Othala’s indulgent smile is faked. “You should never bet against the Fate of Swords. We win The Trials almost every year.”
“The odds have plummeted on the Sword champions—the attack, you know. Your Fate suddenly doesn’t seem infallible.”
Mother looks as though he’s slapped her in the face. She tries to hide it, though, forcing a grin. “It will be interesting to see who comes out the victor.”
“The victor of The Trials never returns to his Fate, does he?” Grisholm asks, baiting her.
Gritting her teeth, Othala forces another smile. “I believe you’re correct. Balthazar chose to leave Swords and live in Virtues after winning last year’s Trials.”
“You can’t resign them to their Fates after they’ve seen Virtues,” Grisholm quips. “Plus our women are”—he evaluates me from the floor up—“more discerning in their fashion sense than those of other Fates.” I consider jumping over the railing of the island module and falling to my death—anything to get away from Grisholm’s smirk.
“Forgive my son, Roselle,” Clarity Bowie says with resignation. “He has avoided the responsibilities of his birthright ever since he could crawl.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I am, as ever, at your service,” I respond, forcing a smile of my own.
“Your mentor speaks highly of you—or should I say your ex-mentor?”
“I will always consider Commander Kodaline to be my mentor, even if I never see him again.”
“He says that you’d make a fine leader.” Mother’s face loses color.
“I hope one day to lead a secondborn regiment of my own. I will train rigorously that I may achieve my goal.”
“There are other ways to differentiate yourself as a secondborn. You’re quite skilled with a sword, or so Dune tells me.”
“I have trained with one most of my life.”
“You could be useful. We have many enemies in our Fates.” Clarity Bowie casts a glance at Admiral Dresden. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dresden?”
The admiral scrutinizes me. “She has potential for special operations.”
“Father,” Grisholm sputters, “are you trying to make us late for the fete? Mother will be beside herself if she’s left alone among the secondborn pod-dwellers of The Trials.”
“She’ll be fine. She has quite a taste for secondborn pod-dwellers. Go if you must.” The Clarity waves his son away.
Grisholm doesn’t need to be told twice. His holographic image blinks out. For the next hour, the remaining council grills me as I rehearse a crafted set of answers to all the questions the press will be allowed to ask. When the gathered holograms are satisfied that I’m ready, they wink out, all but Fabian and Othala.
The Clarity of Virtues gives me an approving nod. “I will leave you to it, then. Make us proud, Roselle.”
“Excuse me, Clarity Bowie?”
He looks surprised that I would address him, but he indulges me. “Yes?”
“We never spoke about what I’m to say about the Fusion Snuff Pulse. What do I tell people about the weapon that brought down the airships and destroyed power in part of the city?”
“It was an explosion, like we said before.”
“But it wasn’t an explosion. It was a total loss of power.”
“If that were to become known, we’d have widespread panic.”
“If we don’t tell people, they’ll think it’s something that can be avoided with bomb-detection units. They won’t know that they could be flying in an airship and suddenly lose all power. We need to build everyone pulse-protection cages around their energy sources and tell them to stay grounded until the threat has passed. Or at least have them convert to hydrogen power in the meantime.”
“You will say nothing. Everyone has to keep working and living as if nothing can touch them. Do you understand?”
“But if we teach them how to build their own anti-pulse cages—”
“Then they’ll be doing the work of Star-Fated secondborns. That cannot happen. Your Fate is your fate and you must adhere to it or bad things happen.”
“Bad things are happening,” I insist.
“You will not say a word about the FSP! Do you understand?” he shouts.
“I understand.” I’ve never felt more intimidated in my life, not even by Agent Crow. I’m trembling for real now, and there’s no hiding it.
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
In an instant, only Mother and I remain. She looks me over. “You’re a disgrace. Couldn’t you have cleaned up before tapping in?”
“I was told this meeting was to be conducted with all due haste—”
“Do not disappoint me again, Roselle. You’re on a very short tether now. I will personally see to it that your life is filled with misery if you mess this up.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“You already have. Clean yourself up! I want this finished first thing in the morning before The Trials begin.” Her hologram extinguishes without a good-bye.
