Secondborn

“Sorry to interrupt, old man,” the agent by the door interjects, “but it seems the identity of the detainee is no longer in question. Her hair sample, taken when she was brought in, has been verified. She’s Roselle St. Sismode, secondborn to The Sword.” He holds up a holographic chip. It shines in the dim light. “I have her new moniker here.”

Agent Crow seethes. His blond hair is a mess, falling over his brow. “I didn’t submit her hair sample, Agent Losif. How was it verified?”

Agent Losif shifts back and forth on his feet. “This is Agnes Moon.” He gestures to the attractive woman standing beside him. “She’s a secondborn advocate stationed in Swords. She has petitioned for the release of the Secondborn St. Sismode.”

Agent Crow narrows his eyes at the curvaceous redhead. “Her authority isn’t recognized here.” The agent’s cool demeanor returns. I stay rooted in the same defensive position. He’s unpredictable because he believes his power to be absolute.

Agnes straightens, holding up a wristband with a shiny blue face. She waves it in Agent Crow’s direction. “I really don’t want to interrupt either, but I have orders to redirect Secondborn St. Sismode to a debriefing and a press conference in front of the Fates.”

“On whose authority?” Agent Crow barks.

“The Clarity Bowie. He has given direct orders that Secondborn St. Sismode is to deliver a broadcast regarding the attack against her Fate. I’m sending you the authorization now.” She touches the face of her wristband. A blue light shines up from Agent Crow’s. He sets his belt down on the metal chair. Touching the surface of his communicator, he scrolls through whatever message Agnes sent him.

“This detainee has given me cause to believe that she has consorted with Fate traitors. I’m conducting an interrogation to ascertain her level of involvement with the attack against the Fate of Swords.”

“Do you really want to upset the Clarity of Virtues?” Agnes asks, her eyebrow darting into her red bangs.

“I will take my chances,” Agent Crow glowers.

“We’re under orders to remove the detainee from your custody,” Hawthorne says, raising his rifle and aiming it at Agent Crow. “Step away from the girl.” Gilad raises his rifle as well, and two other soldiers from their unit follow their lead.

The agent directs a cold stare at Hawthorne. “You’re the soldier who brought her in. Shouldn’t you be out rescuing your brethren from the city that fell on them? Or better yet, finding the ones responsible? I have plans to interrogate this one for what she knows of the attack. It could be useful information to your secondborn commanders. I will share the information. It could mean merits for you.”

I hold my breath. If they take Agent Crow’s bribe, I’m on my own.

Hawthorne doesn’t lower his weapon. He looks at me. “Roselle St. Sismode, I order you to come with us.”

Warily, I start toward Hawthorne at the door. I don’t take more than a step before Agent Crow barks, “Stop!” I halt. “She can’t leave here without her moniker. Only we can give her that.” He moves to the agent at the door and opens his palm. Agent Losif drops the shiny holographic identifier into it. Closing his fingers around it, Agent Crow lifts his other hand for the moncalate used to implant a moniker beneath flesh.

Goose bumps rise on my arms. Agent Crow opens a slot on the surgical tool and loads my moniker into it. The click of it being chambered makes me flinch. Agent Crow’s eyes meet mine. A mixture of emotions hides there—rage, lust, aggression. I suppress another shiver.

He lifts my hand, rubbing his thumb over the skin between my thumb and finger. “You have a birthmark,” he says. He places the tool beside my birthmark and depresses a button. A puff of white air emits from the nozzle aimed at my skin. It instantly numbs the area. A thin laser cuts a line on the back of my hand. I bite my lip as it burns, but the pain isn’t unmanageable. Small curls of smoke rise to my nose. Agent Crow inhales deeply, watching me.

The laser extinguishes and a little clamp appears from the cylindrical body of the tool. It latches into the flaps of skin, pulling them apart while a tiny claw on a steel arm reaches inside to extract my fried moniker. The claw drops the broken, bloody chip onto the floor. It retreats back inside the metallic body and retrieves the new identifier, shooting it into place.

My eyelids close a fraction at the intense stinging of the new chip settling onto my sinew. Agent Crow watches, savoring my pain. The claw and the clamps retract into the body of the tool. Red laser light seals my skin closed, leaving a pink incision scar that throbs.

Agent Crow lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my incision. I try to pull my hand from his, but he holds it fast, smiling. “I will dream of you, Roselle,” he promises. The flow of my blood feels thready.