Chapter 12
Lullaby of Insomnia
I’m confined to the Halo Palace.
It’s even worse than prior to the attack. Now I’m followed everywhere by hovering Virtue stingers for my “protection,” just like Grisholm. And like Grisholm, I’m restricted to the Firstborn Commander’s private residence. Security has been reinforced with increased Exo presence and heightened technology provided by Salloway Munitions. Huge mechanized weapons were airlifted and placed on the cliff outside my balcony, just beyond the garden. The guns can track and shoot just about anything out of the sky without much trouble. They can do the same to people.
Reykin hasn’t visited me in a couple of days, even though he can. I told him that Hawthorne agreed to stay silent and to think about helping us. I thought Reykin would be happy to hear that, but he didn’t take the news well. Instead, he stomped around my apartment, giving me the silent treatment while working on Phoenix’s hover mode. I was too tired to argue with the firstborn Star, but Phoenix doesn’t clang anymore. It silently glides everywhere it goes.
Reykin left shortly after dawn the morning I’d returned from speaking to Hawthorne in his room. He’d mumbled an excuse about discussing everything that’s happened with Dune and Daltrey. I haven’t seen him since. Not that he hasn’t seen me. Through Phoenix, he can surveil me anytime he wants, although I think I can tell now when Phoenix is in auto mode and when the mechadome is Reykin-possessed. It’s a subtle changeover. Phoenix doesn’t “watch” me in the literal sense. It sort of just keeps track of me. But Reykin-possessed Phoenix is a stalker. Like now. It’s just parked in front of me, staring, as I lie on the sofa in the den. I’d throw a blanket over its head, but it will just pull it off, so it doesn’t seem worth the effort.
With my cheek against the seat cushion, I stare blankly at a vapid holographic announcer describing how to get the most from my next virtual vacation. Yawning, I couldn’t care less. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Not much anyway. Only a few hours, and then I’m awake—panicking about whether Hawthorne will change his mind and decide he never wants to see me again, or maybe the Gates of Dawn will conclude that it’s safer to kill Hawthorne, or a hundred other equally terrifying scenarios. It’s exhausting. So I just watch virtual access, hoping for something so boring it forces me to sleep.
I search through what’s on. The face and profile of an Atom-Fated man flashes inside my den, while anchors from a news organization flitter about in excitement. Along with the man’s image are a description and a short bio of his physical traits. “Before we go to our live coverage in Swords,” the commentator says, “we have a Secondborn Deserter Bulletin in effect for the Purity area of Virtues.” I sit up, recognizing the morgue director Reykin and I encountered a few days ago. His sandy, wiry hair and goonish leer are unmistakable. “Cranston Atom, master mortician, has failed to report for duty in over twenty-four hours. If you know the whereabouts of Cranston Atom, you’re asked to contact your local Census agency.”
Before I have time to process the implications of the missing secondborn, his image is gone, replaced by the soaring city skyline of Forge, where citizens are lining the streets, waving blue flags adorned with a golden sword in the center of each. The female newscaster smiles somberly. “We’re just about ready to witness the procession coming down the Avenue of Swords,” she says in a hushed tone, “on their way to the memorial where they will lay to rest a cultural icon, the Fated Sword. It’s a sad day for the Clarity of Swords, the Firstborn Sword, and all their Fate. As you can see, mourners line the streets, hoping to get one last glimpse of the Fated Sword before his interment in Killian Abbey.” The anchor is firstborn. It’s customary for only firstborns to cover such prestigious events. She peers directly into the drone camera’s lens. “The Fated Sword is, of course, the father of Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode and his arguably more famous younger sister, Secondborn Roselle Sword.”
Wisps of her dark hair blow in the cold air. The tip of her nose is red. White plumes of breath show as she continues. “I’m standing in front of one of the largest tributes to a secondborn ever erected.” She gestures with her hand. The drone camera pans to a skyscraper behind her. On the side of it, a holographic image plays the footage of me tackling the Death God and shattering through the glass wall of the Sword social club. My stomach twists in a knot. I know what that is. It’s propaganda designed to undermine Gabriel and his inherent position. Most people won’t understand that they’re being influenced, but my mother will. The drones turn back to the newscaster and the Avenue of Swords.
Slowly, I lie back down. My cheek rests against the cushion. I stare at the funeral procession playing out in front of me. I want to feel nothing, but a wave of crushing sorrow hits me. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. I just sob.
