Secondborn

Chapter 12

Detention

We travel almost all the way down the Tree’s trunk to the detention center on the second level. The lead MP scans his moniker at the steel doors. One thick door opens. Inside is a small antechamber with a glass divider to a larger area. We walk to the glass. Behind it, a lone guard waits.

“One for detention. Detainee was quiet,” the lead MP says to the female guard on duty behind the glass. “No additional charges to assess, Tula.” The guard, in possession of my generic fusionblade, deposits the weapon into a phloem. The air-powered pipeline sweeps it away.

“Scan her over to us,” Tula replies without inflection.

The lead MP takes me to the panel on the wall. My cuffs are taken off and my moniker is scanned. A piece of the glass that separates this room from the rest of the facility descends into the floor. “Step through,” the lead MP orders. I obey, passing through a laser that scans my entire body. On the other side, I look at the glass, which projects my complete body-image scan. I can see all my vital organs and the moniker chip inside my hand. The missing piece in the glass ascends from the floor and seals shut.

“Present your hands,” Tula orders. I do as she says, and she cuffs my wrists in front of me. We walk a few steps to another guard. “One for cell 685.” She lets me go and returns to her post.

I’m remanded into the custody of an older guard with thinning hair. He leads me away and scans me through several corridors to a hallway of individual cells. He opens one and indicates that I should enter. I do. He formally reads me my sentence of forty-five hours’ confinement. The officer takes off my cuffs and leaves, closing the cell door behind him. Sinking wearily onto the bottom bunk of a stack five high, I cover my eyes with my hands, thanking whatever providence allowed me to escape Agent Crow for a third time.

“Brandishing is sort of an asinine thing to get arrested for,” a lilting feminine voice informs me from a bunk above mine. I thought I was alone. She sticks her head over the side of her berth, two pallets up, and looks down at me. “Are you thickheaded or something? Why would you threaten some heathens with a sword in front of everyone? I can think of better ways to get your point across.”

“I find that being direct works for me,” I reply.

She snorts. “Being direct here isn’t the best strategy.” Her black hair falls around her face. She has a line of star tattoos over each of her eyebrows. “It gets you thrown in the cooler faster than you can say ‘St. Sismode Sword.’ Would you look at that? I just said your name, and I didn’t even mean to. It’s just a saying we have here.”

“It’s a stupid saying,” I mutter.

“Aye, maybe ’tis at that, but I’m not wrong about what I said. Brandishing is a threat for the slow-witted. Never threaten. Promise—in private—and back it up with something more than words.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Flannigan, but my friends call me Flan.”

“What are you here for, Flannigan?” I ask.

“Ah, this and that, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I’m fairly slow-witted, so you’ll have to explain it to me.”

“I get things. Things people need. Useful things.”

“You’re a thief?”

“I’m a privateer,” she retorts. Her hand hangs over the bunk, showing her Stone-Fated moniker.

“Those stars above your eyebrows, what do they mean?” I ask.

“I fell in love with the night.” They look as if they’re ascending over the peaks of her eyebrows, like rising stars over mountains. “I have a business proposition for you.”

“A what?”

“I need your assistance. In return, I’ll be indebted to you until such time as I can return the favor.”

“Why would I need the services of a failed privateer?”

“I’m very good at what I do.” She narrows her eyes at my insult.

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her. “If you’re such an exemplary privateer, why is it that you’re locked up in a cell?”

“I wanted to get caught.” She sniffs and looks at her black-painted fingernails.

I think she must be joking, but her expression doesn’t change. “Why would you want to get caught?”

She climbs down from her perch and stands by my bunk, waiting for me to move over. I grudgingly scoot to the wall and she lies beside me, her black hair covering mine. “I wanted to get locked up because it’ll give me time to figure out a strategy to escape,” she whispers.

The thought of escaping this existence is a tempting one. I have no idea where I’d go, but anywhere seems better than here, within reach of Agent Crow. “Why would detention be any easier to escape than your air-barracks?”

“It isn’t, but I needed a place to hide.”

“From whom?”

“Monsters in black coats.”

“You’re hiding from Census? In here?” I gesture to our cell.

