Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(72)

“A toast,” I say, holding up my glass. They look at me funny.

“It’s wine, Roselle,” Edgerton whispers.

“Er . . . a toast means . . . never mind. Let’s drink a sip in honor of our little secondborn family.”

“To family,” Hawthorne murmurs, looking like he’d prefer to have his mouth on me.

“Family,” I say and take a sip.

Hammon chokes on her drink and coughs. Eyes wide, she stares at Hawthorne as if he has ordered her into active infantry duty. “Hawthorne,” she gasps with gut-wrenching dread in her voice. “Your moniker has gone golden.”

He focuses on his left hand. The holographic sword is no longer silver. Hammon’s eyes dart toward me, then to the floor. Gilad stares at Hawthorne as if he has become a walking corpse.

Edgerton is the first to speak. “Hey, congratulations, Hawthorne. Looks like you won the lottery. We’re all really happy for you.”

“This can’t be right,” Hawthorne mumbles, as if to himself. “Flint can’t be dead.”

I turn away, tears stinging my eyes, and pick up the pieces of his Culprit-44. Reassembling the weapon, I place it back in the velvet-lined box and close the lid.

Hawthorne grasps Hammon’s upper arms. “How long has it been like that?” She stares at him, growing paler. “Do you know?” He shakes her a little.

“Hey, now,” Edgerton says, touching Hawthorne’s arm. “Take it easy. Erething’s gonna be—”

“How long?” Hawthorne repeats, more desperately.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I just noticed it.”

Hawthorne turns. “Did you notice it before, Roselle?” I shake my head. I don’t want to face him because I don’t want him to see my tears.

Edgerton tries a softer tone. “Hawthorne, take a breath. This ain’t such a bad thing.”

Hawthorne growls. “I have a life here! I have someone I love—who loves me! I have nothing out there!”

“I get it. I do.” Edgerton rests his hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. “But there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. You’re firstborn now. You has to go be firstborn.”

Hawthorne backs against the counter next to me. Edgerton’s hand falls from him. “I can fix this. I have to fix this,” he mutters aloud, but he sounds as if his thoughts are in disarray. He grabs me to him. My tears wet the front of his flight suit. He strokes my hair and rains kisses on the top of my head.

Pounding on the metal door breaks us apart. “Military Police,” a deep voice yells through the door. “We’re looking for Hawthorne Trugrave.”

Hawthorne and I are bred to be cautious. We’ve trained ourselves always to show restraint, to avoid getting caught, to stay one step ahead of anyone who would tear us apart. But as Edgerton moves to open the door, I know it really doesn’t matter now. Hawthorne and I will be separated, and there isn’t a thing either one of us can do about it. All of our concealed caresses, all the times I forced myself to look away so no one would notice the love written all over my face—all for naught. I’m still going to lose him.

MPs wander into the gallery. The one with the bushy eyebrows gazes at the holographic image of Hawthorne shining up from his moniker’s screen. He finds Hawthorne. “You’ve Transitioned, Firstborn Trugrave. We have you scheduled on an airship leaving in twenty minutes for Forge. Your possessions will be sent to you. We need to go—”

“I’m not ready,” Hawthorne growls, like a cornered animal.

The MP remains friendly. “Of course you’re ready. Just come with us. Everything else can be taken care of. Your family needs you now.”

“I said I’m not ready!” Hawthorne’s hands ball into fists.

The MPs look at one another with here-we-go expressions. “Everything will be fine,” one says in a placating tone. “You’re going home.” All three MPs grab Hawthorne, who thrashes and bucks like a wild beast. Edgerton holds my arm.

“Roselle!” Hawthorne yells. “Just wait!” He struggles against the MPs. Spittle flies from his mouth. The cords of his neck muscles strain as he wrenches. “Roselle! You don’t understand. I need to protect her. They’ll find a way to bury her. This is where they’ll bury her! I have to fix this. I need to fix this!”

“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” one of the MPs growls as they drag him toward the door.

“Don’t hurt him!” I shout through tears. Edgerton holds me back. I clutch the black box.

“Let ’em take him,” Edgerton growls in my ear. “He’ll fight harder if you get in the middle of it, and they’ll hurt him worse.” I know he’s right, but it takes every ounce of willpower not to pull the firearm from the box. The MPs drag Hawthorne from the room, and it’s over almost as soon as it began. And then he’s gone.

I don’t remember returning to my capsule, but I can’t imagine ever leaving it again. This is where they can bury me.





Chapter 17


Shattered


No one, not even Gilad, has heard from Hawthorne in two weeks. I’m becoming desperate. Tritium 101 is scheduled to go active soon. If I can’t get in touch with him, I might not talk to him until I return from the Twilight Forest Base—if I return. I’ve tried to contact him, but all the overtures I’ve made have been declined. Whether by him or by my commanding officer is unclear.