The moment I cross the threshold, my skin prickles with unease. Twilight Forest soldiers are inside. They’re the type of dangerous animals who only come out in darkness. “Well, well, the conscripts have arrived,” says a thuggish one with a scar across his chin, his fusion rifle in his hand. Other soldiers are with him, leaning against lockers, their arms crossed, the Twilight Base emblem etched into the breastplates of their black combat armor. The emblem’s violet Tree branches spread out with a soft glow, as if lit from inside.
More female soldiers trickle in, all attractive. Hammon is among them. A soldier trails her.
“I’ve fallen into the deep end,” a soldier murmurs near me, close enough to cast his shadow upon me. “Little fish, little fish,” he whispers, “you’re a rare one. What’s your name?”
I ignore him, gather up my armor, and try to squeeze by him. He closes the gap, his mouth looming near my neck. “Don’t swim away, little fish.”
“I have twenty minutes to report for duty.”
“I could get you tossed back into your pond, but you’ll have to do something for me first.”
“I could gut you,” I reply, the unlit hilt of my fusionblade pressed to his groin. “Back. Up.”
He does. Another soldier near us laughs. “She’s no little fish, Carrick. You hooked yourself a whale there. She’s Roselle St. Sismode.”
The soldiers trade looks. “So it is,” Carrick says. “You won’t last the day with what they have planned for you. You should take my offer. Someone else could go in your place, if you’re nice to me.”
“I’m never nice.” I leave to change in the bathroom.
When I return, Hammon is beside me in her combat uniform. The emblem on her breastplate glows with a silver-etched Tree, like mine. She has her helmet on, but her visor is up. “We’re being drafted by Protium 445. They went through our rosters and chose only the soldiers they deemed the most attractive conscripts.”
I put my helmet on. “What are they going to make us do?”
“I don’t know yet. Stay close to me, and I’ll have your back.”
I nod. We make our way to Deck 134. The moment we enter Hangar 12, a gruff soldier shoves me in the opposite direction from Hammon.
“Can we stay together?” Hammon asks him, indicating me.
“Aw, that’s so cute. They want to stay together, Tolman.”
Tolman sneers at her. “Sorry. We don’t take requests from Stone Forests. Anyway, you don’t want to go where St. Sismode is going. Trust me.” He raises his rifle and aims it at her. She backs away, her eyes on me, as we’re moved toward different airships.
The troopship I enter is almost full. Soldiers twenty or more years older than me, in blood-smeared armor with grimy faces, sit wearily on shallow seats.
“Why, if it isn’t the St. Sismode secondborn,” a soldier says as I approach him, looking for a seat. “Come to grace us with your presence, have you?” He spits at my feet as I walk past. Others follow his lead, and soon my armor is dotted with sputum. I find a seat near the front, by the pilots.
Another soldier walks up and hands me a pouch. I’m the only one who gets one. I strap it to my armor. One side of the pouch is filled with red medical-drone beacons, the other with black death-drone signals. Otherwise they look virtually the same.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
The soldier scowls at me. “You’re bailing out between the enemy’s line and our line just east of the current battlefield,” he replies, “where the fighting has already taken place. We’re going to the trenches west of your position. The fighting could shift back to you. Stay on your toes.”
“If it does, you’ll be trapped in the middle, between both of us,” a soldier beside me cackles. “Dead center.” He shoots me with air-gun fingers.
The soldier across from me chimes in. “If it was up to us”—he swings his head and looks down the line of soldiers in the unit—“you’d be fighting, not scouting for broken bodies, but there are rules now about young soldiers in combat.”
“Swords have gone soft, is what it is,” another says. He spits through the hole of his missing front tooth. “In my day, you’d be the first to die on the battlefield, you bloodsucking St. Sismode. Now you get to wipe what’s left of our asses for us when we get ’em blown off.”
“Yay for progress,” I mutter.
The soldier next to me laughs, though it sounds more like a death rattle. “You got moxie, I’ll give you that. I used to think you looked like your mother, but it’s your father you take after. Him and his Virtue-Fated cronies always did have a one-liner ready.”
