigger than mine. You’re no turner.”

  “I thought Hammon and Gilad—”

  “They’re best friends,” Edgerton interrupts, “but she and me has always been together.”

  “Ham and Edge,” Hawthorne acknowledges.

  A door opens down the hall, and a blurry-eyed Clara Diamond shuffles into the drawing room, almost running into Hawthorne. “Ugh, why are you people up when you don’t have to be?” she asks, combing a hand through her hair. She trudges to the bar and inputs a selection for coffee. It arrives piping hot in the instant-carousel unit. She takes a sip from the mug and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Ah, good, you’re awake. We have to get started on your look. Follow me.” She walks toward my bedroom.

  “You have to get started on your look,” Edgerton teases me softly. I reach for the pillow on the chair and toss it at him. He catches it, his laughter following me as I trail Clara.

  I admire Clara’s lavender-colored hair as she spends the next couple of hours styling mine by hand, not leaving it to the bathroom unit’s automated groomer. She arranges it in long, loose curls, then applies cosmetics to my face, sighing over every scrape that she finds.

  Emmitt breezes into the bathroom in a whirlwind with clothing draped over his arm. “I had seamstresses up all night creating this masterpiece for you, Roselle, even though I know you won’t appreciate it.”

  He carefully unwraps a Tropo uniform unlike any I’ve ever seen. The top is made of two different fabrics, suede and silk. The suede corset squeezes me at the waist and fits so tightly, it makes it hard to breathe. I shrug into it, and Clara fastens the line of golden hooks and eyes along my spine. The beautiful beige suede creates an hourglass effect.

  A beige silk panel, sewn into the bodice of the suede just above my breasts, creates the neckline and the sleeves. It’s so fine as to be transparent, showing off my collarbone and shoulders. The neckline at midthroat has a thicker panel of silk like a choker. Trousers of the same supple suede fit me like a second skin. Knee-high, matte-black leather boots finish the outfit.

  The black bruise over my heart is a dark shadow. I touch it, and my fingers press into the beige silk. It still hurts, but not as badly as when I’d first awakened in Census. “What about this?” I ask. “You can see this bruise.”

  “I have a solution for that.” Emmitt holds up a long leather jacket. “This should hide it.” I attempt to put my arms in the sleeves, but he stops me. “Uhht, uhht,” he says, pulling the black leather jacket back, “let me just drape it on your shoulders and see the effect.” We both gaze into the full-length mirror in front of us as he sets it on me. It marries the look of a cape and a coat. The jacket resembles Agent Crow’s coat, clearly a knockoff of Census uniforms, except that this one has a row of golden sword-shaped buttons on either side of its lapels.

  Emmitt smiles. “The way you’re wearing this denotes a certain negligence, as if you’re unconcerned with the attack. Rebels don’t scare you.”

  “It looks like a Census coat.”

  “It does, but it’s different enough that people will automatically feel you have authority, though they won’t know why.”

  I now see how brilliant he is. He lifts a kohl stick from among the cosmetics and pulls a thick line across my bottom lashes at a catlike angle. If Agent Crow were here, he’d probably accuse me of stealing his look. Emmitt reads my mind as he stares at my reflection. “You’ll be responsible for more kills than any agent can ever hope for. Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and then slips a sharp-pointed ring onto three fingers of my left hand, like brass knuckles in the shape of jutting talo
ns, but in gold.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “If you run into a question you didn’t anticipate, look down at this ring while you think, as if you’re too bored by the question to answer it.”

  “Won’t people find that offensive?” I lift my hand, trying not to poke my eye out as I study it.

  “No. They’re looking for someone to believe in. You, showing no fear, is what they need. Be infallible. Be fearless. We’ll hold the press conference on the balcony of this Treetop penthouse. Eat something now before your crude entourage consumes it all.”

  I hope for rain as I follow Emmitt. I peek outside as we approach the windows to the terrace. Drone cameras are already arriving for the press conference. Floating platforms levitate like flat tarmacs, carrying high-profile celebrity commentators. I’d expect this caliber of on-air talent to focus on the Secondborn Trials rather than me. They embrace frivolity. Dune always said it’s because any serious journalism is subject to severe censorship. I’ve mostly avoided them until now because my virtual access had its own dedicated channel, mostly drone and stationary cameras that I rarely interacted with.