The channel changes on its own. It stops on a cuisine program. Rows and rows of crellas line the case at a bakery in the Fate of Suns. With the handheld remote, I turn the hologram back to the funeral. The three-dimensional image of my mother and brother leaving the Sword Palace scurries across the den. I can hardly make out their shapes behind their Vicolt’s tinted windows.
The image changes again, to some sort of dance recital. I glare at my mechadome. “Reykin, stop!”
Reykin-possessed Phoenix shakes its lenses—no.
“Yes!” I yell. I can’t remember ever being this angry in my life. I try to turn it back, but the entire virtual-access unit completely dies. Frantically, I point the remote at the receiver. Nothing happens. I turn and glare at Reykin-possessed Phoenix. “I hate you!”
Getting up from the couch, I storm out of the room, and then out of the apartment. Stingers flank me as I run down the corridor to the nearest exit. The bright sunlight is a shock after hours of being inside with the privacy shutters drawn. Wiping at my cheeks, I try to hide my hot tears from the Sun-Fated secondborns I pass in the garden.
Before I know it, I’m down the stone steps and onto the beach. I jog along the shoreline, trying to outrun my demons. When I get to the bend, I find Balmora, once again staring off at her sea castle. She’s in front of a hovering easel, painting the structure as if her life depends on it. Beside her, the little twelve-year-old girl watches her.
Balmora lowers her brush and looks at me. Her smile is big and toothy, until she reads the look on my face. She sees my limp hair and lounging attire. “Roselle,” she says, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?” She reaches out and touches my arm.
“Do you have virtual access in your residence?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“Of course!” She sets aside her paintbrush and locks her arm in mine. The nearest death drone begins to wail and hover nearer. “Oh, hush!” she exclaims, waving it away. It silences and settles back to hover at a distance. She walks with me across the sandbar toward the gigantic doors of her Sea Fortress. Her attendants scramble to gather up her belongings behind us. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“No,” I reply honestly, trying to hold back tears. “They’re memorializing my father today, and my visual access is broken.”
“Oh,” she replies in a sympathetic tone. “I hadn’t known that you two were close.”
“We weren’t.” My toes sink into the damp sand, leaving a trail of footprints.
“And yet, you’re upset,” she says, puzzled.
“I’d hoped that someday things would be different between us.”
“Oh,” she says softly, “and it wasn’t because he was a narcissist?”
“Did you know Kennet?”
“No. My father always said yours was a narcissist. I sort of envied you for that.”
“What?” I sniffle. “Why?”
“Well, mine’s a tyrant, so yours didn’t sound so bad,” she replies with a wink. Despite everything, I feel myself smile. As we walk, Balmora chats about the architectural features of her castle, pointing out each of the nine spires that represent the nine Fates. Seagulls perch and gossip overhead. We pass through the enormous portico, and the shade of it feels several degrees cooler, the damp air heavier. An inner courtyard lies within the high stone walls. The sun finds us once more as we walk across the lawn. The ever-present sound of the waves follows us until we climb the steps and enter the royal stone edifice. Dimness greets us. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
The ceiling is high in the foyer. Exposed wooden beams are draped with colorful banners from all the Fates. Sunlight dots the floor from high windows. Ancient painted portraits of past secondborn commanders are everywhere. It’s like going back in time.
“You have a beautiful home,” I murmur.
She looks around with a critical eye. “There are some days that I think I’ll go mad if I have to stay here one more second.” Her honestly is surprising. “I sometimes wonder if I’d have been better off born into a lowly Fate of Seas family in a fishing village somewhere. At least then I’d be allowed to sail away. Go places. See things firsthand.” She gazes at me. “But we can’t change our Fate, can we?” The way she says it, it sounds more like a challenge than a certainty. “Come, my media room is this way.”
We pass through a glass sunroom and into a round room with a grand balcony that overlooks the sea. Balmora stops. “Quincy,” she says to the girl, who is still following us, “make sure no one comes in. I want privacy.” The freckled girl nods solemnly and stands guard outside. Balmora closes the doors. She goes to the airy balcony, drawing the curtains, shutting off the stone terrace. The beautiful white fabric waves in the breeze.
Using her silver halo-shaped moniker, she dims the lights and turns on her virtual access to holographic mode. Rapidly changing the station, Balmora pauses on one showing nothing but holographic smoke-filled gloom. Dust obscures the visual, but the audio is something else entirely. Screams of chaos swirl from the audio feed. Balmora turns to me, shocked. “What’s happening?”
