Secondborn

“Yes, but do you know him? He’s into some things that make the odds of his surviving to assume your mother’s position . . . highly unlikely.”

“What things?”

“Bad things. I’m not at liberty to elaborate further at the moment.”

“Shouldn’t you at least be protecting him, then?” I’m powerless to help Gabriel, and it scares me.

“Your mother is doing everything in her power to keep him out of harm’s way, but he is who he is.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if something were to happen to him, The Sword would be forced to accept you as her heir.”

“So you’re hedging your bets. My successor isn’t appealing?”

He laughs as if he finds my question delightful. “If you should die, and then Gabriel should die, your mother would have to have another heir. She’s still young enough, but getting your father back to do the deed would be asking a lot of the ol’ boy. He hates her. An infant isn’t what we need. We need a strong leader. Someone fit to be the Clarity of the Fate of Swords, which is not the doughboy next in line should you die.”

“The doughboy?”

“Harkness Ambersol. Try saying that five times fast. He’s not fit to rule a crella.”

“And you think I am?”

“No one has ever been more fit to be The Sword than you—not even your mother.”

“That is treason.”

“That is the truth. You have a certain moral ambiguity that can get you into trouble, but with the right advisors, you can overcome that.”

“So your Rose Garden Society is dedicated to me—to keeping me alive.”

“We’re just, as you say, hedging our bets.”

“This is pretty complicated for you, seeing as we’re at war and I’m on active duty.”

“It was until recently. Commander Aslanbek has decided to join the Rose Garden Society. It didn’t take much convincing. He just had to meet Harkness, and he took a pin from me on his way out the door.”

“A pin?” I ask.

“May I?” He indicates the pocket of his coat. I lift my arm so he can reach inside. He pulls out a pin in the shape of a rose with thorny vines wrapping around an ancient sword. “You have quite a few followers, Roselle.”

I take the pin and hold it up in the soft light. “Aren’t you worried that your secret society will be found out?”

“Not really. We actually do have a Rose Garden Society, all very legal. We commission Sun-Fated workers to do some beautiful landscapes for less fortunate firstborns. But secretly, the society is only interested in keeping you alive. And that isn’t illegal either.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.

“There are people who’d like nothing better than to see the St. Sismode name die forever. We want you to know that you can come to us for help.”

“There’ll be no favors here. I’ll pay my way.”

“How do you expect to do that?” he asks.

“I told you when I contacted you that I had a proposition for you. Do you know what I did when I first shot a rifle in training at the Stone Forest Base?”

“No . . .” he replies, intrigued.

“They made me assemble the rifle and fire it at a target.”

“Ten seconds?” he guesses.

“Seven.”

“Bull’s-eye?”

“Of course.” I smile. “The parts were all Burton. So why don’t we use Salloway?”

“Burton was the lowest bidder, and Edmund Burton has worked hard to win your mother’s favor.”

“How about I make it sexy to have a Salloway weapon?”

“I’m listening.”

“I will demo every new weapon you manufacture. I will be your spokesperson. I will make Salloway the brand that everyone has to have. You will own the private sector market. We’ll work together on the military, sway the right people in the Sword hierarchy.”

“What do you want in return?”

“I want you to start making these.” I show him my dual-sided weapon.

“Who made this?” he asks. He takes the weapon and ignites it with surprising grace.

“You’ll have to pay a friend of mine for the design. Some money, but mostly you can pay him in merits. I also want you to make a rifle that uses fusion power but can be switched over to hydrogen.”

“Why?”

“Because I know something you don’t. There will be demand, and you’ll be in a position not only to fulfill that demand, but to put Burton out of business in the process.”

“What do you know?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll have to trust me, Clifton.”

I scan my moniker and enter the air-barracks. Everything is quiet; most of the soldiers are slated for medical-rescue detail in the morning. I go to the locker room, change into my pajamas, and climb to Hawthorne’s capsule. I rap lightly on the door. It opens immediately.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me inside. It’s impossibly tight in here. I practically have to lie on top of him in order for us both to fit. He shuts the door with a touch of his foot to the console. The Secondborn Trials play out on the screen above our heads. They’re down to the final competitors—a burly male Sword, a wily female Star, and another male Sword. They look battered and bruised, almost incapable of remaining on their feet for much longer.

“What happened to Linus Star?” I ask, remembering Grisholm’s favorite to win.