Hawthorne scowls. “I know what’s on the other side of the wall now, Roselle.” When he was brought here and processed at the age of ten, he probably believed he was here for a noble cause.
“Do you think I’ll still have to give my speech?”
Hawthorne looks up and frowns. The air is filled with troopships launching from their docks on the stone Trees. They resemble falling half-moon leaves being torn by the wind into the sky. “I think your press conference is canceled. There are no drone cameras here, and I’ve never seen so many air-barracks mobilize at once. They must be mounting a retaliatory strike. I’ve never seen the grounds empty like this before either—especially not on Transition Day. It’s as if we’re the only ones out here.”
“What’s it normally like?” I ask.
“Usually there are thousands of children lined up waiting to be processed. Some are crying, too young to be separated from the only home they’ve ever known. But some are ready—maybe they hope to fit in here like they never did with their families.”
“Were you the former or the latter?” I ask softly.
“The latter.” We cross the landing pad to a wide paved path that leads to an ebony wall that surrounds the gigantic forest. I have to crane my neck back to see the top. Set in the center of the wall is a gate comprised of three golden metal broadswords at least as large as five-story buildings. The center sword is ancient in design, from an era before fusion was reality. It’s taller than the two that flank it by a story. Mystical gates to an enchanted forest, I think.
Hawthorne pauses by one of the armed soldiers stationed along the walkway. “Chet?” He offers the soldier a small white stamp wrapped in cellophane from his pocket.
The soldier looks around as if to check whether anyone is watching. “Thanks.” He casually takes the offered stamp and shoves it inside a compartment on his gun belt. Scanning the grounds, Hawthorne asks him, “Where are all the Transition candidates?”
“Gone. We turned them away. No one gets inside the walls today except the secondborn Sword—orders from The Sword.”
“Why just her?” Hawthorne frowns at me.
“They’re worried about vetting. Monikers were coming up mysteriously inoperable. It’s making everyone nervous. We can’t vet candidates, so we can’t take them. Anyone could show up at our gate saying he was a Sword. No one can verify it if the identifier isn’t working. It’s a Census problem now.”
Hawthorne nods his head, looking on edge himself. “Thanks.” He resumes walking.
“What’s a chet?” I ask, following him.
“It’s for when you need to relax and you can’t. You put it in your mouth, let it melt on your tongue, and everything is okay.”
“You mean it’s a drug?” I frown at him.
“No, it’s a chet—it’s not addictive like a drug, and don’t look so condescending. There may come a day when you need one. If you don’t, then you can count yourself lucky and just use them for getting other things you want.”
“Like information?”
“Yeah, like that.”
The closer we get to the wall, the more defensive features I recognize. An iridescent shield ripples over the surface of the dark wall that surrounds the Base. The shield is more than likely fusion-powered. I cringe. This defense is useless against an FSP. “Are all our fortifications fusion-powered?” I ask.
Hawthorne pauses, turning to look at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Are they?”
“Most.”
“Can they be converted to another energy source? Say—hydrogen cells?”
“Why would we do that? Hydrogen has less than a tenth of the capacity and life that fusion has.”
Suddenly a drawbridge opens ahead of us. It drops from the center of the tallest sword before the Golden Circle inlaid on the ground. Sword soldiers on the other side of the threshold draw their fusion-powered rifles on us.
We enter the beautiful Golden Circle in front of the doors. In the center, an ancient broadsword rises from the ground. Hawthorne removes his black glove, exposing his moniker. He holds it to the golden light of the sword’s hilt. It scans his silver sword-shaped moniker. A holographic image of Hawthorne projects from atop the hilt of the golden sword, detailing his unit, rank, and other information in flashing readouts. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Hawthorne whispers.
“I wouldn’t waste merits on him,” I whisper back.
His eyebrow arches, and he’s about to whisper something else when one of the soldiers at the gate focuses his attention on me. His voice surrounds us. “Scan your moniker for processing.”
I hold up the back of my hand. There’s no obvious glow, just the rose-colored crown-shaped birthmark upon my skin. “It was damaged in the attack this morning. It seems to have shorted out.”