“That’s right,” she whispers. “They’re changing out monikers. Mine is cloned—they’ll be able to tell when they extract it. I must find a way off this Base without getting caught. They’re working on the Tritium 101 monikers right now because we’re scheduled to ship out soon to the Twilight Forest, and from there, the front line. I just have to avoid them until we do.”

I’m shocked. “You’re in my air-barracks?”

“Aye. It was me who put your leather jacket in your locker for you. I never felt leather that nice before. It’s contraband, mind you, and if they catch you with it, you’ll do time in here again. You’re in Section Black, same as me, except I’m in the underdeck, where they put all Stones who assist Swords.”

My eyebrows lower in confusion. “I didn’t see my leather jacket in my locker.”

“Oh, I hid it for you. It’s there, in the false bottom that I created for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I can find a buyer for you, if you’re interested. You can get quite a few merits for it, if you go through me.”

“Are you thirdborn?” I ask, on a hunch.

She wrings her hands, the first sign of fear I’ve seen from her. “No. I’m secondborn. I just don’t come from the Fate of Stones.”

“You’re from Stars.”

“Aye.” She points to her tattoos. “I got these beauties before I became a privateer.”

“Why would you change your moniker?”

“Stone-Fates don’t have many advantages. It’s probably the worst Fate to be born into if you have ambition, but it’s the best Fate if you want to become invisible. No one sees us, even in our orange uniforms. We’re beneath notice. Being invisible is an advantage for someone in my profession.”

“What will happen if you’re caught?”

Her face pales, and she looks away from me. “They may think I’m a good-for-nothin’ thirdborn, but even if they do believe that I’m secondborn, they’ll want to know how I came by my cloned moniker, and that I can’t tell ’em. If I do, people will die. So they’ll torture me until I talk, or until they kill me. Either way, it’s not worth livin’ for. I have this.” She holds up a small white capsule. “Cyanide. It’s a better death.”

I rub my forehead. The stress of the day has brought on a headache. “Listen, I’ll help you avoid Census. Please get rid of that.”

“I promise you that I will pay you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Why would you help me and not expect payment in return?” She’s studying me.

I lower my chin, unable to meet her hazel eyes. “I’m responsible for Census’s getting someone who tried to help me—a Moon-Fated advocate. An agent named Crow killed her. In a way, I owe a debt.”

“Then, you’ll help me . . . for real.” She expels a pent-up sigh.

“I’ll help you. What’s your plan?”

A little more than thirty-two hours later, at around midnight, I’m writhing on my bed, pretending to be ill, watching as Flannigan tries to get the attention of the MP on duty. It takes a lot of door-banging, jumping up and down, and hand-waving, but she finally gets a detention guard to come into the cell.

“Oi, are you sick?” the guard asks, twisting his mustache like he doesn’t believe a word.

I groan. “I’ll be okay,” I reply, holding my hand to my stomach, lying on my bunk in the fetal position. “Stomach problems. I ate the porridge.”

He’s not unsympathetic and calls an Atom-Fated medic for me. The medic dispenses a couple of antacids and tells me to drink water. Before the guard leaves, Flannigan rests her hand on his arm and thanks him. The guard sees the doctor out and closes the cell door behind them.

When he’s gone, I sit up, drinking water to wash away the taste of the chalky antacids. “Did you get it?” I ask.

“Aye.” She sits beside me on the bunk, showing me her moniker, which has changed from a brown mountain-range symbol to a silver sword-shaped symbol.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

“’Tis my processor. They call it a copycat. It cost me a fortune, and by tomorrow, it’ll be absolutely worthless. The new monikers repel its ability to infiltrate the technology. Until someone comes up with a way to beat the new moniker processors, I’m in serious trouble.”

“Do you still have your old moniker?”

“I do, but it’s not here. It’s back in Stars. I couldn’t let it be found on me when I crossed fatedoms.”

I lift her hand and admire the sword hologram. “Have you been many places?” I ask.

“I’ve been everywhere. I’ve had thousands of lives that were not my own.” She doesn’t look much older than twenty as she stands and crooks her finger at me. “And now, whenever you’re ready, I’ll have one more to share with you. Follow me, and we’ll be Holcomb Sword for a while.” She giggles, like this is a game, but it’s a deadly game, and I’m just waking up to the fact that I’m ready to play it.