Chapter 8
Exo and Ohs
I stand on the island platform in shocked exhaustion for several moments, until I realize that I’m no longer in a bubble of secrecy. Turning toward the gangway, I’m confronted by six curious faces. “The press conference is in the morning, before the first test of the Secondborn Trials,” I say numbly.
“You have to get some sleep. I can only do so much with your puffy eyes—I’m not a miracle worker!” Emmitt replies in a panic.
Hawthorne joins me in the center of the island. “We’ll take Roselle to our air-barracks and return her to you in the morning.”
Emmitt wags his finger at Hawthorne. “No, no, no. You’re not taking her from this building. I’m going to be up all night planning her hair and wardrobe as it is. She stays here. You can come back when we’re done.”
Emmitt bickers with Hawthorne. The Stone’s voice has a hollow sound. The hanging trees surrounding us wait like gallows as they fight over me. Hawthorne stops abruptly. “When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply. I don’t feel hunger, just terror.
“Right.” He turns to Emmitt. “Roselle needs to eat. Take us to our quarters and send for rations so that she doesn’t collapse, or you can explain why she’s not at the press conference in the morning.”
Emmitt takes a hard look at me, his gaze with the weight of a thousand eyes. He must agree with Hawthorne, because he lifts his hands for Clara to come forward. “Have you secured quarters?” Emmitt asks. “We need to accommodate”—he waves his hand in the Sword soldiers’ direction with a disdaining look—“them as well.”
“I have access to an apartment several levels up in the Treetop. A firstborn officer agreed to let us use his suite.” She glances at her wrist communicator. “Clifton Salloway. Apparently, he’s a fan of our Roselle.” She nods in my direction. “This way.” Clara leads us to the elevators.
The lift takes us up to the top floor. The doors open on another that leads to a suite. The drawing room has a multilayer air-billiards table in the center of it. A wet bar and lounge area intermingle, while five or more private rooms hide down side hallways. Gilad activates the wall-sized virtual screen with a voice command. Almost every channel is broadcasting commentary on the hunt for the Gates of Dawn rebels who perpetrated the act of violence against our fatedom, or live-streaming feeds of the Secondborn Trials Opening Ceremonies, or presenting reports about the participants in this year’s Trials.
Gilad settles on the champion profiles, as the Diamond-Fated commentators discuss our fifty or so Sword representatives, among them Tilo Sword, 61-924501. They rattle off his statistics, strengths, and attributes. Tilo, a veritable giant of a man on the screen, has an insolent smile, as if he fears nothing. I study his sword work, knowing that a fusionblade is the great equalizer between us. I wouldn’t need the kind of power he possesses to defeat him. He’s slow and my fusionblade is quick, but now, my weapon of choice can be rendered obs
olete with a push of a button—the right kind of pulse—an FSP. If I had to fight someone like Tilo with a steel blade, mine would have to be small and light, giving him the advantage because he could wield a broadsword with ease.
I walk away as Gilad and Hammon debate the weaknesses of the next set of champions from the Fate of Seas. Edgerton uses an airstick to blast billiard balls around the obstacle-laden, air-powered table. Emmitt and Clara converge in front of a conference wall unit, haggling with the glass Tree staff about the rations we need to see us through until morning. Emmitt, as always, is winning the argument.
Slipping out onto the balcony, I find we’re not in one of the docked ships on the branches; rather we’re in the trunk, with balconies that jet out over the lake beneath us. This Treetop view of the stone-and-glass forest must only seem commonplace to avian and Firstborn Exo officers. The moon illuminates flat landing pads that cover some of the tops of the Trees along the canopy, but not ours. We’re so high up, nestling between the clouds.
The unfamiliarity of it all is almost as frightening as being in Census. Goose bumps rise on my skin, and I try not to think about the scorn on Mother’s face. What happens if the Gates of Dawn use the FSP again, and I fail to warn everyone? Will those deaths be on me? Tears prick my eyes and slide down my cheeks. My hair, long and loose, tangles in the breeze.