“Scan your moniker for processing or you will be tranquilized.”
I follow his orders. No image of me projects from the podium when my hand is scanned. The soldier who spoke points to another who holds a tranquilizer gun at the ready. My heart accelerates. Hawthorne’s brow furrows. “This is Roselle St. Sismode,” he calls out. “You only need to look at her to know that.”
“She could be—or she could be a surgically enhanced spy made to look like Secondborn St. Sismode.” The soldier spits on the ground.
Hawthorne gestures toward me. “You’ve probably seen her at least a thousand times! Just process her and give her a new moniker!”
“I’ve seen her more times than I’ve taken a shit, but so have our enemies. She can’t be processed without scanning her moniker. If she needs a new moniker, she can’t get it from us. She’s Census’s problem now.”
The very mention of Census sends raging fear through my blood. Hawthorne moves from the podium to block me from the soldier’s view. I’m not one to hide, so I move around him to stand next to him. He frowns and faces the gate. “Can’t we just handle this internally without Census? This is a secondborn.”
An impeccably dressed man emerges from behind the soldiers. His attire would make him the envy of even the best-dressed firstborn in Gabriel’s circle. A long black leather coat—tailored to show off his impressive physique—touches the calves of his high-polished black leather boots. His white dress shirt has the sheen of silk, and his black trousers have the same well-tailored lines as his coat.
But it’s the tattoos near his eyes that give me pause. Thin, black lines are permanently etched from the outside edges of his eyes, curving to his temples. They make him look catlike and lethal. I know what the razor-thin lines mean. Each line denotes a hunt and kill. This Census agent has successfully tracked and executed at least fifty people—probably thirdborns and their abettors.
“Whom do we have at our gates?” the agent asks, his hands behind his back. He strolls through the golden archway, chuckling. “Can it be the legendary Roselle St. Sismode? Why, my dear girl, what brings you to our lair? Why have they banished you to this hellish existence? Surely they could’ve given you a much more suitable position, considering your bloodline.” He stops in front of me and grins like a deranged harlequin.
He’s genuinely handsome, like some ancient king. In his midtwenties, he’s as tall and graceful as a Diamond ad model. His high brows and sharp jaw are appealing, but it’s his smile where things start to go wrong. His four top front teeth have been replaced with steel. So have most of his bottom teeth. I’m having a hard time not reacting to the utterly creepy look he’s giving me.
I knew Census had field agents among the Swords—among all the fatedoms. I just never thought I’d meet one. It hadn’t occurred to me that my moniker would ever fail—that my identity would ever be in question.
The agent’s mood shifts from baiting to thoughtful. “Unless”—he keeps one hand behind his back, the other smoothing back his slick blond hair—“you’re not Roselle St. Sismode. Are you the secondborn Sword—the biggest loser in all of the Fate of Swords?”
I just stare at him, absorbing his insult. He wa
nts me to rush into some explanation—fall over myself in desperation to identify myself. I smile, even though panic is just beneath the surface, but I say nothing.
Hawthorne clears his throat. “This is Rose—”
“Quiet, you!” The agent doesn’t look away from me as he growls, “You have no idea who or what this is. You picked her up on the battlefield, did you not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Let’s not assume anything, shall we?” the agent barks. “Now, let’s take this slow.” The agent bends forward at his waist so that I can feel his breath on my cheek as he stares into my eyes. “Who. Are. You?”
“Roselle—”
The Census agent shoots me. I choke on pain as the steel dart cracks through my breastplate and spews venom into me. The cartridge sticks out from my chest just above my heart. He fired point-blank. I didn’t even see the gun he drew from behind his back until it was too late.
The agent grins at the sounds I make as I writhe in agony. I can see my reflection in his steel teeth. His hand goes to my shoulder to steady me. He touches my hair. “Don’t talk. Just panic.” He breathes the words near my ear as he embraces me.
