Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(23)

Spectrum-generated impulses launch in my head; I step down from the hoverboard under their direction. My precise, robotic steps resound. I’m the only animated object in this cavernous hull. I pass by the perfect rows of the cerebrally shackled soldiers. Their combat-jacked bodies resemble acres of cornstalks. Shoulders and biceps swell with cyber-genetic enhancements in the form of bulky chrome-plated limbs. Machinery augments bone and sinew beneath skin in some places, but in others wires and circuitry stand exposed.

A shiver prickles down my spine. It raises the fine hairs on my nape. The cognition of the AI program drives me forward, but something else inside my brain triggers with a pop sensation. My flesh turns hot. My vision changes to note energy patterns—auras, heat signatures, like the ones I’d see with night-vision technology. A soldier near me shivers, too, but not physically. It’s his aura. It’s as if his spirit lifts from his body. With a ghoulish snarl, the spirit flashes toward me in a rush of glowing hellfire.

More Black-Os’ feral spirits break off from their collective in the same way. They tug themselves out of their physical forms. The phantoms lurch and attach to me, like leeches to swollen flesh, siphoning my strength. My mind lashes out at these ghostly parasites. I disrupt their thought patterns with a surge of high-intensity energy that comes from within. It expels them from me. They retreat.

During all of this, I never miss a robotic step forward. As they disappear back into their bodies, my vision clears and returns to normal. I analyze what just happened. Spectrum has at least two distinct facets. The first is a set of standard protocols—instructions that control individuals by directing impulses through the implanted devices. The second is the AI that feeds from an individual’s knowledge. This is by far the more fearsome aspect of Spectrum, because it tortures as it takes. It imprisons minds as it binds itself to bodies.

I arrive at the front of the vast cyborg assembly. The program compels me to make an abrupt right turn, walk to the center of the unit, make a sharp left turn, and face the hatch of the airship, with the demonic soldiers behind me. Spectrum stops me there. At arm’s length, Cherno pauses, too. I side-eye him. His jaw tenses, but the rest of his expression remains emotionless. The hatch opens. A crack of brilliant sunshine pierces the hull. It’s blinding, but my vision adjusts to it in seconds. The door lowers, creating a ramp. It comes to rest with a jarring thump. With just a glance, I know where I am. The airship now occupies the grassy mall in front of the Sword Palace, known as St. Sismode Gardens. The grounds are a dull shade of brown and green—the last gasp of color before snow falls.

I battle my impulse to run. My fingers twitch at my sides. I have no weapon. I scan the area without moving my head—it’s an open space. I’ll be cut down before I manage to slip away. There’s a horde of armed soldiers behind me. Even if I do manage to escape, where would I hide? My moniker will bring them right to me.

I take a longer breath than the ones synchronized by Spectrum and recite some of Dune’s strategy lessons in my mind. I must trust that my mentor’s training will allow me to create an opportunity. The crisp scent of pinecones and scarlet winterberries bring my attention back to my surroundings. I know this place like I know a well-practiced sword maneuver. This area of the St. Sismode Gardens opens part-time to the public. Discussing the art of war, Dune and I used to walk its paths on the days it was closed to everyone else. A painful stab of grief slices through my chest. Tears well up in my eyes, but I force them back. I haven’t mourned Dune’s death. If I think about him anymore, I might fall apart, and they’ll know I’m no longer one of them. I focus on what he taught me instead, studying the outside of the airship. It’s an enormous flying fortress, encompassing most of the block. It must’ve crushed whatever was unfortunate enough to have been underneath it.

Under the influence of shadowy mind control, I step forward. The army behind me capitulates as well. We skirt a golden fountain containing Hyperion, the God of Water, and his frolicking, naked nymphs. I pass under the garden’s wide archway, made from wrought iron fashioned into an immense bowed sword, and turn right onto a cobbled street of Forge. A tall iron sign indicates this is Whetstone—one of the main thoroughfares of the capital city. This area is called Old Towne. The Sword Palace itself isn’t far from here; it’s just up ahead. Hawthorne’s estate home resides only a few streets away, but I know he isn’t there. I wonder if his parents know about his abduction by Census—the violation he has suffered at their hands. If they do, will they try to help him? Are they worried about him, their secondborn turned firstborn?

I march down the center of the thoroughfare, the unit of soldiers behind me. The old-world style of residential buildings—mostly beautiful gray stone facades; dark, slate-tiled spires; twisted bell towers; and rooftops—line the left side of the street. On the right, the St. Sismode Gardens swim in a sea of wintergreen behind the black iron fencing forged to look like broadswords. Golden fountains speckle the gravel pathways and rosebush topiaries.

No vehicles occupy the roads, or the airspace above us. On the sidewalks, Sword citizens stare horror-struck at our procession. A tall woman with cherry lips, the same color as her hair, clutches a small child to her side. Her fingernails dig into his indigo serge sleeve. The man with them doffs his hat, but not as a sign of respect—there’s terror in his eyes. His fingers worry his cap’s woolen brim. I want to feel sorry for him, but his golden-sword moniker means he sold his secondborn for a better lifestyle, so . . . I don’t.