  I follow the scent of breakfast into the dining area. Gilad and Hawthorne are already working through huge plates of food. They haven’t bothered to put all their armor back on yet. Edgerton and Hammon are at the sideboard, dishes in hand. Hammon leans closer to Edgerton, selecting a roll from a basket. Her torso brushes against his wrist. His hand rests lightly on her side, caressing the curve of her hip. His mouth lingers close to her ear. Her face flushes. She closes her eyes and turns so that her neck brushes his lips. The intimacy makes my face flush as well.

  They notice me beside them and move apart from one another. I follow them to the table with my full plate and sit across from Gilad. I start eating, my fork and knife making soft sounds against the plate. As I chew, every eye is on me. “What?” I ask after swallowing.

  “What are you wearing?” Gilad asks.

  I look down at myself. My cleavage presses provocatively against the beige suede and silken fabric. “A uniform.”

  “Whose uniform?” Gilad asks, his eyebrows arching up. “That’s not a Sword uniform.”

  I smile and resume eating. “Don’t worry, Gilad. You’ll get one in the next requisition.”

  “I’m not wearing anything that looks like that,” he growls.

  “You wouldn’t fill it out half as well,” Hawthorne teases. His gorgeous storm-colored eyes linger on me. We eat in silence until I set my fork down. Hawthorne lifts his chin. “You ready for this?” He indicates the assembling crowd of reporters outside. I can just see them through the archway of the dining room.

  “We’ll know in a few minutes,” I reply. “Please excuse me.” He stands as I do. I take my dish to the clearing tray near the sideboard. After depositing it, I join Clara at the glass doors that lead to the balcony. She doesn’t speak as we both gaze outside at the mass of reporters on mobile platforms, vying for airspace near the railing. As soon as I come into sight, the drone cameras perk up, flying nearer.

  The screen in the main room is tuned to a channel covering this news conference. Desdemona Diamond, secondborn, narrates my appearance inside the Treetop apartment. “Roselle Sword, formerly St. Sismode, has just made her entrance to the lavish apartment of Clifton Salloway, firstborn Sword and heir to the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate. We have yet to see Clifton himself, but we know this inter-Fate pleasure seeker by his reputation for the lovelies.”

  Desdemona details my lavish ensemble with fascination and a touch of envy. My eyelids narrow at the screen. She is making this all sound nefarious, treating me as if I’m an adulterous Diamond-Fated firstborn actress found in the hideaway of a clandestine lover.

  Desdemona turns to her co-anchor, Secondborn Suki Diamond. “Where has Roselle been for the past four days since her ill-fated procession through the streets of Forge?”

  “I don’t know for sure where she’s been,” Suki replies giddily, “but it’s all too curious that we find her here, in the Treetop love nest of Clifton Salloway.” She clasps her hands in her lap and leans closer to Desdemona, her long black hair hanging to her ankles in a shimmering cascade. “Maybe we should reach out to his ex-flame, Firstborn Celestial Bastille?” I don’t know who that is, but I hope with a rising panic that they don’t.

  Hammon joins me at the glass doors, but her focus, like mine, is on the wall screen. “You’ve made it onto the Daily Diamond!” she breathes in awe.

  Desdemona flips her long hair as she discusses Clifton Salloway and his string of broken hearts. Her hair is gorgeous, seven shades of blue, sewn to her head with the darkest of thread so that the seams form diamond patterns. Diamond sparkles glisten from her long eyelashes and over her dark cheekbones. Her blue lips are painted with a white diamond in the center, and so are her long blue fingernails.

  “This is a delicious turn of events, Roselle,” Emmitt whispers in my ear, almost preening when Suki and Desdemona begin discussing my outfit again. They note its exquisite fit and speculate that designers might favor a military cut and style in their spring collections. “Use this to your advantage. Clifton Salloway is a dream come true, and he wants to meet you.”

  “He’s here?” I ask. I couldn’t feel more awkward if I’d walked into the glass doors in front of me.

