Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  I lower my chin, feeling ill. “I’ll make it.”

  “Will you?” he asks softly. “Then I’ll double down on you.”

  “Just stay away from me. I don’t need your help.”

  “Yeah, like you didn’t need me in Census?” Derision is written all over his face.

  “That’s done now. You don’t have to watch out for me anymore.”

  He sighs. “You’re gonna need a friend.”

  I stare him directly in the eyes. “A friend wouldn’t have stopped me from getting my sword back.” I slide out of the car and wait for him to join us. He does, looking grim-faced. Holding my coat over my arm, I smooth the fabric so that my hands don’t shake.

  Turning to the other soldiers, Hawthorne says, “Rejoin the unit and resume your duties. Dismissed.” Gilad walks away without saying anything.

  “See ya around, Roselle,” Edgerton says.

  We are stopped before we enter the concrete-and-metal military trunk. Our monikers are scanned. A brawny soldier at least ten years older than us reads the monitor of the scanner. “Roselle Sword, you’re to report to Intake—sector 23, level 5, subsection 7Q.” His deep voice is sharp. He motions to a soldier near him.

  Hawthorne holds up his hand. “I’ll take Roselle there.” Hawthorne taps the face of his wrist communicator. A map readout projects up from it.

  The older soldier gives him a sharp nod. “Patrøn.” Hawthorne gestures for me to come with him. We enter through a hangar door fortified with artillery shields. As soon as we cross the threshold, there’s an antechamber with metal benches. On the other side of the room is a huge oblong-shaped archway that opens into the trunk of the Tree.

  Hawthorne takes off his helmet. His hair is matted down. He swipes his hand through it and moves toward the automated conveyor system. Wall ports of various sizes and shapes cover one side of the small room. One of the conveyor ports activates the moment Hawthorne tosses his helmet onto it. Air catches it and lifts it up through a clear tube, into the ceiling, and out of sight. Hawthorne strips away his rifle, depositing it onto another port conveyor. The air catches it, and it’s gone in seconds.

  “When we return from active duty,” Hawthorne explains, “there are drop-off points for your gear. Everything is coded for you, so it’ll be returned to your pod cleaned and conditioned. You want to do this every time you use your armor because it’ll get rank quickly if you don’t.”

  “Who cleans it?” I ask.

  “Stone workers assigned to our Base.” The stream of air takes his combat boots the moment he throws them through a hole to the conveyor. He removes his remaining weapons—his fusionblade, fusionmag—a handheld fusion-powered gun that fires bullet-like bursts of energy and knife—and they whisk away through the hole. He strips off his chest mail and armor, placing them in the conveyor. Barefoot and attired in combat leggings and a clingy combat shirt, he shifts to an adjacent wall unit. Tropo-ranked soldiers wait in line for automated stations that line the wall. Hawthorne goes to an empty one marked “Strato.” He scans his moniker. Holograms of clothing flash in front of him, all higher in rank than Tropo. He selects a midnight-blue Strato uniform, socks, and training boots. A parcel wrapped in clear plastic descends into a bin next to the wall unit. He unwraps the package and quickly dons the shirt and trousers. I wait, trying not to admire the way his muscles bunch and stretch beneath his shirt. He sits on a bench and bends to fasten the buckles of his boots.

  He finishes, straightens, and stands. “C’mon,” he says.

  We enter a cargo area. It takes a few moments to adjust to the dim interior. Without windows, this Tree is dark and oppressive compared to the glass one. Natural light is replaced by ghostly bluish tracks of incandescent bulbs. It’s bustling, though. Soldiers are everywhere. No one is sitting around. Whereas the ground floor of the officers’ glass Tree is made for gathering and social interaction, this one is purely utilitarian, with massive storage units and pallets of everything soldiers need for survival.

  Hawthorne grabs my sleeve. “Careful,” he says, yanking me back from a shiny, sharp-nosed drone. It flies by at eye level above an outlined track on the floor painted in a wide yellow band. “You’ll want to make sure the stingers aren’t coming through. They travel the perimeter of stone Trees.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Security patrols, automated drones that catalogue and ping monikers. If you’re not where you’re supposed to be, they’ll deviate from their route and confront you. Never cross a gold road without looking.”

