Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(70)
“We’ll get there.”
The extra glove and leaded swatch I brought with me slide easily over Gabriel’s left hand, blotting out his moniker. I roll my brother onto his side, and then reach for his belt, sliding it from the loops of his trousers. Undoing my own belt, I hook them together. I thread the long belt behind Gabriel’s waist. Lying next to him like a spoon, so that my back is pressed against his chest, I secure the belt around my waist so he’s strapped to my back. Reaching behind me, I lift his arms and hoist them over my shoulders. The bruises on my back and chest ache. So does my arm, but I ignore the pain.
When I stand, Gabriel comes with me, his dead weight distributed to my shoulders and back. Hunching over, I carry him to the empty balcony. We inch out onto it, and then I lean Gabriel against the wall, holding him there with my back against his chest. I pluck the clerk’s moniker from my glove and drop it on the balcony. I peel back the glove covering my moniker, and menus spring up from the silver sword. I may not be able to communicate with it, but I can activate the hoverdiscs on the bottoms of my boots. I program them for rapid descent and smooth my glove over my moniker again. I clutch Gabriel’s arms. He isn’t very heavy, but it’s awkward to move with him on my back. Disregarding gracefulness, I climb over the railing of the balcony and leap off.
The cool wind whistling past my ears deadens the shouts from the henchmen on the rooftop. They don’t shoot, probably because Gabriel is shielding me. A few of them jump from the peak of the dorsal fin. My brother doesn’t move. He’s barely conscious.
Near the ground, the hoverdiscs activate and slow our fall. When I halt just above the sidewalk, inertia makes it feel as if my kneecaps will explode. Wincing, I look around for the alley. Sinister figures using gravitizers land on the avenue behind us. Black-clad, they hold rifles that could blow holes through Gabriel and me. But none of them fires. They pause, speaking into their monikers. I use my hoverdiscs to skate in the opposite direction.
They pursue us, but they’re on foot, so they fall behind. Rounding a corner, I nearly run into a hovering delivery craft idling in the alleyway. Animated characters made to look like crellas dance in a three-dimensional display of jouncing revelry around the perimeter of the hovertruck. Crella creatures bathe in chocolate streams that morph into showers of glaze and sprinkles.
For a second, I think I must have been sprayed by Hazy Daze-99, because this is my biggest fantasy, but then a man with a thick unibrow and a double chin calls to me through the window of the hovertruck: “Get in.” He points his thumb to the rear of the vehicle. The truck lurches forward, picking up speed as it moves through the alley.
“No!” I whimper. The back door of the craft slides open. I force my legs to move, skating behind it, my thighs burning. The holographic crella creatures wave banners and march next to me. Clenching my teeth, I lurch for the opening. As we dive through the doorway, the driver triggers the hatch, and it falls closed, hiding us within.
Small lights near the floor illuminate the inside of the hovertruck. Steel racks of ice-cream-filled crellas line the walls to the ceiling. In the truck’s crisp refrigeration, I lay on the floor beside Gabriel, our breath huffing in white wisps. I can’t tell if my brother shakes from the cold or from detoxification. The belts cut into my flesh. Unhooking the clasp, I free us from them. Gabriel tumbles away, curling into a ball on the floor.
“Gabriel, are you okay?” I ask.
“Where . . . am I?” he whispers.
“You’re in a hovertruck. I’m taking you to Balmora.” His forearms are so thin it makes me want to cry.
“Should let me die,” he says between clenched teeth.
My heart throbs painfully. “I’m not letting you die.” Peeling off my jacket, I lay it over him. We take a corner, and Gabriel rolls across the floor. I lift his head, stabilizing him against my shoulder. In my other hand, I hold a fusionmag pointed at the back of the hovertruck, in case the guards catch up to us.
I don’t remember the last time I was this close to my brother. Maybe when he stopped my mother from killing me on my Transition Day? That’s how it goes, though. The Fates Republic won’t allow us to be a family, using propaganda and their stupid hysteria-eliciting rhetoric to sow suspicion between siblings—casting doubt over secondborns’ intentions. Anger heats my face. A tear slips over my lashes. They should’ve left us alone as kids—let us be each other’s friend. Everybody always pointed out his golden sword instead, like it was the reason for him not to love me. But Gabriel loved me anyway, and it destroyed him. I can see that now.
Tears like I’ve never allowed myself course down my face. The Fates Republic keeps selling us the biggest lie of all—that we’re nothing to each other. Enemies. Now we’re all just liars.
My wrist communicator lights up. Wiping tears and snot, I take a few seconds to answer it.
“Do you have him? Is he okay?” Balmora’s voice trembles.
I take a deep breath and exhale. “I have him. He’s not okay. He’s sick and frail.”
“Just get him here,” she says with a shaky voice.
Soon the hovervan comes to a stop. I wipe my face on my sleeve again and train the fusionmag on the door. It slides open. “Let’s get this over with,” Double Chin says. “I’m late for my rounds.” He ignores my weapon and waves me out. “Move. We have a delivery barge ready to take you to Balmora at the Sea Fortress.”