Secondborn

Dune leans forward. He touches the navigation screens, pulling up maps and charts. A manual control panel activates, exposing the Vicolt’s operating system. “Seville.”

“Patrøn?” Seville’s voice sounds confused.

“I’m deviating from the planned route.” He engages the wings, which slip out on either side, transforming the vehicle into an aircraft.

“But, Patrøn, protocol dictates—”

“I don’t care about protocol!”

The vehicle’s wings begin to retract. “You’re to remain in glide mode,” Seville says with a phony smile. “Wingers have been dispatched to clear the area of enemy forces. You’ll proceed on the designated route as planned. Everything is under control—”

Dune leans forward and disconnects the circuitry beneath the console. The heads-up display disappears. “Message received,” he mumbles. He tries to engage the wings, but they’re still controlled by Seville and her team. Outside, people are panicking, running from the masked men. The Vicolt slows to a stop. We idle as the Gates of Dawn soldiers form a wide circle around us. “We’ve become bait, Roselle. Protocol dictates we wait for troops to arrive to annihilate the threat.”

“How close are our troops?” My hand grips my sword on my hip.

“I don’t know. The Gates aren’t attacking us, Roselle. They’re waiting.” He opens the Vicolt’s door and climbs out. “Stay here.” He closes the door. Drawing his fusionblade, he cuts through stones thrown at him, pulverizing most into dust and taking hits from others as he makes his way back to where the night-masked soldier walks slowly toward us. I wonder why our enemies are throwing stones. Surely they have more sophisticated weapons at their disposal—unless they were unable to smuggle them into our fatedom. I try to see the monikers on their hands, but gloves cover them, shrouding their true origins.

The gruesome night-faced man has already traded his flower for a fusionblade. The sword swishes in his black-gloved hand. Dune moves to meet him. My heart hammers. I can’t leave my mentor out there alone, unprotected. Disobeying Dune’s direct order, I fumble with my door. It swings open and I jump from the hovercar, drawing my sword. Drone cameras circle us.

The sky begins to rumble with troopships and death drones. The traitor in black tilts his masked face up. He extinguishes his sword, sheathing it. From the lining of his cape, he pulls out a silver orb that fits in the palm of his hand. He rests his thumb on top of it. Dune skids to a halt and looks up. Enormous airships soar above us. He glances over his shoulder at me, then starts waving his arms, fear carving lines in his face.

Our enemy depresses the button on the device in his palm. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a catastrophic explosion. But nothing happens. I open my eyes. My sword has gone out. I shake it, hoping to reignite it. It’s as useless as a brick. Confused, I search for Dune. He reaches me, grasping my shoulders, turning me back toward the hovercar. Beside us, something falls from the sky and crashes onto the metal pavers. It’s a drone camera. Another one crashes and shatters, and then another. Our enemies begin retreating, melting into the fleeing crowd.

Dune shoves me in the direction of the Vicolt. I lift my face to the sky. A troopship above us pitches to the side, its thunderous sound replaced by the soughs it creates as it falls.

Chapter 4

Pulse Pummeled

The troopship plummets, clipping the side of a building and crashing through several floors. It topples over into another building in a shattering of glass that looks like sparkling, jagged rain. Black smoke turns the blue sky to night. Dune and I reach the Vicolt amid screaming and chaos. People trample each other in their attempt to run from the pelting debris.

Dune pushes me into the Vicolt. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he reconnects the circuitry, and the hovercar trundles forward as he seals the doors shut. Smoke and thick clouds of rock dust overcome the vehicle, shrouding it in a haze. Thunderous rumbling drowns out the sounds of my coughs. Dune closes the vents.

The navigation system comes back online, and the hovercar resumes its course. Still panting, Dune says, “That orb was an FSP, a Fusion Snuff Pulse. It’s new technology. Our spies infiltrated an enemy lab in the Fate of Stars last month and found evidence of such a device. It disrupts the atomic fusion we use to power everything.”

“It brought down the death drones and the Wingers—the drone cameras—my sword,” I reply, lifting the beautifully crafted silver hilt. It doesn’t ignite.

“It probably knocked out anything fusion-driven for several miles.”

But the Vicolt’s power runs on old-fashioned electromagnetic cells, backed up by hydrogen cells. It slows to a stop. A soft breeze blows the dust away, exposing our path. A large portion of one of the troopships lies in a smoldering heap before us. Pieces of people litter the avenue.

A part of me is stunned, but I’ve been trained for this. “We have to help them.”