Secondborn

I study the buildings, which I’ve only seen before from the rooftop of the Palace or in on-screen images. I’ve missed a lot by being tethered to the estate. The structures rise to the sky, their details coming alive. I spot the iconic Heritage Building where the annual firstborn selections are held—an event in which the elite firstborns are sworn into service as leaders of our fatedom. One day, Gabriel will go there and vow to protect the Fate of Swords, and all the Fates.

Massive streams of golden energy flow down the walls of the Heritage Building’s sword-shaped tower. The source of the energy is hidden high above our heads, tucked away in the clouds, at the hilt. The base of the building resembles a mountainous rock. A channel of energy runs along the blade into the base. It’s a sword lodged in stone—a metaphor depicting the Fate of Swords’ supremacy over the Fate of Stones.

The Heritage Building fades behind us. My real-time image is splashed upon the next group of towers, every move I make reflected back at me. I’m tiny next to Dune, though that’s not at all how I see myself. A vast world exists inside of me. I have a hard time comprehending how it all fits. Being secondborn in a world ruled by firstborns has often forced me to retreat into my imagination, to avoid the constant shame and innuendos flung at me for my inferior birth. I’ve filled my mind with dreams. In them, I’m not beneath notice. I’m not so low that it’s impossible for my family to love me. A small tear rolls down my cheek. I should be throwing kisses and saying good-bye to all of it.

A round drone camera outside the hovercar shimmies closer to me, obstructing my view. Its eyes never blink as it attempts to catch my mood, my movement, any reaction that can be shared, pulled apart, and overanalyzed by a violently bored society of firstborns. I stare back blankly, giving the Diamond-Fated media nothing to gossip about.

“When we arrive at the secondborn Stone Forest Base, at the Golden Transition Circle,” Dune says, “there will be more cameras. You’re to make your speech there before processing.” I’ve come to recognize Dune’s brooding tone. The first time I recall hearing it, I was no more than six or seven. We were training with fusionblades on the pristine lawn behind the estate. It was dawn, and the fresh dew had turned the blades of grass silver. A pack of wolfhounds, giant beasts with vicious jaws and claws that patrol the grounds at night, was being called back to its pens for feeding. Fleet and ferocious, they raced across the wet lawn—black canines streaking like phantom shadows.

As I sparred with Dune, matching his strikes with sizzling strokes from my own much smaller sword, I stepped back, down the slope of a small hill, and stumbled over a lump in my path. Falling, I rolled away and sprang up, but what I saw brought bile to my mouth. Nightfall had resulted in the slaughter of one wolfhound, left in pieces but still breathing shallowly. Its mandible was broken. Its pink tongue hung out of its mouth. Sparking circuitry bristled beneath its organic exterior.

“Someone has slaughtered a maginot!”

I knelt by its side and reached to stroke its ebony fur, but Dune stayed my hand. He crouched next to me. “It wasn’t a someone that did this, Roselle. Its own pack tore it to pieces.” Carrion circled above our heads, waiting to move in on the carcass.

“Why would they do that?” I watched the shallow rise and fall of the wounded cyborg’s torso.

“It must have displayed a weakness—a limp, a tic, an uncharacteristic frequency—something that they perceived as threatening to the pack.”

I placed a childish hand on its flank, feeling its thready breathing. “But if it was broken, it could’ve been repaired.”

“It outlived its usefulness, so it was killed. There’s something to be learned in that.”

“Never outlive my usefulness?”

“Never, ever trust the pack.” With that, he raised his sword and sliced open the whirling brain of the canine, extinguishing its operating system. The smell of burning dog flesh rose from its corpse.

The memory fades as the drone camera veers upward from my window to get an aerial shot. I return to watching the buildings lining the thoroughfare, trying to lose my thoughts in their beauty. A golden face flashes in the crowd, distracts me from the architecture. Its featureless mask shines from beneath a shrouded hood, dazzling with rays of simulated sunlight. In a blink, he’s behind us. I look back, but he has melted into the crowd. “Did you see that?” I ask Dune.

He gazes out my window. “See what?” We turn another corner. The street grows narrower.

“I thought I saw something bright.” The crowd closes in, the whack of red roses growing louder with their nearness.

Dune clears his throat, touching a switch on the console that turns off the monitors and microphones. “After your speech, there won’t be time for us to say good-bye, Roselle. We should do that here. Now.”