  “He’s right over there.” Emmitt puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me in the direction of the bar. In the corner of it, a firstborn officer stands with a three-finger glass of light blue liquid. He’s leaning against the back counter, watching me. I’m startled that I didn’t notice him before. While Hawthorne is the rugged kind of handsome, Clifton is the film-star kind of gorgeous. Attired in a black Exo uniform similar to Gabriel’s, Clifton is the highest-ranking Sword outside of an admiral. Exo is the rank given to both exceptionally well-trained firstborn soldiers and a few aristocratic firstborns with very little military prowess. I don’t know where he falls.

  As if my eyes on him are an invitation, he pushes away from the counter and prowls nearer. Stopping a foot away, he takes my left hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the crown of my birthmark, causing my silver sword moniker to shine on the bridge of his nose. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

  “Roselle,” he murmurs, “Clifton Salloway. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.” Behind him, on the screen, the co-anchors of the Daily Diamond are in a frenzy, commentating on the “primal chemistry” between Clifton and me. Clifton gives a soft chuckle. “We’ve been found out, Roselle,” he teases.

  My laugh is more nervous. “I hate when that happens, Patrøn. It ruins the fun.”

  “Someone as lovely as you should never have her fun ruined. And I insist that you call me Clifton.” Clifton looks to be in his midtwenties, although his clean-shaven cheeks might be making him look younger than he is. Sultry green eyes, with flecks of gold that resemble the tails of shooting stars, stare back at me from beneath a whiplash of blond hair swept to the side. His eyes grow brighter as he releases my hand with some reluctance.

  “So, this is your apartment, Clifton?” I ask as he straightens.

  “One of them. It’s where I stay when I’m required to fulfill my active duty tours.”

  “I see. Thank you for the use of your apartment. It was generous of you.”

  “It was no trouble, I assure you. I am a fan of yours.”

  My eyebrow lifts. “A fan of mine?”

  “You have taught me a fair number of sword maneuvers. Tell me, would you consider giving me private lessons?”

  “I—” I look away from his handsome face in utter bewilderment. Surely he must know that I’m not in charge of my own destiny. I’m told when I must rise and when I’m to sleep, when to eat and when to train, when to study and when to bathe. It’s all out of my control—everything about my life is out of my control.

  Hawthorne joins me. “I believe they’re ready for you outside, Roselle.” His hand gently angles me toward the glass doors.
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  “Excuse me, Patrøn,” I murmur to Clifton.

  “Of course,” Clifton replies with a wink.

  As I turn away, Hawthorne growls low to Clifton. “She doesn’t give private lessons. Go find someone your own age to train with.”

  I glance over my shoulder at them. Clifton stares at my backside. “I’m bored with my trainers. They lack the kind of ferociousness that I see in Roselle. She would give me quite a workout.”

  “She’s only eighteen.” Hawthorne stands rigidly between us.

  “So it’s okay to send her to war, but not to allow her to—”

  “If it were up to me, she’d never see a battlefield.”

  “Then tell her to consider training with me, and I’ll make sure she never sees combat.”

  Hawthorne turns. “Gilad, this Exo wants private lessons. He’s looking for ferociousness. You up for a training session?”

  Gilad looks like a malignant hobgoblin with his scarred face and his dead man’s stare. “Anytime,” Gilad replies.

  “Are you her unit commander?” Clifton asks Hawthorne with a speculative look.

  “No. I’m just someone who looks out for secondborns.”

  Emmitt is positively gleeful beside me. He claps his hands and whirls me toward the drone cameras outside, whispering in my ear. “You are fast becoming my favorite person in the entire fatedom! Gah! Clifton Salloway and that gorgeous Sword are fighting over my little Roselle. What’s next?” He stops at the threshold, drunk on the testosterone in the room. “Now,” he says as he puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes, “keep your wits about you, and you’ll survive this to live another day.”

  Another day may be the best that I can hope for. The doors open, and he gives me a little shove out onto the balcony. The doors close behind me, and I’m alone with a wall of reporters. The sun rises slowly beside us. I squint a little as my eyes adjust. I pull the leather coat tighter around me. Squaring my shoulders, I walk a few more steps to meet the strobe flashes and jockeying reporters beyond the railing.