Secondborn

“Yes, the firstborn profile belongs to a Census agent stationed in the Twilight Forest Base, but he has access to Census in this Base as well.” She slips the copycat into the slot in the side of her glove on top of the lead that covers the moniker implanted in her skin. The Census agent’s crashing wave shines dimly through the glove. “I keep a few of these handy for the doors that are hardest to open. It won’t matter in a few days. They’ll all be useless.” Switching on the wrist communicator, she pulls up the schematics for Census’s underground lair. “The key to getting around is to project confidence. Try not to look anyone in the eyes, but don’t avoid them either.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Privileged boredom works with the aristocracy, especially in Virtues. Census agents are different. You have to behave like a predator. You fear nothing. You’re the hunter. Hunt.”

Flannigan stops the elevator at a floor near the lowest point in the Base. When the doors open, cold air wafts over us. The black leather coats make sense now.

What the privateer said earlier is true. Unlike the last time I was here, there are very few Census agents guarding the corridors. The ones that should be stationed by the elevator on this level are absent from the post. We just pass by the checkpoint unchallenged. The few agents we encounter in the corridors move with purpose, barely giving us a look. Their arrogant conviction that they can never be infiltrated is almost funny. If I weren’t so terrified, I’d laugh.

We hurry through a mile of corridors, following the wrist communicator. “We’re beneath Aspen Lake,” Flannigan informs me. She stops abruptly at a couple of nondescript metal doors. “They’re in here.”

She removes another cloned moniker from her case and opens the doors. I recognize the holographic image of Grisholm Wenn-Bowie displayed upon the access panel of the scanner. “How do you have Grisholm’s cloned moniker?”

“He was easy to get to. He enjoys the touch of lovely women.”

We enter. Flannigan closes the doors behind us and sets her bag down on the granite table in the center of the room. Shiny steel mesh covers the doors of the elegant cabinets lining the walls. Priceless items—jewels, art, prototype weapons—sparkle behind the mesh. On the far wall sits a vault.

“You said we were coming here to get my fusionblade,” I mumble numbly.

Flannigan rummages in her bag and takes out a small device, which she pockets. She reaches in again and extracts a fusionmag. When the bullets from the weapon hit a target, they break apart and extinguish, killing the target without exiting and doing further damage. She arms the fusionmag with a cartridge and hands me the gun. “I lied. This is much more important than a fusionblade. Cover the door.”

She goes to the vault and uses the copycat of Grisholm’s moniker to open it. Inside are rows and rows of new moniker chips, moncalate tools used to implant the chips, and processor boxes used to program them with identities. “I needed someone to help me break into Census so that I could get new monikers. You were my best option.”

She deftly chooses one processor box and one moncalate tool from the vault and puts them in her bag. Removing another device, she shoves it in her pocket, then steals row after row of new moniker chips from the vault until the bag is full. With a rueful sigh for the monikers still left in the safe, she sets the device from her pocket beside them.

“This is an incendiary, Roselle. It’ll explode in five minutes and make it look as if we blew up the new monikers rather than stealing them. That way, they won’t come looking for them. Are you ready?” she asks as she arms the device.

“How could you do this to me?” I whisper.

“I’m not doing it to you. I’m doing it for you.” She secures the bag, moves to the door, and opens it a crack. Seeing no one in the corridor, she steps out. The moment she does, I hear shots. Blood spatters my torso, chest, and face. Flannigan falls against the door and slides to the floor.

Instinctively, I step over her with the fusionmag raised. Four agents are approaching from down the corridor. I fire four shots, striking each agent in the head. The bullets explode, spreading bone fragments and brain matter on the walls. I pivot. The other side of the corridor is empty.

Flannigan breathes raggedly, a shaky hand covering the hole in her abdomen. “Take these to your locker,” she says in a raspy voice. “This bag will fit in the false bottom. On the shelf, you’ll find a handheld welding tool. Seal the bottom of the locker.” Blood drools from her mouth. “Tell him it was nearly flawless. Tell him to miss me. Every day.”

“Tell who?” I demand, my heart pumping wildly.

She smiles. “The man who’ll ask you about me.” She reaches into her pocket and extracts the cyanide capsule, places it in her mouth, and convulses until all that looks back at me is her lifeless stare.