Secondborn

If Walther is secondborn, then who is their firstborn brother?

“Are you okay?” Hawthorne asks. I stare at him blankly. “You look as if you might faint.”

“How long until we get to the Golden Circle?” My voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s gravelly and raw—dry from the dust coating everything and the emotions choking my throat.

He shrugs, settling back in his seat and pulling down on the harness above his head to lock it in place. “Less than twenty.”

I nod and look away from him. The ramp rises and obscures my view of Dune. It thumps hard against the side, sealing us in. The sound of it reverberates. Dim lights illuminate the interior as the aircraft lifts straight up. I get an aerial view of the destruction through the transparent aisle beneath my feet. Several buildings have toppled over. Fires rage over entire city blocks. Broken airships lie like skeletons across the scorched ground.

This is the first strike my fatedom has suffered in this war. Usually, we’re pounding cities in the Fate of Stars, the Fate of Atoms, and the Fate of Suns, cities suspected of harboring Gates of Dawn soldiers or sympathizers. Mother is probably beside herself, the first Sword in several centuries to fail to protect her people—her firstborns. She doesn’t care about anyone else.

I glance up through my tears. Hawthorne studies me, and I realize I’m trembling, my body reacting to trauma. Unlocking his harness, Hawthorne shifts to the seat next to mine. From a compartment on the side of his thigh armor, he extracts a square packet. He cracks it with both hands and shakes it. “Here.” He places it in my hand. Heat radiates from it. He nudges my hands together, letting the packet warm them both. Unwrapping a gauze bandage from his medical supplies, he uses a water spritzer to wet the material. Setting the water aside, Hawthorne extends the cloth to my face.

I lean away from him, avoiding his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up. You’re a mess.”

“Who cares what I look like?” I ask, bumping his arm away.

Reaching for a chrome lid to a power source generator, he pulls it off the unit and holds it up so that I’m confronted by my reflection. I resemble a weeping ghost. Gray dust covers my skin. Streaks of tears create desolate lines through it.

“I’m not crying. I have dust in my eyes,” I lie.

“I know,” he lies, too. He replaces the chrome lid. The wet cloth nears my face once more. This time I don’t pull away as Hawthorne gently presses it to my cheek and wipes off the soot.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “About your nose.”

He shrugs. “I’ve had worse. It’s been broken a few times.”

“You can’t tell.” I bite my bottom lip anxiously. He winks at me. My heart flutters, and my face flushes hotly.

“I get it fixed whenever it’s broken. Gilad teases me about it. He says it’s a waste of merits because it’ll just end up broken again. Probably by him.”

“What are merits?”

“Special privilege units. You earn them by doing things better or faster than everyone else. Or by doing things others can’t do.”

“Are there any other ways to earn them?”

“Sometimes you can earn them for being a turner—reporting other secondborns for infractions of the rules. I wouldn’t advise it, though. Turners have a way of not lasting very long in most units.”

“You mean they’re killed?”

“I mean they have an accident that they never recover from.”

“What else can you use merits for?”

He stops cleaning my face and sits back. “All kinds of things—extra rations, novel files, magazine files, soap, hair products, sweets, entertainment—”

“What kind of entertainment?”

He wads up the dirty cloth and throws it at a bin. “Well, there’s films and music . . . date night.” He gives me an appraising look and smiles. My heart thumps harder in my chest. “You get to go on a date—each person pays merits to meet each other. They match you with someone you’d be compatible with, and then they allow you to meet and . . .” He waves his hand in a gesture that indicates a next step. “And whatever.” He raises both of his eyebrows.

I just stare at him.

He frowns. “Please tell me you know what I’m talking about.”

I shake my head.

“Sex, Roselle. I’m talking about sex.” I straighten in my seat and look away from him, embarrassed by the turn our conversation has taken. “You know what sex is, then?” He laughs.

“I know what it is. I don’t know why anyone would waste merits on it. It’s not like you’re allowed to have a child. We’re secondborns. We’re forbidden to procreate. What would be the point of date night?”

He looks up at the ceiling. “What would be the point?” He turns to me with an incredulous look. “Pleasure, Roselle. Pleasure is the point. We both take a pill before the date starts so there’s no chance of offspring.”

“So you pay for the privilege of having a . . .”

“The word you’re looking for is girlfriend, and no, no one gets a girlfriend. We aren’t allowed to have an ongoing relationship. The next time I have a date, it will be with someone new.”