Whether this man knows Father or has merely watched him on the visual screen is unclear. The fact that he thinks I’m anything like him is unnerving. I hardly know my father. “Kennet is the kind of person you don’t sit down next to unless you’re sure he hasn’t moved your chair,” I answer.
“You’re not the kind to be hollowed by a firstborn’s cuts, though, are you, girl?”
I lift my chin a notch. “The secret is to leave before their insults slice too deep. The fools on parade never notice when a secondborn escapes their carnival.”
He gives me a grunt of approval. “Maybe you’re not just a pretty visitor on her way through. We’ll have to see how you do.”
“I’m still not wiping your ass for you,” I reply, which leaves them all laughing despite themselves.
The door to the airship closes and we settle in for the journey to the front line. It’s the wee hours of the morning, and most of us haven’t gotten more than a few hours of rest. Once we’re airborne, some soldiers sleep. Snores issue from the bobbing heads around me. I’m too wired, and I don’t trust any of them enough to close my eyes.
A couple of hours into the flight, the hatch opens. Wind whistles through. The cold of the first gust makes my teeth chatter. Fear rattles through me, too, as if the hammer of some long-dead god is beating my heart for his war drum. I’ve only had one jump simulation.
I close the visor of my helmet against the frigid air. The visual access monitor lights up. A beautiful woman’s face and bare shoulders appear across it. She’s from the Fate of Diamonds, her perfectly coifed hair and ruby lips as unmilitary as one can get. Her voice is low and sultry, as if she’s outlining plans for an upcoming date night, rather than the mission at hand.
“Soldier,” she breathes with a come-hither smile, “you have been chosen as our first responder. Your mission is to locate wounded Sword soldiers, your brothers and sisters, and tag them with the red beacons you have been given. Once a disabled soldier has been tagged, a medical drone will be summoned to assist him with his injuries. After you have dropped your beacon on him, do not wait for the medical drone to arrive. Move on to the next soldier who needs your help.
“You have also been given black beacons in your first responder kit. It is vital that you place black discs on any enemy combatants that you discover wounded or active. This beacon will dispatch a death drone to your position. Once an enemy is tagged, it is best to move on, making sure that your pouch is closed and that other black beacons on your person have not been activated. In the event of multiple black-disc activation, discard the beacons and move away from them quickly. Failure to utilize black beacons will result in severe penalties. Remember, the more black beacons you place upon your enemies, the faster we can end this terrible war and enjoy the peace and prosperity we each so desperately crave and deserve.
“In the event that you are able to secure any weapons from the fallen and wounded, it is imperative that you collect them. Automated hoverbins will circulate through the battlegrounds. Simply place all discarded weapons into the hoverbins as they pass. Good luck, soldier, and thank you for your service. Long live the Fates of the Republic.” The visual screen turns off.
The soldier who gave me my pouch earlier walks up the aisle toward me and stands by the open door. A green light turns on. He walks down the line and thumps each soldier on the top of the helmet except for me. He
goes back to the front of the airship. Holding out three fingers, he draws one back. Two fingers. One finger. All the soldiers on the airship rise and lurch toward the door, jumping two by two into the night.
The soldier directing the exodus waits for a few seconds, then he comes over to me and thumps me on the top of the helmet. My heart races. My knees shake. I rise from my seat and walk to the open doorway. It’s total darkness below me. The only light is above, a half-moon and the pinpoints of stars. The soldier holds out three fingers. Then two. Then one.
I jump.
For a few moments, I see nothing. Green outlines form as my night vision picks up the heat signature from the ground. The ground detector initiates the gravitizer in my suit, triggering the repelling force of a magnet that pushes against the molten metallic core of the planet. The pressure punches my chest painfully, making it feel like a safe has fallen on it. I try with all my might to keep my neck up and my chest out, grunting and gasping from the effort. The force eases as I fall the last few dozen feet to the ground, but the impact still knocks the wind out of me. Wheezing, I lift my head from the soil. The impact left an impression of my helmet. I search around for other soldiers, but I can’t see anyone.