  I nod, resuming my rubbernecking. A stinger makes its way around the circumference of the trunk, passing a familiar type of bunker. More stingers are stationed outside the thick metal doors. “What’s that there?”

  “That’s a Census access station.”

  My heart beats faster. “You mean they live beneath this Tree, too?” Goose bumps form on my arms as I remember Census’s cold cells—the feeling of being buried alive. I imagine the guards stationed on the other side of those heavy doors protecting the elevators that lead underground.

  “They live and work beneath most Trees in this area. They have a network beneath this whole Base. We share some of the tunnels. If we’re attacked, all noncombatant personnel will go below ground. Some triage units and medical facilities are also below us.”

  Around me, automated heavy machinery moves supplies onto air-powered conveyors that lift into tubes. These tubes form arteries into the Tree, carrying everything from munitions to rations and cartons of new boots and blankets. Hawthorne points. “Those tubes are called phloem. Everything gets unloaded and coded, then transported along the thousands of phloem to different departments and distribution centers within the trunk. Those pipes there,” he says as he points to liquid-filled pipes of different colors, “are called sapwoods. They carry water, fuel, waste, et cetera, up and down the trunk, to and from the branches above.”

  A unit of soldiers runs by us in formation, using a green track that spans the perimeter. Soldiers hang from the sheer cliff faces of the trunk by harnesses and rock-climbing gear. Zip lines connect levels. Soldiers use handheld trolleys on the zip lines to descend floors and automated ones to ascend. Looking up, dark hallways are visible everywhere in the trunk, leading in every different direction, presumably, to the branches and then the exterior hanging airships that make up the leaves of the Trees. Unlike the officers’ Tree, the open air of the trunk does not extend all the way to the canopy. Solid levels begin far above us.

  I follow Hawthorne, circumnavigating the cargo areas, and we arrive at the center of the trunk. “This is called the heartwood,” he explains. A series of poles with steps on either side moves continuously up or down. Fifty or more are clustered in this one area. Soldiers grab the poles and step onto stairs that either lift or descend, like a ladder, but with the rungs on the outside at alternating heights.

  “Have you ever used one before?” Hawthorne asks. “They’re easy. Just get on a step, secure yourself by holding the pole, and then step off when you reach your level. In your case, it’s level five.” He walks toward one and pauses, blocking the flow of traffic onto one of the heartwood lifts. Tropo soldiers move to different lines to avoid the delay. “Whenever you’re ready, Roselle.”

  I climb onto a step and clutch the pole with both hands. It lifts me, and my leather coat slides to the crook of my arm. Hawthorne steps onto the same lift at the same time, taking the adjacent step slightly lower than mine. I gaze into his gray eyes, feeling my face redden and my heartbeat rush in my ears. We enter a glass pipeline, and now it’s reasonably hard to fall off the lift and very intimate.

  “Approaching level one,” a feminine robotic voice announces. As we reach the floor, there’s an opening to step through, but we continue upward, encircled once again by the frosted glass tube.

  Hawthorne reaches out and touches my cheek. His fingertips are warm and rough. He caresses the sore spot where I hit the marble floor when he stopped me from retrieving my fusion
blade. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” He frowns. “You’re so light. I used too much force. I was afraid you were going to hit Agent Crow, and then you’d be taken from us. I didn’t think I could get you out of Census twice.”

  “I was going to hit him.” I can hardly blame Hawthorne. He probably saved me from much greater torture, maybe even death. What he doesn’t understand is what my fusionblade means to me. Everything here is considered disposable—including people. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “It’s not my first bruise.”

  “Approaching level two.” We pass the floor.

  His thumb traces my bottom lip as we slip hidden behind frosted glass again. Longing like I’ve never felt before shatters the anger that I felt earlier. “It may not be your first bruise, but it’s the first one from me, and I’m sorry for it.” My insides tighten, and my whole body floods with heat. The violence of the ache leaves me breathless.

  “Should I punch you in the face and call it even?” I ask, leaning my hip against the pole between us for support.

  “Approaching level three.” I don’t even glance at the platform as it goes by.

