Secondborn

Dune tears off a strip of his uniform cape and hands it to me. “Wrap this around your nose and mouth to keep the dust from your lungs.”

We emerge, and for the next hour we work as a team, searching the wreckage for wounded, pulling debris away from bodies, checking for signs of life. Most victims are so badly crushed that there’s no chance of survival. I almost lose hope until I discover a young female soldier still breathing among the carnage. Dune pulls pieces of the ship off her as I kneel and begin dressing her wounds with swatches of fabric I tear from her uniform. Her ebony hair is nearly white from dust.

The steel arm of a medical drone nudges me aside, its cylindrical silver body hovering over the soldier. A blue light scans her from head to toe, assessing her injuries. Other medical drones arrive, scouring for survivors. I step back and right into someone standing behind me. Masculine arms encircle me. Turning around in his embrace, I stare up into the visor of a Fate of Swords soldier, noting the shiny black broadsword embossed on its matte-black surface. The visor retracts in sections, revealing a wicked smile and gorgeous, steel-colored eyes.

The soldier jerks the wool away from my nose and mouth. Lifting his hand to reposition his headset microphone, his deep voice resonates into it. “I’ve located her.” He pauses, listening. “I’m sure it’s her.” He grasps my wrist, takes an identification processor from his belt, and positions it over the side of my hand where my sword moniker usually glows. He pulls the trigger on the scanner. Blue light illuminates my skin. His scanner works—he must have come from outside the snuff pulse’s range. My identity doesn’t register on his device. Usually, a holographic screen with all my vital information would display. Frowning, he triggers the scanner again. Blue light dances over my hand, and then . . . nothing.

“Her moniker is fried, but it’s her,” he scowls, glancing skyward. “How do I know for sure? I’ve been forced to watch her every day for as long as I can remember. I think I can recognize Roselle St. Sismode. Commander Kodaline is with her.”

I turn toward the wounded soldier behind me. Dune has taken my place beside her, holding her hand as the medical drone administers combat dressings and medication. The soldier’s hand moves to encircle my upper arm. He turns me back to him. I wince at the pressure of his grip. “Stay where you are,” he orders. His other hand examines my torso. The blood of dead soldiers smears my uniform.

“That’s not my blood.” I try to brush his hand from me. Chaos swirls around us. Newly arrived rescue ships and drones circle overhead. The breeze has begun to blow the dust and smoke away, allowing us to see and breathe much easier.

“Hold still,” the soldier orders.

“I’m not hurt. Please let go of me.” I try again to shrug away.

“Are you in shock?” he asks in a rush. “Who is the Clarity of Virtues? Do you know what fatedom we’re in?” He runs his hand over my stomach, worry creasing his brow when his gloved hand comes away with more blood.

I stare at his handsome face, my heartbeat racing uncomfortably. “I’m not in shock, Fabian Bowie is Clarity, and we’re in Swords. Let go.”

He won’t let go, and I’m not used to being touched, least of all by a domineering soldier whose face makes me feel like my heart is too big for my chest. I drive my elbow into his nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to let him know he needs to let me go.

He does. He wipes his bloody nose with the back of his gloved hand. “You just struck a superior—”

I move back. “Technically, I’m still an unregistered secondborn until I’m processed. You’re not my superior anything. I’m not in shock, I’m not injured, and you don’t get to touch me unless I say you can.”

I feel a rifle muzzle tap the back of my skull. I still. “You need some help, Hawthorne?”

The soldier’s scowl deepens. He reaches out and pulls me behind him, knocking the gun away. “Gilad, don’t point your weapon at her!”

Before the second soldier can comply, he’s disarmed by Dune, who detaches the fusion charge from beneath the grip of the rifle, rendering it useless. Dune pockets the charge before handing the weapon back to the young combatant. “Have any of the Gates of Dawn soldiers been apprehended yet?”

The overconfident one with the incredible eyes stands at attention, giving Dune the respect owed to him by his firstborn rank. “I’m unaware of any prisoners being taken, Patrøn.”

“What’s your name?” Dune asks.

“Hawthorne Sword, Patrøn, 11-171971.” He gives only his first name, his Fate, and his number. His last name was taken from him when he was processed. He’s now required to identify with his Fate, to which he’s sworn his loyalty, rather than with his family.

“And you?” Dune’s gaze rests on the one who put the muzzle to my head.

The soldier’s visor ticks back. He doesn’t look much older than me, but he has white scars on his brow, nose, and both cheeks. “Gilad Sword, 25-135472.”

“How old are you?” Dune studies them.