It’s silent, and I’m alone, pinned down by the night. Pulling my glove back, I check the time on my moniker. It’s nearly dawn. Crawling in the dirt, I take refuge behind a small clump of trees. I check my rifle to make sure it’s fully armed. Leaning against a trunk, I hold the rifle on my lap and wait for sunrise.
As dawn rises over the field, the ground around me is brown and cloying. White wisps of fog and mist shroud the battlefield ahead of me, and I can hear something now, the sound of weapons fire and incendiary devices. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the sky lights up through the dense fog.
Barren trees twist deep purple in this light. I rise and walk toward the fighting. Near the former frontline trenches and bunkers, the bodies begin to pile up. Blood soaks the muddy terrain. A tide of war washed through here at some point during the night, laying waste. The carnage is everywhere. I lift my face to the sky, looking for an answer to it all. Mist on my visor is the only response.
I hear a groan near me, drop to my knees, and begin digging through mud and pieces of soft flesh. Wiping grit from armor, I see the sword-shaped emblem that indicates one of us. A wave of relief washes over me. I open his visor to see his face. He’s older, maybe in his thirties. Blood trickles from one of his nostrils.
“Help me,” he begs, his eyes unfocused.
“You’re going to be fine,” I assure him, hoping that it’s true. I fumble with the pouch clipped to my waist. My gloves are too thick, so I strip them off and clip them to my waistband. The air is cold. My fingertips turn pink. From the beacon pouch, I extract a red disc and place it on his armor. It sticks like a magnet. A red light flashes on and off, signaling a medical drone.
I begin to stand, but the soldier grasps my hand. “Please help me.”
“A med-drone is on the way. You’re going to be fine, soldier.” My voice is strained and low.
“Please,” he begs. I take his hand, holding it until the medical drone arrives, then I move back so it can work on him. Its blue laser light flashes over him, giving him a full-body scan. A robotic arm emerges from the drone, ratchets down, and sticks the soldier in the neck with a syringe full of white liquid. The soldier stops moaning and closes his eyes.
Two more claws emerge from the medical drone. One attaches to the armor of the soldier while the other stabilizes his neck and back. Together, the claws lift him from the ground while a third arm emerges and places a swatch of cloth beneath the soldier’s body. The swatch inflates into an air-pallet. The claws lower the soldier to the pallet, securing him to it with straps. The air-pallet lifts from the ground and hovers away with the soldier in tow, in the opposite direction of the battlefield. The medical drone retracts its arms and flies into the mist. I move on, pawing through bodies, checking for pulses, opening visors to check for breathing. No one is alive—not Swords, and not the Gates of Dawn soldiers in their warrior armor and unique helmets.
At midday, the sky is just as gray as it was at dawn, and the mist is no less thick. I take a sip of water from the straw in my helmet. The supply is running low. I’m not sure when, or if, they plan to pick me up.
I’m so near the battle now that the noise is no longer muffled. An arm moves in my peripheral vision. A dark-armored soldier with heavy black gates etched into his breastplate lies on the ground amid others with violet-colored Tree emblems on their breastplates. His visor is down, a swirling night sky engulfed by black holes. I’ve seen it before, like the one the Gates of Dawn leader wore when my hovercade was attacked. The one I dream about almost every night. It can’t be the same man. They’re probably just both from the Fate of Stars.
He reaches for his fusionblade, but a body bogs him down. He struggles against the dead weight as he sees me nearing him. One of his arms is useless. His armor is sliced open from his shoulder to his abdomen.
I’m close now. He tries again to grasp his fusionblade, but it’s just out of his reach. I kick it away, he stops struggling, and his head drops, his breathing coming in heavy pants from beneath his visor. My hand trembles. I have to see him.
I inch nearer, drawing my fusionblade. I hold it close to his neck. “Open your visor,” I order.
“Why?” he asks in a deep voice.
“Do it.”