I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t know. Try another channel.”
Balmora changes it. It’s the same, except firstborns with red-rimmed eyes and golden sword monikers are emerging from the smoke with their hands over their noses and mouths. “Is that Swords?” Balmora asks, with a catch in her voice.
“Try another station!” I demand.
The next one is similar, but an announcer is saying, “An explosion, or what we believe was an explosion, has occurred in the city of Forge, where the Fated Sword was being memorialized today on his way to Killian Abbey.”
“Swords has been attacked,” I say to Balmora, though I hardly recognize the voice as mine.
“It’s unclear how many casualties there are,” the announcer continues, “and whether The Sword or Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode were harmed in the incident that some are now calling an attack.”
Balmora reaches out impulsively and takes my hand in a death grip. She’s biting her bottom lip, holding back tears. She studies my left hand, and a look of relief crosses her face. My moniker still shines silver. My brother is alive.
Balmora wipes away a tear. “Who would do this?” she demands.
It could be any number of factions. Retribution from the Rose Gardeners for the social club. The Virtue’s response to my mother’s bid for power. The Gates of Dawn. Then I think about Reykin. Did he know? Is that why he didn’t want me to watch, or was he just trying to protect me from more sorrow?
I sink into a silk lounge chair. Another massacre.
Balmora joins me on the long cushion, still holding my left hand. Her eyes keep darting to it. The announcers are at a loss for what to say. No one knows exactly what happened, except that an explosion went off along the route to the memorial.
Footsteps approach Balmora’s room. A few of her secondborn attendants storm in, young women in elegant sundresses with flushed faces. Quincy seems flustered, wringing her hands. “Get out! All of you!” Balmora screams. Their retreat is hasty, and they close the double doors behind them in a flurry.
Neither of us speaks. Time is strange. Sometimes it doesn’t exist. The two of us stare, waiting for the clouds of smoke to clear enough for us to see the damage. I think I experience every kind of emotion there is to feel. Survival guilt threatens to choke me. None of this would be happening if I’d died on my Transition Day. Another part of me exults in supreme satisfaction that my mother’s attack against me is being avenged. A part of me died that day, and I’ve never fully mourned its loss. Shame and disloyalty tangle with the realization that I truly, deeply want my mother dead.
The smoke finally dissipates, uncovering horrific carnage. In a replay of the events leading up to the attack, a glass hearse hovers down the avenue. Nothing appears to move toward the vehicle. Then it explodes outward. Whatever weapon was used, it was inside the vehicle—the vehicle that carried my father’s corpse.
The Vicolt carrying my mother and my brother mysteriously drops back right before the explosion. The recording doesn’t show what happened to them, but I think I already know. It was staged. They knew it would explode. Whatever just happened, it was a political move to further my mother’s agenda. And it was personal. She’d rather kill innocent bystanders than allow Kennet inside the St. Sismode tomb.
“My family is fine,” I say numbly.
“How do you know?” Balmora asks.
“I just do.”
We continue to watch the aftermath of the attack for almost an hour. A feminine voice at the door rouses me from the holographic nightmare. “Roselle, there’s a man here to see you.” It’s Quincy. “He’s not allowed to enter, so he requested that someone come and fetch you before he levels the building.” The sun outside is setting. I’ve been here for hours.
“Who is it?” I ask in a daze.
“Firstborn Clifton Salloway.”
“Tell him to go away,” Balmora orders.
I lurch to my feet and take a step toward the door. “It’s okay. I need to see him.”
“When are you coming back?” Balmora asks, gripping tighter to my left hand, unwilling to let me leave. Her hair is in disarray, ribbons hanging limply on her shoulders. Her eyes dart to my moniker.
The stingers in the room react. Their weapons power up noisily. Balmora lets go of my hand when the lethal barrels turn toward her. “Don’t!”
I get between one of the stingers and her, and it moves off. “Balmora, I’ll come back soon,” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check—trying not to fall apart. Impulsively, I turn and hug her. “I promise.”
I untangle myself from her and hurry to the door, past the attendant, and through the sunroom made of glass. My stingers trail me. In the hallway, everyone who lives and works in the Sea Fortress seems to be standing around and gossiping. They fall silent when I appear. “Where is Firstborn Salloway?” I ask. An elderly secondborn with a white roiling wave moniker on her hand points.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, continuing outside and across the courtyard.
