Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(34)

“How are you different than that?”

I don’t say anything.

“Aw, I get it,” he says disgustedly. “You think you had so much more to lose than I did. You’re from a better family than mine, is that it?” That’s partly it, but not all of it. What I don’t tell him is that no matter what I do, I’m always at a disadvantage. Everyone has a preconceived notion of who I am because of the family I was born into. Everyone has had virtual access into my life. The idealized role I have had to play as a symbol of a secondborn Sword follows me, makes me different. The worst thing that I can be in a situation like the one I’m in is different.

Hawthorne sees none of this. “Well, like it or not, Roselle, we’ve wound up in the same place. You’re no better than me now and, unlike you, I know how to survive here. You still have to figure it out.” I hug my leather coat, pulling it closer to my chest. Hawthorne rubs his temples with his fingers, like he’s trying to think. He drops his hands, and his eyes meet mine. “Just so you know”—his hand gestures in my direction—“there are already bets on how long you’ll last.”

I lower my chin, feeling ill. “I’ll make it.”

“Will you?” he asks softly. “Then I’ll double down on you.”

“Just stay away from me. I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, like you didn’t need me in Census?” Derision is written all over his face.

“That’s done now. You don’t have to watch out for me anymore.”

He sighs. “You’re gonna need a friend.”

I stare him directly in the eyes. “A friend wouldn’t have stopped me from getting my sword back.” I slide out of the car and wait for him to join us. He does, looking grim-faced. Holding my coat over my arm, I smooth the fabric so that my hands don’t shake.

Turning to the other soldiers, Hawthorne says, “Rejoin the unit and resume your duties. Dismissed.” Gilad walks away without saying anything.

“See ya around, Roselle,” Edgerton says.

We are stopped before we enter the concrete-and-metal military trunk. Our monikers are scanned. A brawny soldier at least ten years older than us reads the monitor of the scanner. “Roselle Sword, you’re to report to Intake—sector 23, level 5, subsection 7Q.” His deep voice is sharp. He motions to a soldier near him.

Hawthorne holds up his hand. “I’ll take Roselle there.” Hawthorne taps the face of his wrist communicator. A map readout projects up from it.

The older soldier gives him a sharp nod. “Patr?n.” Hawthorne gestures for me to come with him. We enter through a hangar door fortified with artillery shields. As soon as we cross the threshold, there’s an antechamber with metal benches. On the other side of the room is a huge oblong-shaped archway that opens into the trunk of the Tree.

Hawthorne takes off his helmet. His hair is matted down. He swipes his hand through it and moves toward the automated conveyor system. Wall ports of various sizes and shapes cover one side of the small room. One of the conveyor ports activates the moment Hawthorne tosses his helmet onto it. Air catches it and lifts it up through a clear tube, into the ceiling, and out of sight. Hawthorne strips away his rifle, depositing it onto another port conveyor. The air catches it, and it’s gone in seconds.

“When we return from active duty,” Hawthorne explains, “there are drop-off points for your gear. Everything is coded for you, so it’ll be returned to your pod cleaned and conditioned. You want to do this every time you use your armor because it’ll get rank quickly if you don’t.”

“Who cleans it?” I ask.

“Stone workers assigned to our Base.” The stream of air takes his combat boots the moment he throws them through a hole to the conveyor. He removes his remaining weapons—his fusionblade, fusionmag—a handheld fusion-powered gun that fires bullet-like bursts of energy and knife—and they whisk away through the hole. He strips off his chest mail and armor, placing them in the conveyor. Barefoot and attired in combat leggings and a clingy combat shirt, he shifts to an adjacent wall unit. Tropo-ranked soldiers wait in line for automated stations that line the wall. Hawthorne goes to an empty one marked “Strato.” He scans his moniker. Holograms of clothing flash in front of him, all higher in rank than Tropo. He selects a midnight-blue Strato uniform, socks, and training boots. A parcel wrapped in clear plastic descends into a bin next to the wall unit. He unwraps the package and quickly dons the shirt and trousers. I wait, trying not to admire the way his muscles bunch and stretch beneath his shirt. He sits on a bench and bends to fasten the buckles of his boots.

He finishes, straightens, and stands. “C’mon,” he says.

We enter a cargo area. It takes a few moments to adjust to the dim interior. Without windows, this Tree is dark and oppressive compared to the glass one. Natural light is replaced by ghostly bluish tracks of incandescent bulbs. It’s bustling, though. Soldiers are everywhere. No one is sitting around. Whereas the ground floor of the officers’ glass Tree is made for gathering and social interaction, this one is purely utilitarian, with massive storage units and pallets of everything soldiers need for survival.

Hawthorne grabs my sleeve. “Careful,” he says, yanking me back from a shiny, sharp-nosed drone. It flies by at eye level above an outlined track on the floor painted in a wide yellow band. “You’ll want to make sure the stingers aren’t coming through. They travel the perimeter of stone Trees.”