Secondborn

by Bartol, Amy A.

  “Don’t let it kill you,” I reply. “I don’t think I’ll make it if you’re gone.”

  We walk on, coming to a spiraling ramp upward. It leads to a small rectangular room. I gesture to a heavy outline in the stone. The walls and the floor are embedded with small metal swords in a repeating diamond pattern.

  Hawthorne passes me his fusionblade and pushes against the door. It doesn’t budge. “There has to be a lever,” he mutters. He pushes on a sword on the wall. It moves inward. Nothing happens. He lets go of it and it moves back out. He presses another one. It slides in and comes back out. He presses all of them he can reach. Nothing moves the door. He growls in frustration.

  Cool air wafts through the crack in the doorway. Peeking through it, I feel mist on my face and hear the distinct sound of running water. I look up. I can’t see very far, but I can tell that the walls curve inward above us. “This shape—an obelisk,” I say. “We’re west of the Palace, so that puts us in the park—Westerbane Heath. Is this . . . is this the Tyburn Fountain?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Tyburn was one of the earliest lessons Dune drilled into me.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  I hand Hawthorne his Exo cape and move into the center of the small room. “Which way do you think is west?”

  He pulls out a pocket compass. Typical soldier. He points to the wall adjacent to the closed door. “That’s west.”

  With Hawthorne’s fusionblade still in my hand, I explain, “Tyburn is a demigod, known as the Warrior of the West Wind. To pay homage to the West Wind, you assume the warrior pose, facing the west.” I extend my right hand out in front of me with my left arm behind, bending my right leg in front of me at a right angle, and my right foot to the west. My left leg extends behind me, my toes pointing south. I hold the pose for a moment. Then, extending the sword in my right hand, I point it straight up. Rising on the points of the toes of my right foot, I bring my left foot up behind me, holding it in the palm of my left hand until the pad of my foot touches the back of my head. I hold it for a few breaths, and then twist, jumping into the air and turning in circles over and over, like a whirling tornado. When I stop, I’m in the warrior pose once more, facing west.

  Hawthorne follows the line of my right hand to a bronze sword on the wall. He presses it. It locks in place. Turning, he follows the line of my left arm, depressing the sword it points to. It locks into place. The door doesn’t move.

  “Try the ones by my feet.” I wiggle my toes. He moves to the sword in front of my right foot on the floor. As he presses it, it locks. My left foot points to the last one. He touches it, and suddenly the whole building starts to rumble. A stone door drops from the ceiling, cutting off our way back to the Palace. The door on the north wall makes a horrible scraping sound and rolls open. Water cascades in front of it, and as soon as it opens all the way, it begins to close again. We scramble forward together, jumping through the wall of water, and land in a deep pool. My grip on Hawthorne’s sword loosens and it extinguishes, but I manage to grab it before it sinks. I come up coughing and sputtering.

  Hawthorne is beside me. He hugs me to him. “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”

  I hold him, my breasts pressing against his chest. My lips move to his. I kiss him like I’ve longed to kiss him since his moniker turned golden. He stands and lifts me out of the water, my legs wrapping his waist as he wades through the fountain. Reaching the low wall, he sets me on it and sits next to me. I pass him back his sword and he puts it in his scabbard.

  The fountain is lit from underneath. In the center, the stone obelisk points to the night sky. Wild-eyed bronze horse statues kick their hooves into the air. Ferocious sword-wielding soldiers and fierce demigod statues in horrific poses adorn the multilevel water feature that circles the obelisk. Tyburn is the largest, most virile statue, slashing with his vicious sword at Hyperion, the demigod of water. Water flows from the wound in Hyperion’s side, an enactment of the tale of the West Wind giving water to the people.

  The door we came through is on the north side of the monument. A statue points to it with a rose in its hand, a young naked woman—Tyburn’s lover, Roselyn. She stares with a devil-may-care smirk. A thick crown of roses hangs low on her beautiful brow. Breathing hard, I whisper, “I think my secret hideout is a Tyburn temple.”

  “I think we should start worshipping him.” Hawthorne sees me shiver violently. “We have to go,” he urges.

