Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(14)

Thin, black underwear with a matching bra covers my otherwise naked body. Its coarse fabric is nothing like the sheets on Reykin’s bed.

Was I there? Was that real, or is this real?

Beneath the underwear, there’s one more tube—a catheter. I pull it free and let go of it. It retreats into the spine of the capsule as well.

Confusion gives way to panic. I’m shivering uncontrollably now—my teeth chattering—partly from cold and partly from the trauma of waking up here. I have no idea where I am. My hand against the glass, I feel for a seam in the surface. A holographic display comes to life and glows red. Scrolling through the options it offers, I select “Terminate Hibernation.” The compressed air beneath me lessens, as does the antigravity in the capsule, and I lower. My bare feet settle against the chilly metal floor of the capsule. The glass reveals a door. It unlatches and opens with a sigh of air. The pressure change is instant. On wobbly legs, I climb from the capsule and latch the door back into place.

Outside the door, a dull hum of energy pulses through cables in the grated floor. The wires supply life support to the capsules. On my row, soldiers of all types dwell—the scaly one nearby has a flat face with full fish lips. Next to it is an unconscious warrior with a gray-and-black-furred dog head with a long muzzle. An elongated pink tongue hangs loose from its mouth and flaps in the breeze inside its capsule. Its feeding tube covers its black nose like a cap. The containers remind me of a collection of life-sized dolls waiting to be unpackaged.

Is Hawthorne here somewhere? I scan the containers near mine, but I don’t find him. I’m compelled to run down the metal catwalk, screaming Hawthorne’s name and banging on capsules until I find him, but I don’t. I don’t even know if Hawthorne’s aboard this airship. I need a plan if I’m going to find him and free us without getting caught. Where can we go if we succeed in escaping? My throat aches, and I swallow back tears because I don’t know if there’s any place to hide from Census and Agent Crow. Maybe we don’t hide. Maybe we decimate Agent Crow and any other entity that tries to make us slaves.

The din of running boots against the metal grate of the catwalk breaks the silence. I pause—my heart leaps into my throat. A quick search of my immediate surroundings leads me to the only area remotely feasible for cover. I climb to the tiny alcove between the capsules in my row and slink back into its shadow. My position doesn’t afford much camouflage. I’m better off facing the threat head on, but I don’t move. Footsteps draw nearer, and then they slow.

A soft beam of white light passes over the capsule I vacated, shining on a set of numbers made of frosted glass on the side of it. Someone swears. “Roselle,” a familiar voice hisses low. Ransom ducks closer, shining a penlight around. Small droplets of perspiration slip from his dark hair near his temple and trail down his taut cheek. With the black leather sleeve of his uniform’s long coat, he swipes at the moisture on his brow. He pants as if he’s been running for a distance. Splashing the beam around, he acts as if he can’t see me, but I know he must be able to, because I can see him. I’m standing almost right in front of him.

Ransom moves closer, then kicks and stubs his toe on the edge of the capsule. He swears again and points the small flashlight at the floor. “Roselle, it’s me! It’s Ransom.” His tone is soft and urgent. He turns the penlight on himself and looks around in every direction. It gives him a sinister air. “I’ve been monitoring you, waiting to see if you’d wake up. I’ve turned off all the security monitoring systems in this area, so it’s safe—no one will know.” He pauses, like he’s listening for me. “We need to talk! You need to listen to me—we don’t have much time! Agent Crow is taking you to the Fate of Swords—to the Sword Palace!”

The mention of Agent Crow chills my already-frigid body, as does the knowledge that I’m going to be transported to my mother’s home. I hesitate to come forward, though. I watch Ransom instead. He’s standing right in front of me, his eye searching.

Is he blind? Is this a game? Indecision roots me in place. Is Ransom friend or foe? And then I remember. He put something in my brain. Anger grips me. Foe. Definitely foe!

“You’re a dead man,” I snarl at the laboratory technician, sounding like a feral badger, my throat sore and cracked. I take a step in his direction, intent on making good on my promise by any means necessary.

Ransom shines his flashlight at me. “Wait,” he snarls back. “I’m on your side!”

“‘There are no sides,’ remember? ‘There’s only survival and revenge,’” I quote him. Enraged by my circumstances—the circumstances that he made possible—I lunge at him. Ransom doesn’t even move to avoid me. My hand strikes out and grips his throat. I lift him off his feet with one arm, as if he’s a vase I’m placing on a high shelf. His cheeks turning red, his eyes watering, he clutches my forearm.

My stomach spasms with dread at my raw strength. It’s incomprehensible. It terrifies me. I let go of the secondborn Star. He drops to the grated metal walkway, gasping and sputtering to catch his breath.

“What’s happening to me?” I ask, flexing my fingers.

He wheezes and coughs. “You’re upgrading.”

“You made me a Black-O!” I hiss, looking down at him. “You implanted a device in my head. You made me Census’s slave!”