“I’ve never been in a Treetop apartment before,” Hawthorne says as he joins me at the railing. I quickly wipe the tears from my face with my sleeve. He pretends not to notice. “I’ve only ever seen this kind of luxury on the virtual screens.” I don’t comment because to me, this isn’t luxury. “I bet you’re used to this.”
I clear my throat, but my voice is still thick. “This is all new to me as well.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m used to a more lavish cage than this one.” I cross my arms and rub my hands over them. The breeze is cold, but I don’t want to go inside and watch the other soldiers debate the merits of champions who will almost certainly die in agonizing ways in the next couple of days. I glance at Hawthorne and see him frown. He has taken off his helmet. His hair is sandy blond, a little longer in the front than I’d expect from a soldier. It suits his roguish nature. “Forget I said anything,” I mumble.
“You always looked so focused.”
“When?” I ask. I’ve felt off-kilter since I’ve known him.
“When I watched you on-screen. You always seemed so grateful to be a secondborn and to serve our Fate.”
Another voyeur. “What makes you think I’m ungrateful?”
“I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to call your home a ‘lavish cage.’”
“It’s not my home any longer, and please, forget I said anything.”
Hawthorne moves away from my side. He descends a few stairs into a sunken seating area and lights a fire table in the center. Simulated flames rise up from its core, illuminating his face with a golden glow. I move to the fusion-made heat, stretching my hands out to it.
Hawthorne faces me across the table. “Did Agent Crow hurt you?” The simulated firelight reflects in his eyes. “You were there for days.”
“I only remember the last dozen hours. I don’t know. He tried to, but I wouldn’t let him. It would’ve been worse if you hadn’t—thank you.”
Hawthorne’s jaw tightens as he grits his teeth. “I wouldn’t leave a drone down there with him.” My heart sinks. A part of me was hoping he’d come to help me because it was me down there. “You seemed to be holding your own when we got there.”
“Agent Crow underestimated me. He won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, he won’t,” Hawthorne agrees with a frown. “Men like that don’t stop, Roselle.”
“Maybe, if I’m lucky, a city will fall on him.” I’m so tired that I’m forgetting to be cautious about what I’m saying—or maybe I trust Hawthorne, even though I hardly know him.
“We can hope,” Hawthorne replies. My eyes widen at his treasonous agreement.
Attempting to change the subject, I ask, “Are you okay?” His stare shifts away from the flames to me. “About Agnes. You said good-bye to her. It looked . . . permanent.”
He shrugs. “We had a date night once.”
“That was much more than a date night,” I reply. “That looked like a relationship.”
He scowls at me and gazes around to see if we’re being overheard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he growls. “You know it’s forbidden for us to have relationships—casual encounters only.”
“I would never tell,” I murmur. “Did you two meet in secret?”
“It’s over, Roselle! Whatever we had is finished now. We can’t be seen together, not with Agent Crow’s threats. I won’t risk her further.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, and I mean it. He acknowledges me with a curt nod.
Clara opens the balcony doors and beckons us inside. “The rations are here. You’d better come in before everything is gone. Honestly, do they not feed you soldiers?”
I cross the balcony and enter the suite. The soldiers have shed their weapons and body armor, resting them against walls and sofas. Hawthorne follows suit and takes off his rifle and chest armor, depositing them in a neat pile in a corner. I thought his armor was the reason for the breadth of his chest, but I was wrong. The armor is thin and lightweight. All of the bulk is Hawthorne’s muscles. My face flushes, and I look away.
A servant has set us a table in the dining area, and a buffet has been laid out on the lavish side table. Large trays display selections of meats and cheeses, bread and pastries, vegetables and fruit. The soldiers load food onto their plates. Hawthorne hands me a porcelain dish and insists that I serve myself before he takes anything. He sits next to me at the long table. Emmitt sits on my other side.
