Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(14)

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.