Clifton leans against the portico with his arms folded over his chest, glowering at the Exo guards and death drones hovering nearby. When he sees me, he straightens. My unshed tears blur his features, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I want to say his name, but my throat tightens. When I reach him, he catches me in his arms, hugging me.
“Roselle,” he says softly, like he’s addressing a tiny kitten. “I came as soon as I could.” He takes off his jacket, wraps it around my shoulders, and hugs me again.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Bribes,” he whispers.
I laugh and choke on tears at the same time. His arms shift from my back to my waist. We turn toward the shore. The tide has come in, and the sandbar is covered with water. Clifton’s Verringer undulates in the nearby cove, resembling a beautiful swan with its wings up. “I brought an extra pair of hoverdiscs for you, but you don’t have shoes. No matter. I’ll carry you.” He reaches under my knees and lifts me with almost no effort. My arms circle his neck, and I lay my head on his shoulder. The stingers don’t react at all.
Clifton treads out onto the water, walking just above the surface. “Why were you at Balmora’s?” he asks calmly. I shrug and bury my face against his neck. If I speak, I’ll sob. He seems to understand. “I need to talk to you, but you don’t have to say anything, just listen. I’m going to take you to my airship, all right?”
I nod. The breeze mists us. Fish swim beneath the surface, some with tiger stripes, some speckled gray and white. The hum of the airship keeps the birds away. I stare toward the shore. Exo guards gather there, pointing at us. The stingers aren’t reacting, though. They trail us like faithful hounds.
The door opens upward as we near the Verringer. “Stinger R0517 and R6492, remain where you are,” Clifton orders.
To my surprise, they heed his order, halting and hovering above the waves. He carries me over the threshold, and the door closes behind us. Clifton finally sets me down near a fat lounge chair in the airship’s great room. He takes a seat and leans toward me.
“Do you know what just happened?” he asks, concern etched in his face.
I pull his warm jacket tighter around me. “You mean the explosion in Swords?”
He nods.
“Yes, I saw the replay.”
“Then you know it wasn’t us, right?” He’s anxious.
I swallow down some of my emotion. “I know more than that—I know it was my mother. She’s probably in her office right now, rehearsing the speech she prepared days ago, condemning the Gates of Dawn for the attack. I doubt she’ll be able to shed a real tear, though. Emotion has always been difficult for her.”
Clifton leans back in his chair, studying me. “Your military acumen is exceptional.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just know Othala.”
“Things cannot continue the way they are now,” he warns. “You know this.”
“I know. Someone has to stop my mother. She doesn’t care about her people, just her power.”
Clifton glances at the windows behind me. He swears softly. I look over my shoulder to see Exo soldiers manning boats. “I came to reassure you. The Virtue has you under his thumb now, but it won’t be for long.”
My eyes meet his. “What are you planning?”
“It’s better you don’t know,” he replies.
“You have control over the stingers following me.” It’s a fact, not a question.
“Who do you think made them? The first rule for anything I create is an indefinite moratorium against harming me. The second is a built-in assurance that it follows all my orders.”
Something about that makes me smile. He really is quite brilliant. “The Virtue doesn’t see you coming, does he?”
“No,” he replies. “I will take care of you, Roselle. You won’t be a prisoner here much longer.”
“It’s hard to know who to trust,” I say, almost to myself.
“You can trust me.” Clifton is dangerous, but I’m determined to be dangerous, too. “My concern right now is for your welfare. You’ve been lucky up until now. You defeated your assassins. I want to make sure that trend continues. To that end, we’ve developed a new fabric we’re calling ‘Copperscale.’ It’s a defensive material. I want you to use it. From now on, all your clothing will be provided by Salloway Munitions. I’ll clear it with the Halo Palace until we can make other arrangements.”
“Defensive, how?” I ask.
“We created a textile that acts like armor. It conducts energy away from the wearer, but the fabric is lightweight, and to all outward appearances, you won’t look to be wearing anything out of the ordinary. We’ll reinforce whatever normal fabric you choose with it. The jacket you’re wearing now is made from Copperscale. Here, let me show you.” He uses his moniker to pull up a holographic display. Footage shows lab demonstrations of tactical munitions being fired at a secondborn test subject wearing what looks like ordinary street clothes. Although the subject survives a fusionmag pulse at close range, he is lifted off his feet and propelled backward several yards.
“Please tell me you gave him hazard pay,” I murmur.