My hands reach out for his waist. He thinks I’m holding myself up, but I unfasten his leather belt and slip it from his pants. In one swift motion, I have the strap wrapped around his neck and ratcheted in a noose. The leather cuts into his throat. I use all my strength to pull on it. His eyes bulge and widen. The strength of my grip slackens and I falter. Dizziness upturns me. I drop to my knees, still holding the strap. The agent drops to his knees as well, coughing and wheezing as he loosens the noose.
Soldiers yell and run toward us. The next thing I know I’m on the ground, staring up at the overcast sky. The agent waves away Hawthorne and the other soldiers. They retreat, restraining Hawthorne. On his knees beside me, the agent smiles again. A tear slips over the inky lines near one sapphire-colored eye. “You’re mine now,” he whispers in my ear, scooping me up. The steel dart is still embedded over my heart. My head bobs, and I view the world from upside down as he carries me across the golden threshold into the forest of nightmares.
Chapter 6
In Census
The room is small, rectangular, and unfamiliar—dank—a cell, not a room. The only appointments in it are a small toilet in the corner and a steel sink. A steel door is across from me. I have a strange, tinny taste in my mouth. My back aches. I shift and groan from the cold and lack of movement that have made my muscles stiff. I feel buried. I reach for my sword, but it’s gone—so is my uniform. I’m wearing a snug, midnight-blue long-sleeved shirt and loose, elastic-waisted trousers of the same color and coarse material. My feet are bare. I stretch my legs out from the fetal position. The ground is cold beneath me.
A long tube runs down my leg and out the loose pant leg at the bottom. It’s attached to a urine collection canister, nearly full. How long have I been here? I pull out the catheter tube and shove it aside. Beneath the sleeve of my right arm is an intravenous device that could be feeding me drugs or hydrating me. I don’t know which, but I want it out. I tug, and it stings as I extract it. My stomach growls and feels as if it’s gnawing away at itself. I’ve never felt this kind of hunger before.
I shove myself up to my feet. Stretching my arms, I wince. My fingers brush the area where I was shot by the dart. It’s sore. Lifting my shirt, I investigate a massive bruise above my heart, black and ugly but turning yellow—it’s not fresh. How long was I unconscious?
I move to a moniker identification scanner on a panel beside the door. I glance at my hand. My moniker is still dead. I try to scan it anyway, feeling claustrophobic and desperate to get out. The blue laser runs over it. The door doesn’t budge. I bang on it and yell for help until I’m hoarse, but no one comes.
The cold floor is brutal against my bare feet. I’m shivering. Crossing my arms, I tuck my hands in the crook of my armpits while jumping up and down. For a while, I pace the dingy cell, lunging with an imaginary sword. When I’m tired, I curl into a ball. Waiting. Occasionally, the sounds of feet outside the door make me brace myself, but each time, they keep going. I fall back to sleep at some point, and when I wake again, I’m not alone. My skin prickles.
“I was just wondering what it is you dream about,” says the raspy voice of the Census agent. “Puppies?” He sits in a metal chair, uncrosses his long legs, and leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. The collar of his exquisite white shirt is unbuttoned. Red, angry abrasions stand out on his throat. His steely smile is meant to intimidate, and it works.
I sit up and lean against the wall. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I nod. “I sometimes dream of rainbows, too—puppies and rainbows—just like you, I’d imagine. Where am I?”
He grins. “You sleep soundly. I thought for sure that you were faking it when I first came in.”
I shrug. “Tranquilizers do that to me. It feels as if we’re underground.”
He cocks his head to the side. “As a matter of fact, we are. You are my guest in Census.” He takes off his gloves, pulling each of the black leather fingers until the wrinkles straighten. His moniker shines in a golden circlet from his left hand. Its halo denotes the Fate of Virtues—gold for firstborn or unprocessed. Because he’s around twenty-five, I know he’s firstborn. If he had a golden halo moniker, and he was eighteen or younger, he’d either be firstborn or he may not have been Transitioned to a silver halo of a Virtue-Fated secondborn. That happens on a secondborn’s Transition Day.