  We start jogging, looking for a way out of the park. It must be past midnight by now, and the park is empty. We stay on the grass and avoid the lighted paths.

  “I don’t know which way to go. I’ve never been in Westerbane Heath. I only know it from pictures,” Hawthorne growls as he looks around, trying to decide in which direction we should go. “My family spent very little money educating me before turning me over to our Fate.” He sounds ashamed of that. It must have been a rough few months trying to Transition from secondborn to firstborn. I can only imagine the ridicule he has faced not understanding their etiquette and rules. He must feel like a club-wielding barbarian among butterflies.

  “Your training is better than their education,” I tell him. “You know how to catch a fish, gut it, and cook it. You know how to pilot a fighter airship and rebuild its engine. You know how to defend yourself, and what it feels like to help a friend.” City lights shine up ahead. We step up our pace.

  “Exo training has helped Transition me,” he continues. “It’s soldiering, something that makes sense to me. It’s geared toward special operations. I’m in a unique position, already having core secondborn training—a fact that appeals to Admiral Dresden.”

  “Admiral Dresden is an unscrupulous killer, Hawthorne. If he has taken an interest in you, it’s nefarious at best.”

  “He has definitely taken an interest in me.”

  “He’s my mother’s right hand. Be extremely cautious where he’s concerned.”

  We come to a wrought iron archway. Passing through it, we’re on the sidewalk of a city street. Hawthorne hails a hovertaxi. We pile inside it, and the automated driver says, “Please scan your moniker.” Frustration infuses Hawthorne’s features. We’re about to jump out when a shadow blots out the light from the streetlamp. A maginot broadsides the car with its thick head. The door crushes in, shattering glass all over us. The impact drives the hovertaxi from the curb into the middle of the street.

  The automated driver garbles, “Please scan your moniker.” The black beast with the silver markings circles the car. Its yellow eyes stalk me. Its open mouth drips with saliva. Hawthorne yanks me out the opposite side of the vehicle. Brandishing his fusionblade, he pulls me behind his back.

  The maginot leaps onto the roof of the hovercar. Hawthorne slashes at it, but the cyborg deftly avoids the thrust. It poises on its haunches. Before it can pounce, a fast-moving hovercar slams into the disabled hovertaxi. Sparks and smoke blast from the wreckage. The maginot is thrown from the roof, and the hovertaxi explodes in a ball of fire.

  The wolfish creature rolls. The fur on its left flank shears off, revealing its metal frame. A lopsided ear twitches as it gets to its feet, shaking its body, rebooting its systems.

  A lumbering garbage vehicle trundles up a side street, driven by an elderly man. We rush to the passenger side of the hovertruck’s cab. Yanking the door open, Hawthorne climbs inside. The fusionblade in his hand is enough incentive to convince the sanitation worker to vacate the cab. He jumps out. Hawthorne reaches down and hoists me up before sliding into the driver’s seat.

  “Do you know how to drive this thing?” I ask.

  “No.” He notches the gears, eliciting a horrible grinding sound. “You?”

  “No!” I panic because he usually knows how to do everything. He shifts a lever and we lurch forward. The hovertruck lists into the vehicles parked on the side of the street. Sparks fly. Hawthorne corrects the levers and guides us back into the center of the channel. “This thing is like dri
ving a humpback whale,” he complains. “Can you see the maginot?”

  I open my window. Cold air blows inside the cab. Sticking my head out, I search the area behind us. At first, the blackness is complete, but as my eyes adjust, the darkness takes the shape of a wolf, and it’s gaining ground. “Give me your sword”—Hawthorne tosses me the fusionblade—“and just keep moving.” Hoisting myself up, I sit on the edge of the open window. Holding the handrail on the side of the cab, I climb onto the roof. I brace my feet and ignite the fusionblade. It glows golden in the moonlight.

  The yellow-eyed maginot is just a few paces back. It moves alongside us for a few strides, then leaps upward, almost making it to the roof. It falls back into the channel and continues without breaking stride.