The visor skips back to reveal his grimace. He squints in pain. I stare at him for a long moment. “What are you looking at? Just do it! Kill me already!” My hand trembles, and he sees it. I extinguish my fusionblade, attaching it to the weapon’s clamp on my thigh armor. “Aw, I thought you were brave, Little Sword,” he says. I unzip my pouch and fumble for a black death-drone beacon. “But you’re a robot, same as the rest of them. They programmed you not to think for yourself. To follow orders. To do as you’re told. I bet you don’t even know why you can’t think for yourself. It’s the way you were raised, indoctrinated into their society—and it is their society. It was never yours, not since the moment you took your first breath. It was always theirs.”
I set the black beacon on the side of his boot. He tries to scrape it off, but it holds firm. The ominous black light blinks on and off, calling to the nearest death drones. The ground rattles beneath us, the battle growing louder. The injured man tries again to reach his sword. He groans in anguish and tries to scrape the beacon off his boot again, but it clings with the tenacity of a parasitic insect.
He’s not the one who attacked me in Forge. I know he’s not. He was probably never even there. The wrongness of summoning the death drone tortures me. I move to pick up his fusionblade to give it to him so he can defend himself. As I grasp the hilt, sparks pierce my skin. Molten heat burns me. I scream in agony and drop the sword. Red welts bloom on my right palm in the perfect outline of the crest etched into his fusionblade.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks. “It knows you’re not me.” The smirk of vengeance on his feverish face is more acrid than the smell of my burnt flesh. “You can’t shrug that off.”
I turn my head and hit my visor button with my chin as I retch. It ticks back enough so that my vomit only splashes on the ground. When I’m done, I walk a few steps and sit down, cradling my swollen hand in my lap. The compartment on my gun belt holds my first aid supplies. I fumble through it with one hand for some ointment and a clean bandage. The ointment cools the burn on contact, and I breathe easier. Tearing the bandage package open with my teeth, I wind it around my palm and tie it off. I lean back against a rock and stare straight ahead.
The wounded Gates of Dawn soldier reaches to his waistband. I tense and make to stand, but he doesn’t pull a weapon. Instead, he extracts a little white pill. Raising it to his mouth, he’s about to swallow the cyanide when I lurch forward and knock it from his hand.
He groans and closes his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you at least go out fighting?” I
kick his fusionblade closer and back away.
“No one fights to stay in hell.” He doesn’t reach for his fusionblade. “Your drone will interrogate me, Little Sword. I’d rather not stick around for it.” Drool runs from his mouth. “Do you know where the phrase ‘stick around’ came from?” he asks. His hand searches the ground for the cyanide capsule.
“No.” I pull at the dead body that has him pinned.
He seems not to notice. His breathing slows. His skin is losing color. “It’s from a book. ‘A friend sticketh closer,’” he grunts, “‘than a brother.’”
The dead body slides free, and I let go of its limp arm, seeing his wounds for the first time. His collarbone is cut clean through, but it can be mended. “What does it mean?” I ask.
“It means that even when your brother goes away, a true friend will remain forever.”
“Sounds like something a firstborn would say,” I reply.
He laughs in delirium. “It does, but . . . I think it means something else. Why are you sticking around?” he asks.
I kneel beside him and place my good hand on his forehead. He’s clammy. He’s trembling—going into shock. A death drone emerges from the fog. A steel rope slithers out from its belly and wraps around my enemy’s neck, pulling tight. The drone attempts to scan his moniker, but all it finds on his left hand is a scar where the processor chip has been removed.
“State your Fate of origin,” the eerie machine demands. I know the soldier is Star-Fated—it’s obvious from his armor.
The pressure on his neck eases so he can speak. He gasps but refuses to answer. I ease my fusionblade from the scabbard with my left hand. The moment it ignites, I slash the death drone in half. It falls in two pieces.
I kneel beside the soldier and untangle the steel rope. He gasps. My cold fingers pry off the death-drone beacon. Standing, I toss the blinking black summoner into the air and swing at it with my fusionblade, disabling it.
Secondborn Page 18