Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(31)

“I wouldn’t be so crass as to use extortion as a negotiating tactic.” But he would, because he just did. “Suffice to say,” he continues, “your army would be at a severe deficit without us, now that you’ve eliminated Salloway Munitions Conglomerate from, well, existence. The rebels are still a threat. They comprise Stars and Swords who are more than capable of manufacturing their own weapons.”

“So you’re saying that in exchange for your life—”

“And the life of my father, Edmund.”

“And the life of your father,” Agent Crow adds, “Burton Manufacturing will supply weapons and assault vehicles to me?”

“Yes. However, we would ask one more concession.” Malcolm pivots from Agent Crow to gaze at me. “Allow me the honor of killing Roselle St. Sismode for you.” With growing confidence, he moves away from the dais in my direction. He stops in front of me. “She is the last symbol of the past—she’s now The Sword.”

“Why do you want Roselle dead?” Agent Crow asks.

“I owe her.” Malcolm sneers. “Don’t I, Roselle?” He trails a long finger down my arm before reaching up and grasping my chin with his soft fingertips. A smug smile creases his lips. “Not so proud now, are you—”

The dragon-skinned creature next to me stretches out his massive hand and catches Malcolm’s face in his enormous palm. Cherno squeezes, muffling Malcolm’s screams of agony in his talons. The firstborn releases me. Cherno’s scaly biceps bulge. He rips Malcolm away from me. The thinner man sprawls across the floor and writhes, cradling in his hands what’s left of his bloody face.

Chaos explodes in the great hall. Desperate voices echo off the watery ceiling. The assembled Census agents run for the exit, weaving through the Black-O soldiers. Bodies pile up at the golden doors, which won’t open to allow the Census agents to leave.

Above the cries and commotion, a hysterical male voice screams, “Call off your monster!” Edmund Burton, Malcolm’s father, rushes to the edge of the dais, extracting a fusionblade from its sheath. Deep lines frame his mouth. He moves his thumb over the ignition switch. Power seethes forth, forming a blade from the strike port. The weapon crackles. This sword has a dual-blade, like the one I helped design for Salloway Munitions, but its energy ignites from a single strike port, so that the silver hydroblade and gold fusionblade appear to be conjoined. Edmund swings the blade, but he’s too far away from Agent Crow to hurt him.

Hawthorne stirs out of his stillness in a rush. With a few strides, the shell of my friend, his fusionblade ignited with golden light, stands in front of Agent Crow. He strikes the stiff-kneed man, forcing him to stumble back from an onslaught of vicious swings.

The once powerful and privileged gentleman can’t defend himself against the brutality of Hawthorne’s AI assault. With a panting, high-pitched voice, Edmund pleads, “Call your creatures off! I’ll give you anything!”

A look of fascination crosses Agent Crow’s face as he stares not at Edmund, but at Cherno, who picks Malcolm up again and continues to throttle him. “Why should I? I already have everything you own. I appropriated your intellectual property days ago. I took over your factories today. You have nothing.”

“Please!” Edmund begs.

Hawthorne pauses.

Agent Crow chuckles. “I haven’t ordered this attack on your son, Edmund—well, not in any sort of direct way.” He stands and moves toward us to get a closer look at Malcolm, whose face has progressed from an agonized red to a mottled purple. Our new despot flashes Edmund an impish grin. “Protocols were written into Cherno’s programming. He’s to monitor Roselle and make sure she doesn’t somehow escape from us—under her own power or through the power of another. Cherno must see Malcolm’s behavior as menacing. If she were to die, that would be an escape of a sort, wouldn’t it?” He seems delighted by this prospect. “The brute is defending her from death! I didn’t foresee that result.”

Cherno’s making pulp out of Malcolm. Hawthorne resumes his assault, hacking at Edmund with the vengeance of a scorned god. Agent Crow watches them. No one pays any attention to me until the fancy Burton fusionblade rattles to the floor with the old man’s severed fingers still wrapped around it. It stays ignited as it skids into the aisle.

I dive for it before any of the Black-Os move. The hilt is slick with sweat. Burton’s fingers loosen and fall off. Somersaulting, I come to my feet in a crouch. Hawthorne cuts Edmund Burton in half. My ex-boyfriend stands between me and Agent Crow. I’ll have to stab Hawthorne if I have any hope of killing Agent Crow with this sword. But I know I can’t do it. I can’t hurt him like that, even though we’re both dead anyway.

A raging burst of energy from Agent Crow’s mind crashes into my brain, sending me reeling. My knees weaken. I stumble backward from the impact. Blood oozes from my nose. Agent Crow’s sinister temporal device blinks blue. I narrow my eyes at my oppressor and allow my blood to drip from my chin unchecked. The soldiers surrounding us all come to life and surge toward me from every angle. I can’t possibly reach Agent Crow on the dais before they grab me and tear me apart.

It’s okay. I don’t need to reach him. I just need to wait a few seconds for his monsters to come to me.

A husky cyborg hurtles at me. I swing Burton’s sword. The blades lop off the Black-O’s cannon-enhanced arm. I pivot to catch the severed arm of the soldier while I avoid the rest of his body. The black metal arm is heavy. It has been fortified with a Burton Series-7 fusion cannon, according to the coding on the alloy.