When the hallway is clear, Flannigan scans her cloned moniker at the gateway. Circumventing the guarded hallways, we reach the heavily guarded outer gate of the detention center, and Flannigan pulls me into a room filled with cleaning equipment. She opens a grated vent at the back wall. “Follow me,” she whispers and disappears into the vent. I climb in next to her, and she pulls the grate back into place. We crawl through a metal shaft that leads to another grate. This one empties out into a dim concrete tunnel.

This tunnel is empty and dank, lined with sapwood pipes that transport water, fuel, and waste along the trunk of the Tree. It also has clear tubes filled with data lines. Flannigan looks directly at one of these and follows it down the tunnel until she comes to a small access panel with a holographic scanner. “There it is,” she says, rubbing her hands together.

“What is it?” I ask. My heart is pounding. I’m afraid we’ll be caught at any moment. Flannigan doesn’t seem to share my concern and places Holcomb’s moniker under another scanner. “What are you doing?”

“I’m accessing the detention center’s inmate roster, making it look as if you were in our cell all night. I’m scheduling you for release at five a.m. I, on the other hand, was never even there. No connection will exist between us. You won’t have to go back to the cell. I’ll make the action log close out seamlessly.”

“You can do that? You can take yourself right out of the detention center logs?”

“I can do anything,” she says. Her grin is full of bravado. “Watch—I just erased myself from this Base.”

“What happens if we get caught?”

“We won’t.” She winks at me. “This is like a golden halo stroll down the streets of Purity,” she whispers.

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask.

She quirks her eyebrow. “I’m a Star, remember? I was born to create this kind of technology for the ease and comfort of the aristocracy. I got bored and decided to see the world instead.” She plucks at holographic screens with her index finger.

“Of all the places to go, I’m surprised that you ended up here.” Something isn’t quite right about Flannigan. She may try to appear as if she’s just a free spirit, but there are an underlying intensity and drive that don’t quite fit what she’s telling me.

“I took a wrong turn.” She shrugs. “Believe me, I want out of here as fast as I can manage it.” That I can believe. She closes down the holographic screen. “There,” she says triumphantly. “We are officially free women.” She links arms with me. “C’mon, let me show you my world. But first!” She holds my hand and lifts her boot up. Sliding the heel to the side, she reveals a small compartment. From it, she extracts two pieces of thin metal, two inches by four inches. She slides the heel closed and extracts a couple of fingerless gloves from the heel of her other boot. Both are left-handed.

“This,” she says, holding up one of the pieces of metal, “is lead.” She opens a small slot between the finger and the thumb of one of the gloves and slides the metal into it. She hands me the glove. “Put this on.”

I slide the black glove on my hand. The lead covers my moniker.

“Your moniker can be tracked. Right now, your signal is coming from the detention center. When you move away from it, you leave a trail, unless your moniker becomes invisible by blocking that signal. With that glove, you can walk right by a stinger and it will never know you’re there. It won’t challenge you. It won’t report you to the MPs. It will be blind. Stinger drones send out high-frequency pings that interact with your moniker. With the source covered, they get no feedback.” She puts her own glove on. “Now, let’s see what mischief we can find.”

We set off. She locates internal heartwoods used solely by the Stars, Atoms, and a few Swords who maintain the Tree Base’s infrastructure. I head toward the one that leads up, but she grabs my arm. “We can’t go up,” she says. “Most of the Census agents are up, replacing monikers. We go down.”

One level down, we come to a laundry. Even at this hour of the night, Stone workers are busy washing bedding and uniforms. We bypass them by sneaking behind the large industrial machines. The tumble and hum drown out our sound. Coming to a separate aisle, we’re hidden behind large racks of black leather coats.

“Here.” Flannigan takes a long black coat from the rack and holds it up to me. She hands it to me, along with the white uniform shirt and black trousers of a Census agent.

“What is this for?” I ask, as she chooses a tailored coat for her small frame.