Gilad, Hammon, Hawthorne, and Edgerton attack their food as if they’ve never tasted anything quite as good. I eat at a sedate pace, trying not to gag. It’s not that it’s entirely bad, but the meat is salty, the cheese isn’t very creamy, and the fruit isn’t as fresh as I’m used to. Emmitt pronounces his meal inedible and pushes it away. Gilad looks up from his plate and stabs Emmitt’s steak with his knife, confiscating it.
Emmitt scowls at him. “Must you?” he asks.
Gilad doesn’t answer, just keeps chewing while staring at Emmitt like he’s next to be stabbed. By the end of the meal, I can barely keep my eyes open. After stifling several yawns, I give up trying to be polite. “I wish everyone a good evening,” I say, pushing away from the table and standing. Hawthorne stands, too, but the other soldiers choke on laughter.
Gilad catches his breath for a second. “Good evening to you, too.” I can tell when someone is mocking me, I just don’t know why. Apparently, neither Clara nor Emmitt knows either, because they’re as baffled as I am.
“Don’t be savages,” Hawthorne says with a scowl at his team. “You could all use some manners.”
“What good are manners in a battle?” Gilad asks.
Not waiting to hear the answer, I walk away to the farthest door at the back of the suite, and Hawthorne follows. “Who is Walther Petes?” Hawthorne asks, his voice low enough not to be overheard.
Hesitating, I turn back from the doorway and stare at him blankly. How does he know that name? “I’m sorry, who?”
“Walther Sword—his last name was Petes until his secondborn processing—I don’t know his number.” He has an intense look, as if he sees right through me.
“I don’t know. Why?” I reach for the doorframe. My knees feel weak. Walther is a secret that I need to keep, no matter what.
Hawthorne seems not to notice my weakness. “He commands a unit at the secondborn Base near the border of the Fate of Stars—the Twilight Forest.”
I shrug and lean against the doorframe. “So?”
“So he’s a combat commander for Vector Company. What does a combat commander want with you?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. Dune must have
gotten word to his older brother to find me—maybe Dune’s not leaving my placement to chance like everyone else has. “Why do you ask?”
Hawthorne leans against the other side of the doorframe. “I was under orders from my commanding officer to extract you from Census, but it was to be a covert mission. I had to work it out on my own—assemble my own team. They sent me because you’re familiar with me. I assured them that you’d trust me if I found you.”
“How did you know I’d trust you?” I ask.
“I just knew.” I turn away to retreat into the private room and evade any more of his questions, but Hawthorne holds my arm. “I caught the tail end of a briefing between Commander Aslanbek—he’s my CO—and Commander Walther.”
“What did they say?”
“They were arguing about you—about who ultimately keeps you.”
“I don’t know anything about it. I thought you were acting alone.” I don’t know why I’m crushed by disappointment, but I am. I thought Hawthorne came to help me because he’s my friend—my only friend. I should’ve known better. I’ve never had a real friend apart from Dune. I don’t even know how to be a friend, let alone make one.
Hawthorne squints at me, as if he notices my disappointment but not the reason for it. I straighten. “I’ll see you at first light,” he says. He lets go of my arm.
I can only nod. Entering the bedroom, I slump against the door to close it. I don’t even bother to wash my face before falling headfirst onto a pillow.
My neck is sore when I rouse from a nightmarish sleep. It’s still dark as I lie in bed, looking around at unfamiliar shadows as dark as the folds of Agent Crow’s leather coat. My heart slows, and I wish that I had thought to pour myself some water before bed.
In my dream, I’d been searching the wreckage of the airships for bodies. Coughing on rock dust, I couldn’t find anyone alive, only pieces of people—hands with red roses still clutched in their fists. Some of the mangled corpses had stumbled from beneath the rubble, their limbs crushed so that they lurched and jounced, dragging broken legs and feet. Some of the dead soldiers had twisted jaws hanging sideways and heads held at strange angles. They crowded around me, pawing my uniform, until I realized I had a silver-sphered Fusion Snuff Pulse in my hand. Pressing the button, it stole their power, rendering them dead once more.
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