  He grins. “Would you? It’d make me feel so much better.”

  “Some other time, perhaps.”

  “Approaching level four.” The floor glides by us.

  Hawthorne drops his hand. “The next level is five. We’ll step off there.” The heady rush of being near him is knee-weakening. I’ve been surrounded by powerful men all my life, but not one has affected me like this. It’s a vicious craving for something that I don’t entirely understand. I want to touch his hair, to slide my fingers over the angular planes of his face.

  It suddenly occurs to me that we may not see each other again after today. This Tree alone is the size of a city, and either of us could be reassigned to another Tree or a new Base at any time. Maybe it’s smarter not to grow too attached. I crave connection, but the thought of missing Hawthorne the way I miss Dune is heart-wrenching.

  “This is us,” Hawthorne says, threading his fingers through mine. We jump from the heartwood, landing gracefully on the glossy metal deck. I gaze at our clasped hands. His is sun-kissed and strong, capable. Mine is so much smaller in comparison. I can’t remember the last time someone held my hand. Hawthorne’s voice is tender. “It’s this way.”

  We merge into a stream of brown and blue uniforms and move with the flow. Hawthorne doesn’t let go of my hand. The ceiling has the same exposed girders and dull lighting as the cargo area. Light panels line the sides of the hallway like long windows.

  Every few steps, someone’s arm bumps into my shoulder. I’d drown among them if Hawthorne weren’t here to keep me afloat. We turn so many corners that I lose count. Finally, we come to a gateway that reads “Intake.” Hawthorne lets go of my hand, but I still feel the echo of his. Soldiers surge around us. No one turns down the short hallway to the Intake facility. “Are you ready?” Hawthorne asks.

  It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. This is my life now. This Tree is my home for as long as they say it is. From this moment on, most of the decisions that affect my life will be made for me by Sword commanders who don’t know me at all.

  “I’m ready,” I lie.

  “I’m around, you know, if things go wrong and you need me. You can find me.”

  His earnestness makes my heart contract, and my entire being longs to reach out and hug him. “I’m around, too,” I say softly. “You know, if things go wrong and you need me.”

  Hawthorne gives me a sad smile. He lifts his hand and rubs his ear where I’d wrenched it. “I just might need someone like you in a fight.”

  “Good,” I reply. I turn and square my shoulders to the empty hallway. “I’ll see you around, Hawthorne.” I pass through the sliding doors into the Intake facility, then glance back over my shoulder. He’s still there, watching me as the doors close.

  Chapter 10

  Intake

  I walk past empty turnstiles and corrals that must be used to funnel new recruits along on Transition Day. It feels weird being the only one here. I reach two glass doors that slide open as I approach, leading me into a waiting room filled with rows of metal benches bolted to the floor. Soft chamber music plays through speakers in the ceiling. A beautiful blond woman about ten years older than me sprawls on one of the benches, gazing up at the ceiling, listening to music through wireless earpieces. It must be different music than the song playing overhead because the beat she taps with her black-booted feet is so much faster. Her hair is swept up in a tight twist above the collar of her red uniform. A loose overcoat of the same bright red hangs open and drapes from either side of the bench. She holds a stylus between her top lip and the bottom of her nose. Beside her on the bench rests a medical tablet, adorned with the Atom-Fated symbol of a carbon atom.

  “Excuse me.” I try to get her attention by waving my hand.

  No response. I walk nearer and stand over her. She squeaks in fright, almost tumbling from the bench, and scrambles to her feet. The stylus hits the ground. “I didn’t hear you come in!” She pulls the earpieces from her ears and shoves them into the pocket of her overcoat. “Intake has been suspended since the attack. No one is being processed until new monikers are issued. I wasn’t expecting you.” I hand her back the stylus, and her eyes widen. “You’re Roselle St. Sismode!”

  Her awe might be funny if I wasn’t so nervous. “I’m . . . well, I’m just Roselle Sword now.”

  She realizes her breach of etiquette and nods, composing herself. “Of course. So, you’ve been assigned to Tree 177?”

  “Yes.” I thought that was obvious.