“He volunteered,” Clifton replies, “but, yes, he was well compensated. It’s not perfect. You’d be hurt by a direct fusionmag pulse, but it won’t kill you.” I run my hand over the sleeve of the jacket. It’s a little coarse, but the inside is lined with cashmere, which makes up for it. “We can line the inside of your clothing with Copperscale and use a different fabric as outerwear, if that suits you better.”
“This jacket won’t protect from a head shot, Clifton, unless . . .” I drape the garment over my head like a veil. When I pull it back, I find him grinning.
“We’ll have to learn how to duck,” he says.
Outside, boats draw up to the Verringer. Someone pounds on the metal door, and the sound echoes through the airship. Clifton growls in anger. I want so badly to be able to talk to him about everything I know, including the Gates of Dawn. I need the Rose Gardeners and the Gates of Dawn to agree to coexist. Can I build a bridge between them? Can the Rose Gardeners change?
“The mortician is missing,” I murmur.
“I’m sorry, the what is missing?”
“The master mortician who worked on my father’s body and prepared him for burial. He went missing . . . and then my father’s hearse blew up.”
“You think this mortician had something to do with it?” he asks.
“I don’t know, but Agent Crow was with him. I saw them together. It means something. I just don’t know what.”
More thumps on the door. Clifton clenches his jaw. “You’re not to go around asking questions about it. I’ll look into it. Do nothing.”
“If Census agents are involved, this is bigger than the vendetta between my mother and my father, bigger than the Rose Gardeners. This is an alliance between Census and the Sword.” The thought horrifies me, and it seems to have the same effect on Clifton.
“I’m serious, Roselle. Not a word to anyone. I’ll make inquiries.”
I was afraid before. Now I’m terrified. I nod in agreement. Impulsively, Clifton leans forward, kisses my forehead, and takes both my hands in his. “You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.” He rubs his thumbs over my skin. It reassures me. He’s shelter.
He rises from his seat and moves to the door. Opening it, he swears at the waiting security outside. An argument breaks out between the lead Exo guard and Clifton. I rise from the chair, walk to the entrance, and lay my hand on Clifton’s arm. “Firstborn Salloway, thank you for the tour of your Verringer. It’s really quite lovely. I believe you should definitely make those changes to the Dual-Blade X16 that we discussed.”
I try to hand him back his jacket. “Keep it,” he says, still scowling at the guards.
I step into the boat, Clifton’s coat securely around me, and settle between two well-armed Exos. The stingers follow us when we pull away from the airship. I stuff my hands in the pockets and find Clifton’s cigar case. I pull it from his pocket, and I’m about to ask to go back so I can give it to him, but we’ve almost made shore, and the Verringer is already in the air. I climb out of the boat and make my way back to my apartment amid a swarm of bodyguards.
I pat Phoenix’s head on my way in. Settling onto the sofa in the den, I stare up at the ceiling. Phoenix parks itself in front of me, so I know it’s Reykin. “Phee, can you get me a crella from the commissary?” The mechadome leaves the room. I shove my hand into the pocket of the jacket and pull out the cigar case. Thin brown cigars, the kind with the scent of roses, lie in a neat row. I check for a secret compartment and find one with a thumbprint scanner. Testing it, I’m surprised when it opens for me.
A small holographic screen projects up from the case. Clifton’s face, made of blue light, is grinning at me. “Hello,” he murmurs. “Do you like your new communicator?”
“You could’ve just given it to me,” I reply.
“Where’s the fun in that? I had a bet with my technicians. I said you’d find it in under an hour.”
I rise from the sofa and carry the communicator with me to the door. Closing the door, I lock it and return to my seat. From inside a compartment of the cigar case, I lift a metallic bracelet and examine it. It’s a device that I’ve seen once before at the briefing after the attack on the Sword social club. It’s the mirroring technology that reflects whatever moniker it’s closest to. Right now, it’s showing my moniker, without my crown-shaped birthmark. Clifton notices the device and says, “We’re calling that a ‘looking-glass moniker.’ We’re working on reverse engineering it, but that one is an original; we found it on one of the assassins you killed.”
“Why are you giving it to me, Clifton?”
“There may come a time that you’ll want to, shall we say, ‘part company’ with The Virtue,” he says. “Should that time come, I’d like you to have all the tools you need to take your leave. You’ll find codes inside your cigar case that will allow you to take control of your Halo stingers, just like I did today.”
It’s just like Clifton to be a few steps ahead of everyone else.
“Tell me about the rest, Clifton.”