Secondborn

Most of the questions that follow I rehearsed with the panel of leaders last night. My answers are short on details and heavy on things I didn’t see. I drill through them quickly. Eventually Emmitt emerges from the apartment behind me, stops at my side, and says, “Roselle only has time for a few more questions.” Most of them are about my current uniform and whether I plan to set new style trends for secondborns and firstborns alike. I allow Emmitt to answer those, though he pretends that a secret Diamond-Fated designer had done the work.

The final question interrupts my thanking everyone for coming. “Do you have plans to see Clifton again?”

I groan inwardly. What is the fascination with my so-called love life? Do they really not get that if I were to have an affair with Clifton, I could be jailed or killed? I look over my shoulder at Clifton standing inside his apartment. He steeples his hands, as if he’s praying for me to say yes. This gets a chuckle from the men and sighs from the women. My eyes drift to Hawthorne’s. He looks worried. I face the reporters once more. “I don’t make plans. I follow orders.”

“Okay,” Emmitt says, waving to the reporters. “Thank you for coming today. You can pick up press packets from the Base Commander at the Warrior Gate. Have a pleasant journey back to your Fates.” Emmitt links arms with me, as if we’ve always been the best of friends, and we stroll to the glass doors. “Well done, Roselle! You were flawless!”

Hawthorne meets me just over the threshold. Re-dressed in his combat uniform, he has his rifle slung on his back and his helmet on his head, without his visor deployed. The downward slash of his eyebrows feels ominous. Angry-faced, he grasps my upper arms and growls, “We’re leaving. Now.” I let go of Emmitt’s arm as I hurry to keep up with Hawthorne. He marches me to the door.

I try to stop him. “I should say good-bye to our host and thank Emmitt and Clara for their help. It’s rude just to leave like this.”

“Move,” he barks. “That’s an order.” I stop resisting. My leather coat slips from one shoulder. We are at the door of the apartment in a couple of heartbeats. Emmitt blusters behind us, shocked by our lack of decorum. Gilad holds the door open for Hawthorne and me while Hammon holds the elevator doors and Edgerton points his rifle menacingly at some target over my shoulder.

From behind me, Clifton Salloway calls out, “Consider my offer, Roselle. I’d love to work with you.”

Hawthorne swears under his breath. He stomps right past Gilad, who slams the door behind us. We enter the elevator and face the glass that overlooks the immense drop to the ground. Gilad and Edgerton step into the lift as well. Hammon closes the door and selects the ground floor. As we descend, I try to ease my arm away from Hawthorne’s grip. He tightens it, and then realizes that he’s hurting me and lets go. I take off my coat, folding it over my arm to hide the bruises that Agent Crow left.

“Do you mind explaining what just happened back there?” I ask.

“Whoo!” Edgerton yells. I flinch from the surprise and sheer volume of it. It takes all my willpower not to throat-punch him. He slaps his thigh, and then doubles over, hands on top of his knees, laughing. “Damn, that was fun!” He wipes a tear from his eye. “Did you see the look on his face when we evac’ed to the elevator without giving him a chance to worship at the altar of Roselle?” Hammon snorts with laughter beside Edgerton, and even Gilad cracks a smile. “That ol’ boy can hunt!” he continues. “He wants Roselle somethin’ fierce!” He points at me. “And you! You got to be the coolest customer that I’ve ever set eyes on when it comes to handlin’ those Diamond-Fated douchebags!”

I rub my forehead, at a complete loss. “Who is ol’ boy?” I ask.

Hammon takes pity on me and explains. “We sometimes call a firstborn ol’ boy or ol’ man. He was talking about your boyfriend, Clifton, back there.”

“Don’t call him her boyfriend,” Hawthorne scolds. He’s really angry. “Talk like that could get her killed! That kind of relationship isn’t just flirting with danger, it is danger.” Hawthorne points at me. “You, stay away from him. He’s no good for you. He asks you again for private lessons, you tell him no, and then you tell your commanding officer that you’re not interested in training anyone. Do you understand me?”

“I take it private lessons have nothing to do with weapons training.” I lean my forehead against the glass of the elevator and watch the rapidly approaching ground. A part of me hopes to be splattered by it so that I don’t have to face the soldiers in this lift.

“Aw, he wants his weapon trained, all right,” Edgerton hoots, doubling over again.

“Thanks for the warning,” I reply. “I’ll stay away from him.”