Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(33)

Then another thought: Is this something my brain is selling me—a part of Spectrum? Is this real? I sober instantly.

I slap my cheek as hard as I can. The sting is everything it should be. Glancing at my palm, I zero in on the raised star. My thumb glides over it, feeling its familiar ridges. My elbow grazes something sharp. It’s the metallic hilt of a fusionblade sheathed on Agent Crow’s belt. I reach for it, wrap my hand around the silver metal, and slide it from him. It fits my grip because it was made for me. It’s mine. The raised rose vines wind to my family’s crest. The fusionblade ignites from the strike port. Golden energy growls—a familiar sound.

Agent Crow’s corpse glows from the sword’s reflection. My eyes narrow.

They’re not bringing him back. Not if I can help it. I want maggots to make a feast of his heart—eat it from the center out.

I twirl my wrist, and the fusionblade spins. I lean away from the table and balance on my own two feet. Viciously I drag my glowing blade down the center of Agent Crow from head to foot, cutting him in half along with the hovering table upon which he lies. The bisected unit, each containing half of Agent Crow, caves in. I lurch back and scarcely avoid getting slimy, sloshing pieces of dead Crow on my boots.

Staring at the mess on the floor, I wonder, Will this be enough to make sure he never rises again?

I glance up at the cadaver just beyond Agent Crow’s severed body. All the breath leaves me. Panic kicks in. “No,” I whimper. My fusionblade falls from my fingers and extinguishes. My heart drums his name in frantic beats, Hawthorne. Hawthorne. Hawthorne.

I slide forward, not caring about the awfulness I’m stepping in. Using the corners of the tables, I drag myself to the examination unit adjacent to mine. A rush of pure adrenaline courses through my body. I hesitate and hover over him, too afraid to touch him, because then this might be real.

“Hawthorne,” I croak, and then cover my mouth with my jittering fingertips.

Involuntarily, I reach for his cheek. Glacial. His flesh is colder than the blood in my veins.

“No.”

It comes out as a plea. I sob. Hawthorne’s bangs curl over his forehead, just like I’ve seen them do a thousand times after he’s taken a shower. His hair is cold and soft and smells like him. I touch his lips, hoping that he’ll start breathing.

“You can’t go,” I rasp. “Please don’t go, Hawthorne. Please.”

I kiss his cheek, then brush my lips over his. He doesn’t move.

Another choking sob catches in my throat, and with it all the fight drains out of me in a wave of emptiness. I’m like the dead trees on a battlefield, sheared off at the heart and splintered all the way down. I crawl up onto the wide silver slab next to Hawthorne’s body, cuddling to his side. My cheek rests against his neck. I close my eyes that refuse to stop weeping, the salty trails running off my jaw.

“Take me with you, Hawthorne,” I beg him. “Please . . . I want to go with you.” But I know he can’t hear me. He’s already gone.





Chapter 7

Speaking in Genetic Code

A jarring noise startles me.

I flinch. Adrenaline pumps into my bloodstream. “That one’s alive!” a male voice shouts in terror, having dropped the metal tray he was carrying.

“No, she’s not,” replies another deep voice from farther away. “Someone probably just moved her to mess with us.” Shuffling feet creep closer.

I open my eyes and wipe tears and snot from under my nose. Then I liberate the fusionblade from Hawthorne’s sheath. Igniting it, I sit up and snarl at them. The two lab technicians scream in terror, backing away.

“You said she was dead!” the round technician in the black lab coat yells.

“She was dead! I swear it!” the other yells back. “I checked her myself—so’d Calvin!” He skids into a lab table, falls onto it, and, wiping his hand on his sleeve, pushes back up from a dead soldier. He readjusts and continues to move away from me. The wide glass door slides open behind them, and they exit. The door slides closed. On the other side of it, they call for help into their monikers.

The sudden sound of pounding feet has me on mine, though I’m still stiff. On the table across from Hawthorne’s lies a drowned cyborg Black-O. I stumble toward her, thinking to liberate her arm so I can use her Series-7 fusion cannon. Then the glass doors shatter, along with all the glass walls at that end of the morgue. A unit of combat-armored Black-Os swarms in. They want me alive; otherwise they would’ve simply rolled a grenade in here.

The Spectrum soldiers hesitate, assessing me. They’re not speaking aloud, and yet I can hear them negotiating, planning my apprehension. I’m dialed into them—through telepathy, maybe, I don’t know—and can follow their negotiations like I’m a part of the team. I’m eavesdropping on a plot to capture myself.

I’m also operating on my own autonomous frequency, but I’m aware of the rapid-fire orientation of tasks each of them plans to execute—I know their game plan. Protocols still exist that dictate I’m not to be killed. I’m unsure if they’re residual orders left over from before I flooded the throne room, or if they’re new. I also don’t know why they want me alive—none of the chatter indicates where the directives originated. I try to search other frequencies, but it’s difficult to focus when they’re so close. Their physical threat takes priority.