“Don’t you want to get your fusionblade back?” she asks, slipping on the white Census shirt. She stares at me, a challenge.

“How do you know about my fusionblade?”

“I make it a priority to know all there is to know about the soldiers I serve.”

“No,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Something’s wrong. You know entirely too much about me. Did you know I was going to be put into detention?”

“It was over three hours from the time you brandished to the time they picked you up. In that time, Census made a move on you. You can connect the dots.”

“You had me picked up?”

“Of course I did. No one reported you—it’s the Sword secondborn code never to rat on each other or you’re labeled a turner, and turners die badly. I had to do something or Agent Crow was going to kill you.” She slips into the black trousers.

“Who are you?” I ask, not moving.

“I’m a friend. Now do you want to get your sword back or not? This is the only chance you’ll get. The Census agents are busy changing out the Tritium 101 monikers, which means there are only a few left behind to guard the lair.” She completes her ensemble with a black-leather flat cap that hides her hair and shadows her face. It’s not the uniform of a Census agent, but it may go unnoticed.

“How would we ever find it? There’s a network of tunnels below this entire Base.”

“I have the schematics,” she replies. She locates a bag stashed among the coats, and reaching in, she extracts a wrist communicator. “I can’t turn on the communicator until we’re underground or it will be noticed.” She puts on the powered-down wristband.

“This is insane.”

“No more insane than them taking away everything you cherish in one day. In light of that, I think this is a very sane decision.”

She walks toward the heartwoods, taking the bag with her, slinging the strap of it over her shoulder. I follow, and we descend together toward ground level. Flannigan tries hard to hold back a smile. “I’m glad you could make it,” she says. I stuff my hair up into the flat cap and pull the short leather bill down low to shadow my face.

When we reach the ground floor, we cross out of the utility corridors and exit into a warehouse area. Crossing it is simple. We just move as if we own the place. Stingers patrol the perimeter, but they’re blind to us.

We approach Census’s steel bunker doors. Two more stingers, like enormous hovering wasps, vibrate in the air on either side of them. Icy fear prickles my spine. I swallow down bile. We stop by the door’s scanner. The hum of the automated sentinels grows louder. Every impulse tells me to turn and run. Instead, I stand absolutely still between a stinger and the privateer.

Flannigan eases a small box from the bag. It contains a row of moniker chips individually encased in lead sleeves. She chooses one and slips it from its cover before returning the lead sleeve and box to the bag. The moniker’s hologram shines with aqua light, resembling a cresting wave of water in Flannigan’s palm.

It’s a firstborn’s Sea-Fated moniker.

I have a moment of sheer panic, thinking the stingers will turn on us when they read the pings from the roiling moniker on her palm. Neither one moves. The identity must have authorization to be in this area. The scanner illuminates when Flannigan flashes the shiny, tumbling wave beneath it.

The bunker doors roll open.

Flannigan steps inside the bunker. I follow behind. The doors slide closed. Two armed soldiers stand across a narrow hallway ahead of us, guarding elevators. The men are protected by armor, but their visors are open. A crooked smile forms on the smaller soldier’s face as we move toward him. His flirty voice is directed at Flannigan in front of me. “And who might you b—”

In a blink, Flannigan pulls a Census tranquilizer gun from the bag. Aiming it at the one speaking, she shoots him in the cheek. Surprised, the soldier is slow to react. He doesn’t raise his weapon. Instead, his hand lifts to the silver dart embedded in his flesh. Flannigan pivots. The second guard reaches for a rifle propped against the wall. The dart from Flannigan’s gun strikes this soldier below his temple. Neither Sword drops right away, but both of them stagger, stunned. Flannigan fires two more darts, striking each man just above his jaw. Eyes roll upward. The smaller one falls first, followed close behind by his partner.

“Help me,” Flannigan whispers, thrusting the tranquilizer gun back into the bag. I grab one of the guard’s feet while she gets his arms. We struggle to pull him into a dark room, out of sight. The next one is harder to move, but we manage it.

Flannigan hurries to the elevators. I follow her. Using the stolen identity, she calls a lift. The doors of one slide open. We step inside.

“Is that a copycat moniker?” I ask as the elevator begins to descend.

