Secondborn

Chapter 9

That’s Mine

We file through the ground floor of the firstborn officer Tree. Hawthorne still radiates rage. Gilad marches beside him. Hammon and Edgerton are ahead of them. I trail behind, my heeled boots and shorter legs making it hard to keep up.

My entourage walks right by the cluster of chairs closest to the outer doors without seeing the devil seated in one of them. I slow my pace, staring at Agent Crow. He smiles. Steel teeth shine. Pointing to the life-size virtual monitor encompassing the nearest pillar, he directs my gaze. My image is on it, a replay of the news conference. I blink. I seem so much older than I am—it’s the air of confidence I’m feigning, a trait I’ve learned from watching my mother. It exudes from behind my carefully applied war paint.

I come to a stop when I notice the hilt of my fusionblade on Agent Crow’s hip. It’s unmistakable, bearing my family crest. My heart squeezes tight. My grandfather gave me that sword when I was born. It’s the only thing I ever received from him.

Agent Crow says, “You didn’t even mention me once in your news conference.”

“You’re not important, Agent Crow.”

“You wound me, Roselle.”

“I’d like nothing better.”

“Don’t tease me,” he replies.

“That’s my sword,” I state. The fact that he’s wearing it on his person is so offensive that I’m laser-focused.

“Was, Roselle. This was your sword.” His eyes almost sparkle.

“No. It is my sword. You stole it from me.”

“Careful.” His smile evaporates. “You don’t want to go around making accusations you cannot possibly prove.”

“I can prove it’s my sword. It has a rose embossed on the center of the hilt.”

“I like roses.” He shrugs with an amused smirk.

“The rose is interwoven into the St. Sismode crest.”

“Coincidence.”

“I think not. I want my sword.”

“Well, you cannot have it.”

“Why not?”

“Your commanding officer is only going to take it from you anyway. You’re no longer a St. Sismode. You’re Roselle Sword. Roselle St. Sismode no longer exists. This is just a representation of who you used to be. What do you say I keep it for you . . . for later?”

“I say no.”

Hawthorne is so close behind me that he accidentally brushes up against me as he whispers, “Stand down.”

“No.”

“Agent Crow’s right,” Hawthorne explains. “They’ll only take it from you, Roselle. Let it go.”

“No. It’s my sword.” It’s the only tie I have left to my identity—my family. I’d rather fight and pay the consequences than back down. I lunge at Agent Crow.

Hawthorne is ready for my attack. My feet lift off the ground as he pins my arms behind me before I can touch Kipson Crow’s smug face. I struggle against him, and he wrestles me down onto the marble floor. My cheek hits hard and bounces. On bended knee beside me, Hawthorne grits his teeth. “Calm down, Roselle! You die if you hit him unprovoked in public. Be smart!”

I kick Hawthorne in the knee with the heel of my boot. It doesn’t hurt him through his combat armor, but his knee slips out from under him. He crashes to the floor beside me and loosens his grip on my arms. I shake free, but Gilad’s knee digs into the middle of my back, keeping me down. I throw my head back, connecting with Gilad’s nose. He moans and swears. Hawthorne tries to get up, but I pull him by the ear until his head hits the floor like mine did. The golden ring on my hand leaves claw marks across his cheek.

As I struggle, I almost have Hawthorne and Gilad off me, despite their size and weight. I crash back down, though, as Edgerton tackles me, too. The wiry soldier from the mountains of Swords gets my arms behind me once more. Everyone hangs on. Wrist restraints clamp onto me while Gilad and Hawthorne hold my legs.

Hammon gets down at eye level with me. Her brown ponytail sticks out from her helmet and sweeps the floor. “Look at me!” she orders. “You’ll survive this! We won’t let you die for a family that no longer wants you. You’re a secondborn Sword. You’re our family now!”

All I can do is pant, unable to take a full breath with their weight on top of me. Gilad and Edgerton slide off. Hawthorne hauls me to my feet by my wrist restraints. I refuse to cry out, even though it’s excruciating.

Agent Crow starts clapping. “This is so touching. What a little family unit you’ve become in such a short time.” He’s less than pleased, though. He wanted me to hit him.