  “Me, too!” She grins at me and holds her hand to her chest. I’m not sure what she wants from me, or what I’m supposed to do. She’s grinning at me like we know each other, but I’ve never met her before. I fidget, feeling awkward. “Oh! You’re here for intake!” she says, like the thought just occurred to her.

  “Yes.”

  “I never dreamt I’d be the one to intake Roselle St. Sismode.” She doesn’t try to mask the giddiness in her voice. She retrieves her tablet, assuming a much more professional mien. “If you’ll follow me.” She leads the way through metal doors and down a hallway of doors to private rooms. We pass by other professionals in red coats, looking bored as they sit at desks and stare at walls, their chins resting in their Atom-monikered hands.

  “My name is Emmy, by the way, and I’m here to make your intake go as smoothly as possible. If you have any questions, just ask.” She guides me to a private room with an examination table and medical machinery. I cringe. The machinery seems archaic compared to the infirmary at the Sword Palace.

  “Please take a seat on the table, and we’ll get started.”

  The metal slab table in the middle of the room is less than inviting, but I take a seat. Like everything else here, the room has dark metal girders with exposed bolts. “Let me pull up your files, Roselle.” Emmy sits beside me on the table with a friendly smile, then she gasps with a loud intake of breath. “You’ve been given a new moniker! You’re a beta tester, like me. I thought only Atoms were testing it!”

  I glance at my moniker. The sword-shaped hologram on my hand shines brighter than my old one, the crown more pronounced. “I was given a new one yesterday.”

  “Can I look at it?” She takes my hand, gently touching the small scar that the moncalate device left when Agent Crow implanted the new processor. “Your sword has a rose-colored ring around it. Why was it never removed?”

  “The stain of the birthmark is deep, so the only solution would be to cut out the area of skin and regenerate tissue over it. My mentor was against it because he didn’t want my training delayed for something he thought was frivolous. Since I’m secondborn, no one argued with him.”

  “Well, I think it’s interesting,” Emmy replies with a conspiratorial wink. “Have you used your new moniker yet?” She goes to the side table and retrieves a shiny silver, laser-like tool.

  “What do you mean?”
<
br />   “You’re equipped with the latest technology. This is top-secret Atom device-ware. Your moniker is state of the art, impossible to clone. The Gates of Dawn will have a difficult time sneaking into our Fates when these beauties get implanted. They’re going to start phasing them in soon to the general population.”

  “What’s new about it?” I ask.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you how to use your moniker?”

  “No.”

  She lifts my hand in her own again. “First of all, let’s take care of this scar.”

  “I don’t have any money to pay you.”

  “Oh, this one is free. They should’ve done this for you when you had it installed.” She passes the laser over the incision mark. I feel heat, but nothing more. She sets the laser aside. Reaching into a drawer under the table, she extracts a handful of test-tube-shaped vials. She holds the shades of them to my hand until she finds a match for my skin tone. She removes the cap to reveal a roller-ball applicator and rolls the vial over my incision mark. A cool, fleshy gel covers the scar. She caps the vial and drops it back into the drawer. Lifting the laser once more, she passes it over the gel. The gel melts and blends with my skin. The scar disappears.

  “Thank you,” I murmur. I’ve had this procedure done often. Training with fusionblades is dangerous.

  Emmy lets go of my hand and sets the laser aside. “Here, let me show you what your new moniker can do. I just had mine installed last week.” Holding up her hand, she shows me her silver moniker in the shape of a carbon atom—six electrons circle a cluster of six protons. “Mine will only respond to my own touch. It’s a series of taps along the length of the moniker. Think of it as a keyboard.” She taps the skin. A holographic screen alights. “Once you activate the screen, you can use this simple menu to interact with it.”

  “What does it do?” I ask.

  “Well, that depends on your clearance level. I only have some of the most basic functions for my personal use. This will eventually replace our wrist communicators and my tablet. I’ll be able to access files directly from my moniker. It’s supposed to make my work more efficient. Here, let me show you.” She looks at her menu bar, choosing options by glance alone. My profile alights on her holographic display. “This is the best function I’ve found so far! I’m going to contact you.” She stares at my profile on her display. Menu items blink as she chooses them. The moniker in my hand vibrates. My eyes widen. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” She laughs.