“That’s right. How did you know?”
“When Gabriel and I were really young—six and seven—we used to play ‘swords’ with sticks whenever no one was around to scold us. He’d let me be the heroine, Fabriana Friday”—a tear slips from my eye, and my chin wobbles—“and he’d be the villain, Solomon Sunday.” I wipe the tear away. “I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him here if I can. I promise.”
“I have an underground network of people who will help,” Balmora says, relieved. She takes the miniature from me and sets it back on the table. Next to it rests a small box, which she picks it up and hands to me. “Inside is an old wrist communicator. With the new monikers, these have become obsolete, but they’re perfect for modified communication on frequencies that no one seems to be paying attention to. I’ve established a private one for you and me. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I need to know how your network operates.”
Chapter 14
Secondborn Network
The secondborn training camps are set amid agrarian and sylvan landscapes between Purity and Lenity. Only the training and pre-trials are held on solid ground. The Secondborn Trials will take place on one of the nine landmasses suspended in the air a half mile up. These hovering islands are marvels of engineering; some are as big as thirty miles across. They contain vegetation and water sources, with wildlife created specifically for whatever challenge each island is to host. Lakes, valleys, mountains, plains, and deserts comprise the terrain, along with horrific hidden quagmires and automated deathtraps. A single crown-shaped colosseum levitates in the center, above the floating islands. Made of glass and steel, the Silver Halo hosts the opening and closing ceremonies.
Shadows from the floating behemoths above us blot out large areas of sunlight on the training fields below, like a shadow of doom over the secondborns competitors. To compensate, mounted light grids shine down from beneath the floating structures, but the additional light the floating islands provide is much dimmer than direct sunlight.
The training fields are sectioned into fan-shaped areas designated by number, and they meet around a circle reserved for the enjoyment of firstborns. The only secondborns allowed in are those who work there or are accompanied by a firstborn of the aristocracy, like I am.
Reykin offers me his hand as I climb out of his two-seater airship. My Halo stingers hover outside, having followed Reykin’s vehicle to the training grounds. Along with Reykin, the two stingers comprise my security team, and they’re the only reason I was granted permission to leave the Halo Palace without Exo guards in tow.
Grisholm isn’t so lucky. His airship lands next to ours. Fifteen Exo guards and a handful of Halo stingers alight from his vehicle and the several surrounding it. The Exos, thankfully, are not my problem.
The levitating hoverpad gives us an aerial view of the training facilities that stretch out before us for miles. Weapons training is in the section nearest to where we’re standing. Pyrotechnics is farther afield, identifiable by the mushroom-shaped dirt clouds in the distance. Obstacle courses are to the east and west. Special-operations pavilions freckle the terrain. The most curious courses hide under dome enclosures, presumably to regulate temperature. One contains a mountain range, the other a desert.
Dressed in stylish training fatigues as if he’ll be participating, Grisholm bounces boisterously toward us, throwing his arms wide. “Welcome to the ultimate test of champions!” He grasps me by the upper arms. “I wish I were you, Roselle! Getting to experience it all for the first time! What I wouldn’t give!” He grins like a madman.
“I wish you could be me, too,” I murmur. And experience everything a secondborn goes through.
Reykin puts his hand on Grisholm’s shoulder, pulling him off me. “Who do you want to look at first?”
“I don’t know! There are so many! I’ll have to consult my brackets.” He touches his golden halo, activating the moniker.
The firstborns herd me toward a line of waiting hoverbikes. I’ve never driven one, so I ride with Reykin. He mounts the hovering beast. It reminds me of him, black from fender to fender like his brooding personality. Sleek and forward leaning, clearly fast and agile. When Reykin starts the cycle, it purrs. He touches the throttle, and it growls, deep, vibrating the ground where I stand. It feels as dangerous as the man himself.
Grisholm’s cycle is pure gold—shiny and overstated. Our security force has silver cycles. Some jet off ahead of us to secure the route. Others fan out to our sides and behind us.
Reykin gives me a side-eyed look. “Do you plan on walking, or are you going to get on?”
I straddle the seat behind him, glad that I wore a black jacket, tight white shirt, black leggings, and tall black boots. My feet rest on pegs behind me, forcing me to lean forward, my knees hugging Reykin’s thighs. I place my hands on my own thighs rather than touch his.
“Put your arms around my waist,” Reykin orders over his shoulder, “or you’ll fall, and I’ll have to scrape you off the ground.”
“I’d never fall,” I scoff. “I have excellent balance.” It sounds like a boast, but it’s true.
“You lean a little to the right when you hold your fusionblade at a seventy-degree angle,” Reykin prods.
My gaze should melt his back, but it doesn’t. “That’s because I have to compensate for the crooked elbow on your weak left arm.”
Reykin chuckles. “My elbow is perfect, and I will arm-wrestle you with my left arm anytime you say. Now hold my waist, and try not to fall off.”
I slip my arms around him. He’s solid muscle. When he leans back unexpectedly, the soft fabric of his shirt brushes my cheek. The scent of him is disturbing. I want to rest against his back and inhale deeper. I grit my teeth.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Of course.”
We jet forward, going from zero to two hundred miles an hour in seconds. If I weren’t holding on to him, I’d be broken. As it is, a small backrest rose behind me and caught some of the force. My arms cinch tighter to Reykin’s waist, and I mold my chest against his back. I can feel him chuckling.
I settle in. My arms loosen a bit. The hovercycle is exquisite for an adrenaline junkie like me. Wind whips through my hair. All I can think about is going faster. Security trails us, and so do my Halo stingers, as we take a lap around the perimeter of a fan-shaped training field. The obstacle course is mostly wooded, about fifteen miles in circumference. Perilous paths through the trees jet off from the firstborn observatory track that we cruise. Massive redwoods tower above our heads. Sunlight filters through the branches as we fly by makeshift shanties constructed of pine boughs, thatches of limbs, and toppled tree trunks.
Secondborns in the contest aren’t living off the land yet, but they’re learning how. Exposure and dehydration will kill around 20 percent of the contestants in the first couple of weeks. It’s an agonizing way to die. The truth is that, even though they’re the property of the government, most of them wouldn’t know how to exist without it. They’re institutionalized.