  I jump the small gap from the cab to the top of the garbage collector. Tapping my heel against the metal of the humpback, I hear a hollow ring. Wielding Hawthorne’s sword, I slash through the metal roof, cutting as I run to the other end. I make a right-angle turn, carving a perpendicular line. Reaching the flank, I pause. The creature running below hurdles onto the top of a parked hovercar beside us and crashes over other vehicles that line the channel until it pulls abreast of us.

  I make another right-angle turn and continue to slice through the rooftop. The metal glows orange, melting away. I run back toward the front, a spine-chilling howl shivering the air behind me.

  Suddenly the whole vehicle shakes as the maginot lands on the roof near the tailgate. We sway, and my thighs burn with the strain of maintaining my balance, but Hawthorne keeps us in the channel. Hackles on the cyborg’s crest stand straight up. The flews on the sides of its mouth rise, exposing its sharp fangs. Its massive forepaw steps toward me. Steely claws grip the surface of the humpback. I hold Hawthorne’s sword in my sweaty hand, the burning blade angled toward my feet. I wait. One breath. Two.

  The maginot lowers its head and rushes toward me. I plant the fusionblade into the roof and rake it across the hold, creating the final seam. The back of the rectangle falls first. The cyborg slides backward, its razor-sharp claws digging into the metal, trying to find purchase. Then the rest of the ceiling gives way. The beast falls, disappearing inside the belly of the whale.

  An angry yowl comes from inside the humpback, and the rampaging maginot rams the side. The hovertruck careens. I sprawl onto my stomach, dropping Hawthorne’s sword. It slides away. I reach for it, but another cataclysmic jolt to the flank of the hovertruck throws me toward the edge. I stop just short of falling over. The sword slides toward me. I stretch out and catch it.

  Tearing away a piece of my hem, I hold the fabric against the fusionblade. The cloth ignites. I drop it into the garbage hold. Smoke rises, and the reek of burning garbage is almost unbearable. A terrifying wail echoes from the hole. Turning, I leap back to the cab of the truck. Lying on the rooftop, I swing myself over the side and back in through the window.

  “Stop!” I order, slumping against the seat.

  Hawthorne reverses the engine. The chassis crashes to the ground and skids to a halt amid a shower of sparks. I’m about to speak when the cab pitches sideways again. Inside the refuse hopper, the maginot is ramming the walls of the hull. Through the side mirror, I see enormous dents radiate from the inside out. I pull a blue lever between Hawthorne and me labeled “Compaction.” It triggers the hydraulic system. The garbage compactor whines, compressing. Smoke pours out of the hole in the rooftop. The framework rumbles and shakes, and a horrific howl cuts short, leaving only the sound of crunching metal. The blue handle shifts back to its resting position and the night grows quiet.

  Sirens arise in the distance. “Can you run?” Hawthorne asks me. I nod. We get out on the shadowy side of the channel, ducking between the nearest buildings, and slip away into the night.

  Chapter 25

  A Rose Gardener

  Hawthorne guides me to a stop beside a rather expensive-looking Fairweather. I try to catch my breath while he breaks into the luxury airship. Once inside, it doesn’t take him long to manually start the engine.

  We lift off the hoverpad and fly in the direction of the sea. Neither of us says a word about the maginot. The fact that we’re both still alive is enough. Hawthorne finds my hand and threads our fingers together. About a mile from my apartment, I realize he’s taking me home.

  “How do you know where I live, Hawthorne? I only just moved in.”

  “I stalk you, Roselle.” He sounds unapologetic.

  “And yet all that time you never contacted me.”

  His lips form a grim line. “I couldn’t. They’d have known, and they’d have killed you for it.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. They plan to kill me anyway.”

  “And I plan to stop them.”

  We near my apartment, circling once. The terrace is alive with Salloway bodyguards. Instead of landing, Hawthorne flies to the channel a block from the building. He sets us down facing the sea, letting the engine idle. “I’ve been following you and Salloway. I’ve known about this place for a while now. It didn’t take me a second, once I saw this building, to recognize your moniker. They can try to pass off its shape as that of a secondborn weapon, but I know the crown at the top is you. I know every curve of your body. Every contour. Every shape you take. This place was built for you.”

