Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(27)

Slowly, I rise to my feet. “I’ve been building my strength up to kick your ass,” I reply, wishing it were true.

“You’ve been on my team. You’ve been my Goddess of War.” Light projects up from the disc on the floor, blurring my view of Agent Crow and Othala. It’s a recorded hologram.

The glowing steel of my former penthouse apartment appears. The sword-shaped tower was constructed by the Rose Garden Society to replicate the birthmark on my hand. A cloudless sky allows an unobscured view of the crown-shaped quarters circling the sharp peak of the blade.

Drone cameras provide aerial views of the tower. Ants surround the massive structure, or so it appears at first. The flying cameras’ lenses zoom in, revealing dark-clad figures. Black-Os in heavy combat gear dapple the shore. Thousands of Census soldiers surge over the sand, wielding implanted metal claws they use to scale the shiny silver girders of the building’s bladelike shaft.

Salloway security men, occupying the penthouse level, fight the marauders, firing state-of-the-art weaponry. The powerful munitions fail to eradicate all the Black-Os, who seem to outnumber the stars. The horde isn’t attacking only from the walls; they’re striking from the air with Burton-manufactured airships. One such troop carrier releases a rain of assault soldiers from its hold. Bodies hurtle toward the penthouse. Golden blasts of energy pour from the defensive cannons mounted to the rooftop and incinerate them. Ashes fall like snow.

The cameras focus on the rooftop. Amid the carnage, a figure wields a Salloway dual-sided fusionblade. Her fighting form mimics Dune’s. The hairs on my nape rise. I recognize my image among the violent invaders. Vicious and emotionless, the bloodshed I perpetrate with my fusionblade is without equal. There’s no hesitation, just blind savagery. I watch as the mind-controlled me executes every Salloway rebel and Rose Gardener in my path. Droplets of blood soak my image’s three-dimensional hair and run in red rivulets down my cheeks. The bodies pile up, but still I press on, killing with no remorse. I watch myself slash a path to the far edge of the conflict—to my target, Clifton Salloway.

“There he is, Roselle, your betrothed,” Agent Crow chuckles jovially from the dais. “Watch closely. This is my favorite part.”

My hand aches to reach out and touch the light that projects the image of Clifton’s golden-blond hair, tousled and matted with streaks of blood. I’m unable to see the shine of his green eyes, but they seem to hold mine in a desperate plea. The Black-O image of me neither pauses nor holds back when she comes face-to-face with her former commanding officer. Clifton checks his sword thrust when he recognizes me, and his face becomes a mask of pain. He lowers his sword and kneels before her—before me—in surrender. Instead of accepting his defeat, I wind back my sword with an effortless sweep before swinging it forward to sever Clifton’s head from his neck.

Bile rises in my throat and burns my mouth. I swallow hard, trying to stifle the need to retch. The recording only gets worse. It shows me picking up Clifton’s head by his hair and holding it aloft, as if it were some trophy to the gods on high. Devastation, raw and unrelenting, pierces my chest. The agony is unbearable. Breath shudders from my lungs, forcing past my constricted throat. My carefully constructed facade crumbles.

This is the thing that Ransom couldn’t tell me. I slaughtered Clifton. I’m a traitor to everyone—even myself.

“You see, Othala,” Agent Crow says, “if I’d killed her earlier, we wouldn’t get to have this exquisite moment with her.”

“You’re a disease,” I growl between clenched teeth. I feel something slide down my cheek, and I know it’s a tear that I couldn’t hold back any longer. Several more follow. All I can do is wipe them away. I can’t stop them. I’m an overfilled pitcher of sorrow, spouting wretchedness. In my fury, I can’t even think of a better epithet than “disease.”

Without thinking, I take a few menacing steps toward him, my blurred vision searching for any weapon I can use to kill him. Hawthorne snaps out of his statuesque pose, pulls his sword from its sheath, and ignites the fusionblade. Golden light glimmers with the thrum of power from its hilt. The hollow husk of my friend blocks my way with his broad, armored chest. The breastplate’s dark sheen displays a large Black-O emblem. The insignia appears to cave in his chest where his heart should be. Hawthorne’s lips stretch in a grim line. One of his gray eyes shines with unnatural silver light. I wonder if he sees me or just a threat to his master. The thought makes my bottom lip quiver. I bite it to stop it and try to sidle around him. Hawthorne moves with me. I can’t get past him without hurting him. Instead I back away toward Cherno and pause to reassess the situation.

My retreat signifies that the threat to Agent Crow has been eliminated. The fusionblade in Hawthorne’s hand extinguishes. He sheaths it and returns to his post.

“Come now, a disease, Roselle?” Agent Crow tsks, enjoying my tears. “Don’t you mean a god?”

“You’re an infection.” I seethe, breathing hard, my face hot. I tilt my chin upward and wish I could bathe my flushed cheeks in the icy water behind the glass ceiling.

“I merely strive to annihilate weakness. Isn’t that the very purest form of evolution?”

“True power is leading people by their hearts, not imprisoning their minds.”

“You should’ve made her kill herself right after she slaughtered Salloway,” my mother interjects. “Salloway was her friend. She’ll exact revenge—she’ll find a way to outwit you. It’s what she does. She’s exactly like her grandfather, a direct descendant of Greyon Wenn—the man you revere.”