Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(69)

People walk the floor like zombies, with pallid skin and unbalanced gaits. A Virtue-Fated firstborn with bloodshot eyes stops in his tracks next to me. He’s stooped and unsteady on his feet. “Is this real?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, making my way into the red-poppy haze. The wall slides shut behind me, hiding the lobby. Serpentine clouds of red smoke hang in the air. The scent spins my head in lazy circles, even through my scarf. Red banners hang, curling and floating, from beams above, blooming like poppies—opening and closing, opening and closing.

A young boy, maybe eight, takes my hand. Wordlessly he leads me to a jewel-red counter where a secondborn—wearing a mask with a painted poppy over her nose and mouth—dispenses a menagerie of mind-altering substances from behind glass. Holographic menus display on the glass.

“Do you have aerosol?” I ask the Moon-Fated attendant. “Something that will make me sleepy?”

She languidly twists pieces of her garnet-colored hair around her finger. “Of course. Hazy Daze-99.” She holds up a cylindrical can and depresses a button on top of it. The aerosol mists in a short burst. The arch of it forms a rainbow. It doesn’t seem to affect her. “How many?”

“Everything you have and a mask like yours.”

Her eyes bug out. “Do you want that on a hovercart?”

“Yes.”

“Scan your moniker,” she says.

I scan the clerk’s moniker as she loads a few dozen aerosols into a hovercart. The cart passes through to me.

“Do you know where the lifts are?” I ask the little secondborn boy at my side. He nods, calls the lift with his moniker, and tugs my hand. As we walk to the lift, I ask, “What’s your name?”

He shrugs lethargically. I make a mental note to come back for him when I have the power to change his life by rescuing him from this awful place.

I enter the lift alone and wait for the doors to close. Then, opening the lid of the hovercart, I take out several cans and place them on the floor. I slip the mask over my nose and mouth and wrap it with the scarf. I lift a can and spray the cameras in the elevator, puncture several other cans in the hovercart, and close the lid.

The dial on the hovercart is set to “Follow Mode.” I reset it to “Propel Mode.” The hovercart hits the doors and grinds against them. Positioning the clerk’s moniker beneath the scanner, I select the eighth floor. The elevator rises. I lean back into the corner where the walls of the elevator meet. I lift one foot and place it on one wall. My other foot pushes against the other wall. With my feet on each of the two corner walls, I use the leverage to scale them and press myself against the ceiling near the doors. When the car stops and opens, armed guards are waiting, their fusionmags drawn. The hovercart idles forward. One of the guards opens it. An aerosol cloud wafts out. Their shoulders round, and their arms grow heavy. Thumps resound as the guards topple over.

Someone calls, “What is it?”

I drop down from the ceiling.

A guard glances at me and smiles dopily. “Adreana,” he murmurs. He must think I’m the female assassin from the lobby. He slumps against the wall and slides down it.

Sounds of pounding feet grow near. I puncture more cans and toss them into the hallway. Billowing fog fills the air. Feet slow. Bodies hit the floor. When the fog clears, I peek my head out and draw it back fast. A dozen guards sit limply against the walls—some lie on the floor, weapons fallen haphazardly beside them. It’s rainbow fields forever out there.

Following the trail of bodies, I reach the door at the end of the corridor. No sounds come from the other side. Pulling out my fusionmag, I aim it at the door, and then, on second thought, I hide the weapon behind my back, and knock. The door opens partway. “You’re supposed to be in the lobby,” a tall, burly man says. I kick in the door. He stumbles back, drawing his fusionmag. I shoot him in the chest. His colleagues are gathered around a virtual screen watching a pre-trial training session. They draw weapons. I lift my fusionmag and pull the trigger in rapid succession. Bodies twist and fall like discarded puppets. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If I were here to kill Gabriel, they wouldn’t have stopped me because they were too busy entertaining themselves.

I bar the door and cautiously creep to the main apartment. It’s empty. In the master bedroom, I find Gabriel alone, passed out on the bed. His dark hair is in disarray. Cadaverous eyes rimmed in dark circles sit atop his hollowed cheeks. His elegant silk shirt is open, revealing his sunken chest. His rolled-up sleeves reveal scabs and bruises. He trembles. He’s either done too much or not enough.

I tug the scarf and mask from my face. “Gabriel,” I whisper. Tears prickle my eyes. I touch his shoulder and try to rouse him. He finally opens his eyes and squints at me.

“Who are you?” he whispers.

I pull off the white wig and glasses. “Fabriana Friday,” I murmur through my tears.

“Are you here . . . to save . . . the world?” he asks weakly. It’s something he would’ve said when we were kids.

“I’m here to rescue you, Solomon Sunday.” I touch his hair. It’s brittle. He doesn’t reply, just continues to tremble.

I speak into the wrist communicator. “I have him, Balmora. I need a superfast airship.”

“You’re getting a delivery hover.” Balmora’s voice rings through the wrist communicator. “Creamy Crellas. Side alley—below your position. Can you get there now?”