Secondborn

“Even if I concede that she poses no threat to Gabriel,” Othala interrupts, “which I don’t, and I make her the rank of Iono and assign her duties for one of the other Clarities, every secondborn of any consequence will cry ‘Nepotism!’” She lets go of the settee and paces.

“You expect me to believe that’s why you made her a Tropo?” Dune asks. “It’s equivalent to throwing her to the wolves, Othala, and you know it! And for what? So you don’t have to listen to a few complaints? They’ve never bothered you before. Secondborns may mutter about unfairness, but you strike them down hard whenever they do.”

She stops. “I show them their place!”

“And you wonder why we have a rebellion of secondborns? You never hear their suffering.”

“Their suffering?” she sputters. “You would side with the Gates of Dawn over the Fates? That’s treason!”

“You of all people know that my loyalty is to the Fate of Swords and to all the Fates of the Republic. I have fought for them since the day I was born.”

“Since the day you were firstborn,” she corrects. “Never forget you’re one of us, Dune.”

“Othala, see reason! Once Roselle is processed, she’ll be chattel. They could put her on the front line.”

“She’s eighteen years old—and a St. Sismode! Our commanders will have better sense than to do that.”

“So you haven’t even specified where she will be placed? You’re going to leave it to the secondborn commanders—or whatever algorithm they’re using—to decide your daughter’s life?”

“I have to trust that the Fates work, Dune. Otherwise, the Gates of Dawn are right. My father believed in the system. He allowed for an organic Transition for his secondborn child. He would expect me to do the same, were he alive.”

“Bazzle was dead within a month of his Transition.”

“He served the Fates with honor,” she says weakly. She walks to her desk and faces us from behind its broad expanse of glass and touchscreens.

“Your brother paid for your father’s position as The Sword, Othala. He was murdered as revenge for what some secondborns see as injustice in a system that makes them slaves.”

Dune grasps my left arm. He leads me to Mother’s desk, extending the back of my hand in front of her. In the shape of a fiery sword, the chip implanted under the skin between my thumb and index finger glows golden. My moniker is who I am. All my information is stored within it, from my name to my age, address, DNA profile—almost everything that makes me me can be accessed by scanning it. It contains all the codes that allow me to travel both within the Fate of Swords and into the eight other Fates.

“Once they process her and find out you’re her mother,” Dune says, “Roselle will be made to suffer for your decisions as The Sword. Do you want that?” Othala’s eyes dart to my moniker. I quickly pull my hand from Dune’s and hide it behind my back. My moniker has always been a source of irritation for my mother. It isn’t like everyone else’s. I have a small crescent-shaped birthmark on my left hand. When the holographic image from my implant shines through my skin, it is partially obscured by the birthmark, so the hologram looks as if a dark crown rings the top of the sword. Gabriel teased me about it, calling me the Crown of Swords.

“They won’t need her moniker to know who she is. Her face is everywhere. They’ve all watched her grow up.”

Dune’s eyes widen in shock. “You don’t care, do you?”

“Leave us, Roselle,” Othala demands. “Wait for Dune to join you in the Grand Foyer.” I retreat through a bronze doorway, leaving it open a crack. “I have given her all the tools she needs to survive,” Mother says. “I gave her you for eighteen years. The best strategists have trained her. She has a better chance than any one of the secondborns twice her age. We both knew this day would come, but unlike you, I was smart enough not to become attached to her. Anything you feel in this moment is on you, Dune.”

A foot taps behind me, and I turn to see Emmitt. Sighing, I close the door and try not to show any emotion. We hate each other, but it’s dangerous to antagonize him. He organizes all of Mother’s appointments. For my entire childhood, if I’ve wanted to see her, I’ve had to go through Emmitt, and it was rare that I was granted an audience with her. I want to believe it was him and not her who kept me away, but deep down I know it’s not true. Emmitt is vindictive, though. He once ordered all of my shoes a couple of sizes too small after I’d complained about wearing a pink velvet bow in my hair for All Fates Day.

Emmitt appraises me, taking in my unflattering new uniform. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his long fingers. “Remind me to address the hideous state of the Tropo uniforms in our next session with the Clarity,” he says to Clara, who stands next to him.

“What difference does it make?” she asks, giving me a cursory glance and twirling a piece of her lavender-colored hair around a sharp fingernail. Emmitt’s calm is a mask. He doesn’t like to be questioned by anyone.