“Yes, the firstborn profile belongs to a Census agent stationed in the Twilight Forest Base, but he has access to Census in this Base as well.” She slips the copycat into the slot in the side of her glove on top of the lead that covers the moniker implanted in her skin. The Census agent’s crashing wave shines dimly through the glove. “I keep a few of these handy for the doors that are hardest to open. It won’t matter in a few days. They’ll all be useless.” Switching on the wrist communicator, she pulls up the schematics for Census’s underground lair. “The key to getting around is to project confidence. Try not to look anyone in the eyes, but don’t avoid them either.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Privileged boredom works with the aristocracy, especially in Virtues. Census agents are different. You have to behave like a predator. You fear nothing. You’re the hunter. Hunt.”

Flannigan stops the elevator at a floor near the lowest point in the Base. When the doors open, cold air wafts over us. The black leather coats make sense now.

What the privateer said earlier is true. Unlike the last time I was here, there are very few Census agents guarding the corridors. The ones that should be stationed by the elevator on this level are absent from the post. We just pass by the checkpoint unchallenged. The few agents we encounter in the corridors move with purpose, barely giving us a look. Their arrogant conviction that they can never be infiltrated is almost funny. If I weren’t so terrified, I’d laugh.

We hurry through a mile of corridors, following the wrist communicator. “We’re beneath Aspen Lake,” Flannigan informs me. She stops abruptly at a couple of nondescript metal doors. “They’re in here.”

She removes another cloned moniker from her case and opens the doors. I recognize the holographic image of Grisholm Wenn-Bowie displayed upon the access panel of the scanner. “How do you have Grisholm’s cloned moniker?”

“He was easy to get to. He enjoys the touch of lovely women.”

We enter. Flannigan closes the doors behind us and sets her bag down on the granite table in the center of the room. Shiny steel mesh covers the doors of the elegant cabinets lining the walls. Priceless items—jewels, art, prototype weapons—sparkle behind the mesh. On the far wall sits a vault.

“You said we were coming here to get my fusionblade,” I mumble numbly.

Flannigan rummages in her bag and takes out a small device, which she pockets. She reaches in again and extracts a fusionmag. When the bullets from the weapon hit a target, they break apart and extinguish, killing the target without exiting and doing further damage. She arms the fusionmag with a cartridge and hands me the gun. “I lied. This is much more important than a fusionblade. Cover the door.”

She goes to the vault and uses the copycat of Grisholm’s moniker to open it. Inside are rows and rows of new moniker chips, moncalate tools used to implant the chips, and processor boxes used to program them with identities. “I needed someone to help me break into Census so that I could get new monikers. You were my best option.”

She deftly chooses one processor box and one moncalate tool from the vault and puts them in her bag. Removing another device, she shoves it in her pocket, then steals row after row of new moniker chips from the vault until the bag is full. With a rueful sigh for the monikers still left in the safe, she sets the device from her pocket beside them.

“This is an incendiary, Roselle. It’ll explode in five minutes and make it look as if we blew up the new monikers rather than stealing them. That way, they won’t come looking for them. Are you ready?” she asks as she arms the device.

“How could you do this to me?” I whisper.

“I’m not doing it to you. I’m doing it for you.” She secures the bag, moves to the door, and opens it a crack. Seeing no one in the corridor, she steps out. The moment she does, I hear shots. Blood spatters my torso, chest, and face. Flannigan falls against the door and slides to the floor.

Instinctively, I step over her with the fusionmag raised. Four agents are approaching from down the corridor. I fire four shots, striking each agent in the head. The bullets explode, spreading bone fragments and brain matter on the walls. I pivot. The other side of the corridor is empty.

Flannigan breathes raggedly, a shaky hand covering the hole in her abdomen. “Take these to your locker,” she says in a raspy voice. “This bag will fit in the false bottom. On the shelf, you’ll find a handheld welding tool. Seal the bottom of the locker.” Blood drools from her mouth. “Tell him it was nearly flawless. Tell him to miss me. Every day.”

“Tell who?” I demand, my heart pumping wildly.

