“What’s his name?”
A deep voice behind Winterstrom answers me. “We’ve been introduced. My name is Daltrey Leon.” He enters the room and closes the door. I remember him as a hologram in the middle of the night at the debriefing with the Clarities. In person, he’s not ghostly. He’s tall, with long dark hair tied back at his crown. His full beard is meticulously well groomed, and his sandy eyes bear an uncanny resemblance to Dune’s.
“Is that your real name?” I ask. “Your brothers have different ones. It’s so hard to keep up.”
“So you did recognize me that night we met. I often wondered. I took a chance by not wearing the colored eyewear that I normally use. Your mother is usually so observant, but I think she only had you on her mind that night.”
“Are there more of you about?” I ask wearily. “I know of three—you, Walther, and Dune.”
“I’d rather not answer that question.”
“Why? You know everything there is to know about me. I’m at a disadvantage.”
Daltrey’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Thank you for arranging this meeting, Reykin. I’d like to speak with Roselle alone.”
“I’ll stay,” Reykin Winterstrom replies.
“This is family business, Reykin.”
“I wasn’t aware she was a member of your family, Daltrey.”
“She’s my brother’s daughter.”
“By blood?” Reykin asks.
“No, but there are stronger ties than blood. Ask her who her real father is. I doubt she will tell you Kennet Abjorn.”
“She has my protection,” Reykin says.
“Are you both serious right now?” I ask. “I have a list of demands, and then you’re going to let me return to the Fate of Swords. You can argue about who has more right to hear what I’m about to say after I’m gone.”
“I think she’s delirious, Daltrey,” Reykin says, reaching out to touch my forehead. I would swat his hand away, but it’s cool and soothing against my skin. “You should come back after she’s had more time to recover.”
“No, this is who she is,” Daltrey responds. He picks up another chair and brings it to the side of the bed. “She’s been taught to think—to reason—to strategize. She’s performing to the high standards of her training, and I’m very interested in what she has to say.” Reykin’s hand slips away, but he doesn’t leave my side. He’s sticking around. It’s somewhat endearing.
“You have Flannigan’s bag?” I ask Daltrey.
“I do. Thank you for delivering it to me.”
“She had a message for you.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“She said, ‘Tell him it was nearly flawless.’ And then she said to tell you to miss her every day.”
A sad smile touches his lips. “Tell me how she died.”
I explain in detail our meeting and subsequent foray into Census. “I’ve had the monikers for a year. I haven’t known what to do with them—who to contact.”
“You didn’t need anything until now,” Daltrey replies. It’s a harsh assessment that paints me in a self-serving light.
“Oh, I’ve needed plenty, Daltrey,” I counter angrily. “I just had to survive on my own.”
Daltrey studies me. “Until now, but you have very little to bargain with, Roselle—I’m in possession of everything you and Flannigan stole from Census. You held nothing back from me. You’ve lost your position of power.”
“Have I?” I ask calmly. “That’s interesting, because I feel like I have all the power in this room. You may have the bag, but it’s useless without a way to upload your fake profiles. If they never make it into the Republic’s networks, then what do you really have? A bunch of holograms that won’t scan.”
“We’re Stars—infiltrating networks is what we do.”
“It’s what you used to do. Your network of spies has been decimated. Admit it. Your operatives in the field couldn’t get out with their copycat monikers and were all cut down. Those still alive have had to go to ground. You’re losing everything.”
He’s unruffled. “You have set us back as well, Roselle—you and your hydrogen-powered alternatives. You’ve made the antiquated method of weaponry sexy. Our best hope for winning this conflict is being thwarted by you.”
“I’m interested in saving the lives of secondborn Swords. All your Gates of Dawn soldiers are doing is killing secondborns. It’s completely senseless, your war. You’re changing nothing. If you want to rebel, rebel against firstborns. Instead, you’ve let them go on with their lives while you murder us in droves. You can choose to walk away anytime you want. Secondborn Sword soldiers have no choice but to fight you or die. Either you kill us or they kill us. There are zero options for Swords.”
“Secondborn Swords have options,” Daltrey replies. “You could lay down your weapons and revolt against firstborns. You can join us whenever you wish.”
“We can cross your line and get our heads beaten in, you mean.” I touch the wound on my temple.
“The secondborns of your Fate need a leader to show them the way,” he replies.
“I can help you with your moniker problem, and then you can leave me alone. I’ll never tell who is really a thirdborn or a spy.”
“You have no power to make demands, Roselle.”
“I fail to see your point of view.”
“I have your friends. You’ll do as I say or I’ll kill them, and then I’ll kill you.”
“I think this is called mutually assured destruction, Daltrey. Without me, there is no more you. I’m your best chance to operate in the Fate of Swords—or any of the Fates of the Republic. If you don’t return me, a certain arms dealer will come looking for me. He makes weapons that are not currently accounted for in any ledger. A lot of those weapons find their way here. He’d hate it if his spokesperson didn’t come back. It could make him very angry.”
Daltrey gives me a genuine smile. “Dune will be so proud. What are your demands?”
“My friends each get a new moniker and new lives as firstborns—someplace near the sea where they can live without the constant threat of war. You protect them with everything you have. I’ll provide currency for them to live on. We will make arrangements for the transfer when I’m back in my Fate.”
“You have money?” he asks. He doesn’t seem at all surprised.
“I’m a spokesperson for a weapons dealer during a civil war. Money is not hard to come by.”
“How will you convince your Fate that you were the victim of circumstance here? You look guilty—flying in here with your friends and landing in enemy territory.”
“It’s not going to be easy. I might not be able to convince a certain Census agent, who wants me as his personal punching bag, that I’m innocent. He might have to die.”
“That can be a problem for you. Maybe you should rethink your options and remain with us.”
“That would be bad for you. You need me to go back. You just let me win our argument—you want me to think I’m not being controlled, but I’m really doing exactly what you want me to do. All this, this war, it’s an exercise in futility.”
His stare sharpens, and he sits up straighter, waiting for me to explain.
“This has all been a lesson so that when you make me The Sword, I do things differently—so that when I have true power, power you’ve given me, I change things.”
He tries to suppress a smile, but it’s there, in his eyes. He’s impressed that I’ve figured it out. “You know what it’s like to be a Transitioned secondborn, Roselle. The one person you’ve loved your entire life is a thirdborn. Your moniker was disabled before you were processed. You were exposed to the lawlessness of Census, hunted by an agent who subjected you to his unwavering cruelty. You’ve been embroiled in a war where no one wins—where you’re expected to slaughter wounded soldiers.” He gazes at Reykin before looking back at me. “Many people have died to show you just how bad things are in our world, and you alone will be in a position to change things.”