Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(25)

“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 obsolete 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.’”