She smiles. “The man who’ll ask you about me.” She reaches into her pocket and extracts the cyanide capsule, places it in her mouth, and convulses until all that looks back at me is her lifeless stare.

In a daze, I take a few steps, but then I turn back and gather the bag she dropped. Securing the long strap over my shoulder, I reach inside her glove and find the copycat moniker for the Census agent. I slip the crashing aqua wave into the slot above the lead covering my own implanted moniker. Flannigan’s wrist communicator still works. I slip it from her and strap it to my wrist. Then I run.

When I reach the next corridor, I slow and peek around the corner. Three agents run toward me. I step from around the corner and take one down with a fusionmag shot to the head. My next two shots find their marks before the agents can raise their drawn weapons. Running past their bodies, I turn another corner, the labyrinth of passages seemingly endless. I keep running, watching the map on my wrist so that I don’t get lost.

Suddenly the ground shakes. The loud noise of the incendiary device careens off the tunnel walls. As it subsides, a new sound—the sound of rushing water—replaces it. The floor continues to shake. I don’t wait to see what’s coming.

Someone behind me yells, “Stop!” I pause, glancing over my shoulder. A tall male agent stands at the junction of the corridors. He raises his gun, but before he can fire, a wall of Aspen Lake water strikes him and he’s gone, swept down the other corridor. I run again. The sound behind me is deafening. Ahead of me, the elevator looms. Only one Census agent guards it. He looks up and sees me coming. Behind me, a thundering river of water crashes and churns.

The agent backs away and scans his moniker on the elevator’s callbox. The doors open. He backs into the car. I lift my fusionmag, pointing it at him as I run, and shoot him in the neck. The bullet explodes and sparks fly out of him. Arterial blood sprays the wall of the elevator. He holds his throat and slides to the floor.

Leaping across the threshold of the elevator, I’m just in time as its doors roll closed behind me. Water slams against them, pushing them apart again. I’m drenched by the tidal wave as it fills the car. Coughing and panting, I tilt my face toward the ceiling, trying to tread water, but before the wave can drown me, the car lifts up and out of its path. The lake water rapidly drains through the open doors and falls down the shaft. The doors slide closed, finally.

I clutch the railing, gasping out choking sobs. My trembling knees threaten to fold beneath me. The dead stare of the Census guard on the floor is more than I can take. Before I know what’s happening, though, the elevator stops. The doors open. I force back tears and turn, raising my fusionmag and pointing it at an empty hallway ahead of me. Nothing moves.

Is this the same bunker?

I pause, listening. My foot slides forward and I take a tentative step from the lift. Water in my boots makes squishing noises. I sweep the fusionmag, its aim following the path my eyes take as I scan the area. The sound of heavy breathing to my left rattles my nerves. I swing my weapon in that direction. The door to the dark room beside the elevator is ajar. I creep to it, peeking inside. The two unconscious soldiers stunned by Flannigan are still sprawled out on the floor. I back away quietly.

Shoving the fusionmag into my jacket pocket, I strip off the wrist communicator and toss it back into the elevator. The car descends into a watery grave. The fake moniker frees me from the bunker’s prison. I stand between the open doors and covertly stow the copycat back into its lead sleeve and drop it in the bag.

The buzz from the stingers makes my heart thrum wildly in my chest, but my own moniker remains covered in the leaded glove, undetectable. Crossing the warehouse floor, I leave a trail of dripping water in my wake. I take a heartwood up to the laundry. The welcome hum of washing machines drowns out my footsteps.

My trembling hands strip off the wet uniform. Slipping on Flannigan’s orange jumpsuit, I find that we’re virtually the same size. I keep the flat cap, pulling it down once more over my hair to shadow my face. Retrieving the fusionmag from the Census coat, I shove it in the bag.

The heartwood line looms ahead. I stumble from the laundry and jump on one. About midway to my floor, a blaring siren rings, accompanied by a robotic, feminine voice: “All personnel, please report to your air-barracks and to your capsules until further notice. We are on lockdown. Please report to your capsules immediately.”

By the time the heartwood reaches my floor, I’m a trembling mess. I take the corridor used by Stone-Fated workers. The orange-uniformed personnel don’t give me a second glance. Posted signs lead me to my air-barracks. Soldiers guard the door to Tritium 101.

