“You won’t need it.” I try to suppress a smile. He gives me a skeptical look. Each station in the gallery has a black box. “This is your surprise,” I murmur. “Everyone line up in front of a black box. You, too, Hammon.”
“Why me?” she asks with a crooked smile.
“Because it’s a family party.”
She takes a place in front of one of the black boxes. So do the men. “You can open them,” I say. Hawthorne lifts the lid of his box, as do they all. “This is a Culprit-44,” I announce. “It’s equipped with both a fusion-powered magazine and a hydrogen-powered magazine. Note the dual sides. You will find two extra hydrogen magazines in your black boxes. You will need to swap them out more frequently than the fusion side.”
I walk past the tall walls that separate each station. “Do not let that deter you,” I continue. “The hydrogen-powered magazine is just as effective in most combat situations as its fusion counterpart and can fire five times faster. It has automatic action. You can trigger continuously, not just in bursts. The weapon maintains accuracy even with the increased rate of fire and frequency because the hydrogen barrel doesn’t overheat. The fusion barrel requires a slower rate of fire and frequency because its projectiles are hotter, so it’ll warp and lose its precision with automatic action. And, as we all know, switching out a scorched fusion barrel on the battlefield can get you killed. Thus, the need to curtail the frequency of its bursts. You won’t run into that with the hydrogen-powered barrel.
“The weapons before you are prototypes. Only a few of them exist. We’ll be rolling them into production next week. I wanted my friends to be the first to have them.”
Hawthorne, Gilad, Edge, and Hammon slip on their eye protection.
I show Hammon the proper way to load the weapon. Edge aims at the target downfield. Gilad fires several bursts with the hydrogen barrel. “Notice how quiet it is?” I ask. Then I show him how to switch to the fusion barrel, with just a flick of my thumb.
I move on to Hawthorne. He has destroyed the Gates of Dawn silhouette at the farthest point on the range. “What do you think?” I ask him.
“Can you strip this for me and show me how to reassemble it?” he asks, setting it down on a stone slab counter.
“Of course,” I reply. He takes a step back. Lifting the weapon, I take out the magazine and begin to disassemble it. Hawthorne inches closer. His nose touches my hair and he inhales. His arm slips around my waist from behind.
Strong lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear and nuzzle it. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes. Setting the pieces of the Culprit on the counter, I reach up and cup the side of his face, leaning into his kisses. Then I turn in his arms. His hands reacquaint themselves with my curves.
Edgerton’s voice hollers from two stations down. “Whoo! This is better than flying upside down in a vector spinner!”
I giggle against Hawthorne’s lips. “What’s a vector spinner?” I whisper.
“You don’t want to know. I feel like I’m still wearing his puke from it, though.”
“Aw, you poor thing.” My hands on the back of his neck gently guide his mouth back to mine.
“I like my present,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
Edgerton peeks around the wall. “Hey,” he says, chewing on something. “Are these crellas for us, too?” He holds up an already-bitten pastry.
I nod. “Yes, and drinks to go along with them on the bar next to the—”
He shows me his other hand. “This?” he asks. Both hands full, he steps toward me and hugs me with his forearms. “You’re the best, Roselle.” Hammon joins us with two sparkling wines. She gives one to me. Gilad passes another to Hawthorne.
“A toast,” I say, holding up my glass. They look at me funny.
“It’s wine, Roselle,” Edgerton whispers.
“Er . . . a toast means . . . never mind. Let’s drink a sip in honor of our little secondborn family.”
“To family,” Hawthorne murmurs, looking like he’d prefer to have his mouth on me.
“Family,” I say and take a sip.
Hammon chokes on her drink and coughs. Eyes wide, she stares at Hawthorne as if he has ordered her into active infantry duty. “Hawthorne,” she gasps with gut-wrenching dread in her voice. “Your moniker has gone golden.”
He focuses on his left hand. The holographic sword is no longer silver. Hammon’s eyes dart toward me, then to the floor. Gilad stares at Hawthorne as if he has become a walking corpse.
Edgerton is the first to speak. “Hey, congratulations, Hawthorne. Looks like you won the lottery. We’re all really happy for you.”
“This can’t be right,” Hawthorne mumbles, as if to himself. “Flint can’t be dead.”
I turn away, tears stinging my eyes, and pick up the pieces of his Culprit-44. Reassembling the weapon, I place it back in the velvet-lined box and close the lid.
Hawthorne grasps Hammon’s upper arms. “How long has it been like that?” She stares at him, growing paler. “Do you know?” He shakes her a little.
“Hey, now,” Edgerton says, touching Hawthorne’s arm. “Take it easy. Erething’s gonna be—”
“How long?” Hawthorne repeats, more desperately.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I just noticed it.”
Hawthorne turns. “Did you notice it before, Roselle?” I shake my head. I don’t want to face him because I don’t want him to see my tears.
Edgerton tries a softer tone. “Hawthorne, take a breath. This ain’t such a bad thing.”
Hawthorne growls. “I have a life here! I have someone I love—who loves me! I have nothing out there!”
“I get it. I do.” Edgerton rests his hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. “But there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. You’re firstborn now. You has to go be firstborn.”
Hawthorne backs against the counter next to me. Edgerton’s hand falls from him. “I can fix this. I have to fix this,” he mutters aloud, but he sounds as if his thoughts are in disarray. He grabs me to him. My tears wet the front of his flight suit. He strokes my hair and rains kisses on the top of my head.
Pounding on the metal door breaks us apart. “Military Police,” a deep voice yells through the door. “We’re looking for Hawthorne Trugrave.”
Hawthorne and I are bred to be cautious. We’ve trained ourselves always to show restraint, to avoid getting caught, to stay one step ahead of anyone who would tear us apart. But as Edgerton moves to open the door, I know it really doesn’t matter now. Hawthorne and I will be separated, and there isn’t a thing either one of us can do about it. All of our concealed caresses, all the times I forced myself to look away so no one would notice the love written all over my face—all for naught. I’m still going to lose him.
MPs wander into the gallery. The one with the bushy eyebrows gazes at the holographic image of Hawthorne shining up from his moniker’s screen. He finds Hawthorne. “You’ve Transitioned, Firstborn Trugrave. We have you scheduled on an airship leaving in twenty minutes for Forge. Your possessions will be sent to you. We need to go—”
“I’m not ready,” Hawthorne growls, like a cornered animal.
The MP remains friendly. “Of course you’re ready. Just come with us. Everything else can be taken care of. Your family needs you now.”
“I said I’m not ready!” Hawthorne’s hands ball into fists.
The MPs look at one another with here-we-go expressions. “Everything will be fine,” one says in a placating tone. “You’re going home.” All three MPs grab Hawthorne, who thrashes and bucks like a wild beast. Edgerton holds my arm.
“Roselle!” Hawthorne yells. “Just wait!” He struggles against the MPs. Spittle flies from his mouth. The cords of his neck muscles strain as he wrenches. “Roselle! You don’t understand. I need to protect her. They’ll find a way to bury her. This is where they’ll bury her! I have to fix this. I need to fix this!”
“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” one of the MPs growls as they drag him toward the door.