  “They have plans for me.” I shiver and rub my arms. “Do you know about Hammon and Edgerton?”

  “Agent Crow came to me, looking for them. I know you had something to do with their disappearance. I’m not sure how you pulled it all off—getting them out of Swords. But I know you paid for it. A beating like that means someone meant to kill you. What happened? Where are they?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I reply, “for your own safety.”

  “You don’t trust me.” He sounds hurt, but not surprised.

  “You’re right,” I agree, “but I also don’t want you to be in danger because of me.”

  “I can accept that. Did the Star soldiers hurt you worse than the beating that I saw?” he asks through gritted teeth, his gray eyes bleak.

  “I know what you’re asking. They didn’t rape me.” Reykin wouldn’t let them, I think to myself. I don’t want him to see me cry, so I open my door, get out, and walk toward the beach. Hawthorne catches up and takes my hand. “I was afraid—I am afraid,” I admit as we wander through the sand. “The kind of fear that makes me think if I had to do it again, I might not be able to. I might just let them die and that . . . that makes me feel”—my voice cracks—“angry and guilty. I’m afraid to go to sleep tonight. I’m afraid to dream that I’m in the middle of it all again, and there’s no way out . . .”

  His arms engulf me, tugging me to his chest. I breathe hard until I get my emotions under control. A tear escapes from the corner of one eye anyway. I growl and wipe it away with a trembling hand. “Hammon is pregnant,” I murmur. “You’re going to be an uncle.”

  Hawthorne swears softly. “I’m going to kill Edge! So thoughtless!”

  “Believe me, he’d have welcomed it after the beating he took.”

  “Is he okay?” Hawthorne asks. “Is the baby okay—and Hammon?”

  “Like I said, they’re as okay as I can make them.”

  The tide is high. We don’t have far to go until our toes sink into the wet sand and surf. It’s the first time I’ve actually touched seawater. The sound of the waves is melodic.

  “We have to scrub the CR-40 off your hand so you can go up to your apartment.” Hawthorne takes a handful of wet sand and gently rubs it over my moniker. The glowing silver sword sputters to life, illuminating our faces with its shine. I reach down and take a handful of wet sand from the shoreline and rub it over Hawthorne’s skin. His holographic sword shines golden next to mine. We rinse our hands together in the surf. “It was simpler when they were both silver,” Hawthorne says.

  “When you were mine,” I add softly. Was he ever mine?

  “I’m still yours.” He bends and kisses me. It’s excruciatingly
tender, filled with promises that I’m afraid to let myself believe.

  “I’ll walk you up. I’ll make sure you’re safe—that none of Gabriel’s men are waiting for you. Then I’ll go.”

  I tug back on his hand as he starts to walk toward my apartment. He turns back and looks at me. “The other maginots watched you escape the Sword Palace with me. By morning, when their logs are uploaded into the Palace’s main systems, my brother will know that you betrayed him.”

  “He probably already knows.”

  “Gabriel cannot publicly accuse you of treason. Ordering you to kill me is something he needs to keep quiet, but don’t underestimate him or my mother. You must stay with me. I’ll protect you.”

  “You can’t be associated with me, Roselle. We have to give the appearance that we never had a relationship of any kind once I was Transitioned to firstborn.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the only way to keep you safe in the future.”

  “Because you still intend to kill my brother?”

  “I intend to do whatever’s necessary to keep you alive.”

  “Hawthorne, to you this is strategy. To me, this is my brother’s life. He no more asked to be firstborn than I asked to be secondborn. He’s just as much a pawn in this as I am.”

  “Pawn he may be, but he has options that you do not. He has power where you have none.”

  When we reach my building, I scan my moniker. We enter together. A Salloway security unit is mobilizing in the well-designed lobby. Weapons are being distributed—the kind that aren’t even available to the military yet. Clifton keeps the best weapons for himself.

  The commotion grinds to a halt the moment Hawthorne and I appear. My bare feet make dark, sandy smudges on the white marble floor. I pretend I don’t look like I’ve just been through a battle and casually ask, “Excuse me, but where might I catch a lift to the penthouse?”

  The manic intensity of their stares is amusing, but I can’t smile.