Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(63)
“You lean a little to the right when you hold your fusionblade at a seventy-degree angle,” Reykin prods.
My gaze should melt his back, but it doesn’t. “That’s because I have to compensate for the crooked elbow on your weak left arm.”
Reykin chuckles. “My elbow is perfect, and I will arm-wrestle you with my left arm anytime you say. Now hold my waist, and try not to fall off.”
I slip my arms around him. He’s solid muscle. When he leans back unexpectedly, the soft fabric of his shirt brushes my cheek. The scent of him is disturbing. I want to rest against his back and inhale deeper. I grit my teeth.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Of course.”
We jet forward, going from zero to two hundred miles an hour in seconds. If I weren’t holding on to him, I’d be broken. As it is, a small backrest rose behind me and caught some of the force. My arms cinch tighter to Reykin’s waist, and I mold my chest against his back. I can feel him chuckling.
I settle in. My arms loosen a bit. The hovercycle is exquisite for an adrenaline junkie like me. Wind whips through my hair. All I can think about is going faster. Security trails us, and so do my Halo stingers, as we take a lap around the perimeter of a fan-shaped training field. The obstacle course is mostly wooded, about fifteen miles in circumference. Perilous paths through the trees jet off from the firstborn observatory track that we cruise. Massive redwoods tower above our heads. Sunlight filters through the branches as we fly by makeshift shanties constructed of pine boughs, thatches of limbs, and toppled tree trunks.
Secondborns in the contest aren’t living off the land yet, but they’re learning how. Exposure and dehydration will kill around 20 percent of the contestants in the first couple of weeks. It’s an agonizing way to die. The truth is that, even though they’re the property of the government, most of them wouldn’t know how to exist without it. They’re institutionalized.
Reykin increases our altitude and slows the hovercycle. We arrive at a hoverpad outside an observatory in Flabellate One, part of the elaborate, interconnected set of tree forts high in the canopy. Grisholm is the first one off his bike, heading straight for the rope bridges to the main treetop fortress. Reykin stays with me, walking by my side. I look around, growing more and more annoyed. The observatory is really an adult playground, where firstborns can be pampered by Stone-Fated secondborn domestics while they watch the participants of the trials struggle to hone their survival skills.
Beside the observatory, with its aerial views of the clearing below, Sword-Fated secondborn commanders who will not be competing in The Trials give live demonstrations. Targeting games are set up high in the canopies so firstborns can test their own skills with various weapons. When a firstborn’s aim strays, live ammunition finds its way down to the fields where the secondborns train.
Grisholm beckons us to the central observation deck. “Tourists!” he growls, shunning the other activities with a scornful sneer. “You’re ruining the sport!” he shouts at the nearest firstborns with their hunting crossbows and grenade-tipped arrowheads. The security team starts to manhandle the firstborns, and they scurry off to a different target, leaving us alone on the observation deck.
The hovering platform is made of a lightweight material with the look of wood. It blends in with the surroundings. The open face is guarded by an invisible, restrictive energy field that allows air flow but prevents anyone from falling off the edge and plummeting to a horrifying death. Grisholm passes out enhanced telescopic eyewear, and I’m able to observe the combatants on the field below us as if I’m standing right above them.
He points out his favorites. He has a surprising understanding of their skill sets and knows details down to their vitamin supplements. One combatant is his particular favorite—a man by the name of MacGregor Sword. He’s a redheaded twenty-three-year-old man of epic proportions. I note that MacGregor holds back from aggressive training today. I mention as much to Grisholm.
“It’s strategy,” Grisholm says with assurance. “He doesn’t want others to know how skilled he is.”
“It’s pain, Grisholm,” I reply, “not strategy. He likely has a hamstring tear. See the back of his left leg? Notice how the muscle looks lumpy? It’s going to pop soon, and he’ll be useless until it’s fixed. He’s probably taking all kinds of medications to numb it. Look at the way he’s clenching his jaw and favoring his other leg. An injury like that is excruciating and takes a few days to recover from, once the muscle is reconstructed. He only has a few days left until the Opening Ceremonies. It may not be enough time, and that’s if he has the merits to get it repaired. But he can’t back out, can he? Once he committed, he’s in whether he wants to be or not.” That part I say with no small amount of scorn.
Grisholm must think my scorn is for MacGregor, because he says, “What a scam artist! I bet the odds makers are counting on him keeping his mouth shut about his injury so they can capitalize on it.”
“Why would he reveal it?” Reykin asks sarcastically. His eyes look right through Grisholm. “It would let his adversaries know how to attack him effectively.”
“Well, you both need to keep it to yourselves,” Grisholm demands. “Uncovering the winner is only a small part of this. There are other bets along the way—like who won’t survive certain challenges.”