A worker ahead of me tries to scan his moniker, but a soldier stops him. “You’re getting new monikers in your designated areas. Report to your capsules, and you’ll be summoned throughout the evening.” I pull my gloved hand inside my sleeve so only my fingers show. When I reach the soldier, he waves me through.

Before I reach the underdeck capsules, I branch off and take the staircase up to Section Black, open the door at the top of the stairs, and find myself in the back corner of the locker room. An eerie silence greets me. No one is about. They’ve all returned to their capsules. My wet boots echo on the tile floor.

Finding my locker, I’m about to strip off my leaded glove when I stop. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s half past two. I can’t open my locker yet. I can’t take the risk of my moniker showing up here while I’m supposed to be in detention. My scheduled release is five thirty. I have to wait.

Seeking a hiding place, I go to one of the individual toilet rooms and close the door. The moment I enter it, I begin to retch. Leaning over the steel commode, I vomit until there’s nothing left in me. When I’m finally able, I rise and lock the door. Then, I sit and wait.

Jolting awake, I look around. Bathroom. Bag. Orange uniform. Panic. I jump to my feet. My head spins and I see spots. With my forearms against the wall, I wait until the world rights itself, then I open the door. No one is in the locker room. I listen, but the thundering of my heartbeat is all I hear. Gathering the courage to leave the bathroom, I step out with the bag. The clock on the wall reads five twenty. Close enough! I strip off the leaded glove and shove it in the bag.

I hurry to my locker and scan my moniker. The door pops open. Dropping to my knees, I pull apart the false bottom and cram the bag inside it, on top of the outfit that I wore to the news conference. I strip off Flannigan’s orange uniform and the flat cap and thrust them into the hollowed-out bottom. Covering the hole with the piece of metal, I rise to my feet. I tug on my beige pajamas, warm against my cold skin.

Rising up on my tiptoes, I reach and search the top shelf, knocking things over in my haste to find the welding tool that I’m too short to see. It’s there in the back. I drop to my knees again. A golden flame ignites when I pull its trigger. I put it to the floor of my locker and weld the seams. The melting metal blows curls of smoke up. I try not to look directly at it, but I’m partly blind when I finish.

Easing my locker door closed with a soft click, I hurry back to the toilet closet, shutting the door and locking it. With trembling hands, I begin to take the welding tool apart. Footsteps sound outside the bathroom door. The first part of the tool unhinges. I drop it in the steel bowl. My fingers work furiously on the next part.

Someone beats on the door. “Come out of there!” a deep voice shouts.

I take a deep breath. “Just a minute!” My voice is raw and raspy.

“You’re not supposed to be out of your capsule!” The door rattles on its hinges. Gut-wrenching fear squeezes my heart. A fist hammers again. Another piece of the welding tool slides free. I drop it in the toilet. Sweat slips down my face.

“It was an emergency!” I call back. My fingers bleed, cut by the sharp edges of the tool.

“I don’t care if you shit all over the inside of your bunk, Soldier! I want you out here now!” The door rattles on its hinges.

“Okay!” I answer as the final two pieces come apart. I drop them in and flush. When I’m sure that all the pieces have been swept away, I unlock the door. The door is thrown open by a Strato soldier, red-faced, towering over me, looking as if he’s about to breathe fire.

“Tropo! What are you doing?” he demands. Anger gives way to annoyance when he sees my face. I must look petrified.

“I had to go to the bathroom, Patrøn.”

“We’re on lockdown!” he bellows. “You’re not allowed to leave your capsule!”

“I just got here, Patrøn. I spent all night in detention.”

He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Get down and give me fifty push-ups!” I exit the bathroom closet and drop to the ground. The act of doing something so commonplace makes me feel better. When I’m done, I stand and face him. “Now get to your capsule,” he orders.

“Can I wash my hands first?”

“No, you cannot!” he yells. He calls to someone over his shoulder. “Can you take this Tropo to her capsule?”

I look over his shoulder to the soldier standing by the lockers. Hawthorne stares back at me. “Yeah, Barkley,” he says, “I’ll take her.”