My eyes widen. By any stretch of the imagination he should be in the capital right now, catered to by an estate filled with secondborn servants. Most of the firstborns who possess a Virtues moniker are from the aristocracy—or else they’re the judges, legislators, ruling clergy, dignitaries, or supply-chain holders. Plenty of firstborns and secondborns reside in the Fate of Virtues, born to serve the ruling class, but they don’t possess monikers from that Fate. They have stone- or sword-shaped monikers—monikers from other Fates.
My family is Sword aristocracy, on par with firstborns from the Fate of Virtues because my mother is the Clarity, but other firstborn Swords are of lower rank than those with Virtues monikers. I can’t imagine why he’d be a Census agent. Most of them are firstborn, but they’re from lesser Fates—like the Fate of Atoms, the technology caste, or the Fate of Seas, the fishing villages—that notoriously don’t produce the kind of wealth and status as firstborn Virtues.
“What do I call you?” I ask, trying to adopt a serene mien.
“Pardon me for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Agent Kipson Crow, firstborn of the Fate of Virtues. I’m from Lenity.”
Purity is the capital city of Virtues. Lenity is its sister city where most of the largest estates exist. “What are you doing here, Agent Crow? Shouldn’t you be in the capital, passing laws for secondborns to follow and hoarding your wealth?”
The kohl-black lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I find that I have less interest in passing laws than I do in enforcing them.”
“What do you want from me, Agent Crow?”
“Please, call me Kipson. And what should I call you?”
“You can call me by my name.”
“Which is?”
“You know my name is Roselle St. Sismode.”
“Do I? I’m still trying to establish who you are.”
“No you’re not.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” He’s more incredulous and amused than indignant.
“You believe that I’m Roselle St. Sismode, so what is it that you want from me so badly that you’d keep me locked away at the bottom of the Base?”
“Maybe I want to get to know you better.”
“Why? I’m secondborn. You’re firstborn. There’s no purpose.”
“You intrigue me.”
“How so?” I ask.
“The Roselle I always watched seemed like such a little robot on virtual access,” he replies, speaking of the drone cameras t
hat have followed me for most of my life, streaming video for anyone to view through access channels. I was given some privacy for a few hours a day, but for the most part, my life was an open book that sadistic voyeurs like Agent Kipson Crow frequently studied. “I thought I knew her, but you cannot be her. She’d never attack me. She’d yield to her superior.”
“You shot me in the heart, point-blank. Some instincts cannot be suppressed, like survival.”
“What a dangerous thing to say—even treasonous,” he replies with chilling amusement.
“Why are you here at a Swords Base, Agent Crow? You didn’t just choose to be here, did you? That doesn’t seem to fit you. Your position in Census suits you very well, but not here. It seems beneath you somehow.” I watch his face for subtle cues, as Dune taught me to do when interrogating an adversary. Agent Crow doesn’t give me much, a flicker of something in the squint of his eye. “You’re not here by choice. You enjoy your role as hunter, but you . . . you had to come here . . . because . . .” He looks down at his moniker. “Because your moniker was not always golden. It used to be silver. You were secondborn.” My heart is beating like a frightened rabbit’s.
“I had an older sister once. She died.” He sounds remorseless.
“What happened to her?”
“She had an accident. Unlike me, Sabah couldn’t swim, you see. No one ever taught her—the firstborn—poor lamb. My parents were so cautious with her, worrying that every little thing would hurt her. They found her one morning floating facedown in the duck pond.”
He killed her—it’s in his eyes. I didn’t think I could actually fear him more, but I do. “How unfortunate. So your parents—”
“Thought it would be better if I pursued my interests outside of Virtues for the time being.” They can’t condemn the murderer in their midst because he has been elevated to their only heir. The bloodline has to continue with him or it dies, too. His parents’ property and holdings would be reapportioned. A small stipend would be set aside for them. Maybe they’d reside somewhere in the Fate of Stones or the Fate of Suns, but they’d never get to stay in the Fate of Virtues without an heir or the permission and ability to have another.
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