Hawthorne shoves me into Gilad and Edgerton with a murderous look. They each take me by an arm and lift me off the ground, though I’m no longer struggling. They walk me out of the building while Hawthorne stays behind with Agent Crow, who calls out after me. “I’ll keep your sword safe, Roselle! Not to worry!”

Outside, the sunlight makes me squint. “Secure a hover,” Gilad growls to Hammon. She complies, asking the Tree valet to call a lightweight commuter hover for us. She motions for Gilad and Edgerton to bring me, and I’m half dragged, half lifted off my feet and pushed into the vehicle. Gilad and Edgerton place me between them, their broad shoulders squashing me. Hammon gets in and sits in the row behind us.

I taste blood on my tongue. I lick my lips. They’re bleeding. Hawthorne appears a few moments later. He gets into the front of the vehicle, throwing my leather jacket at me from over the seat. It hits my chest and falls to my lap. The sleeve of my blouse has torn at the shoulder, exposing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing tears to recede. I open them when I have my emotions restrained. My throat aches with the effort.

“Sector 4-15. Tree 177,” Hawthorne hisses, touching the scratches I left on his cheek. His fingers go to the shell of his ear, presumably to feel if it’s still attached. The hovercar moves forward, navigating the traffic on its own.

Gilad wipes blood from his nose onto the sleeve of his combat armor. It doesn’t do much to stem the flow of it. He says nothing.

Edgerton chuckles. “You’re a spitfire, Rose—”

“Shut it!” Hawthorne orders, glaring at him from the front seat.

“Well, she is,” Edgerton mutters under his breath. He tosses the golden claw ring that I was wearing to Hawthorne. “Here, I got you a souvenir.” Hawthorne catches it and files it away in one of his armor compartments.

Not another word is spoken in the fifteen minutes it takes to travel to the concrete Tree. Gilad gets out of the commuter vehicle first, followed by Hammon. Edgerton makes a spinning motion with his fingers while he whistles. I turn and present him my back. He takes off the wrist restraints. I straighten in my seat and rub my wrists while he clips the cuffs back onto his combat belt, and then exits the vehicle.

I slide over to get out, but Hawthorne stops me. “A word, Roselle.” I pause, staring out the windscreen. He sighs in frustration. “Do you know the average life expectancy for a secondborn Sword from the aristocracy after his or her Transition Day?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s four weeks. That’s around thirty days. Do you know why they don’t last very long?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s because no one likes them. They’re unlikable. They usually don’t know how to do things, and they’re arrogant and lazy and expect things to be done for them. They believe their hardships are worse than everyone else’s. I can tell already that that is not you. You’re strong, capable, and you don’t complain. But you’re arrogant, and arrogance will get you killed faster than the other traits combined. Listen, I know what it’s like—”

“You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t have any idea what my life is like!” My throat constricts. “I know things you couldn’t possibly know. No one expects anything from you, Hawthorne, except for you to follow orders. Go where they tell you. Sit where they tell you. Sleep where they tell you. And you do everything they tell you, and when you do it well, you get merits.”

“How are you different than that?”

I don’t say anything.

“Aw, I get it,” he says disgustedly. “You think you had so much more to lose than I did. You’re from a better family than mine, is that it?” That’s partly it, but not all of it. What I don’t tell him is that no matter what I do, I’m always at a disadvantage. Everyone has a preconceived notion of who I am because of the family I was born into. Everyone has had virtual access into my life. The idealized role I have had to play as a symbol of a secondborn Sword follows me, makes me different. The worst thing that I can be in a situation like the one I’m in is different.

Hawthorne sees none of this. “Well, like it or not, Roselle, we’ve wound up in the same place. You’re no better than me now and, unlike you, I know how to survive here. You still have to figure it out.” I hug my leather coat, pulling it closer to my chest. Hawthorne rubs his temples with his fingers, like he’s trying to think. He drops his hands, and his eyes meet mine. “Just so you know”—his hand gestures in my direction—“there are already bets on how long you’ll last.”

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 fusionblade. “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.