Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(35)

“What do they do?”

“Security patrols, automated drones that catalogue and ping monikers. If you’re not where you’re supposed to be, they’ll deviate from their route and confront you. Never cross a gold road without looking.”

I nod, resuming my rubbernecking. A stinger makes its way around the circumference of the trunk, passing a familiar type of bunker. More stingers are stationed outside the thick metal doors. “What’s that there?”

“That’s a Census access station.”

My heart beats faster. “You mean they live beneath this Tree, too?” Goose bumps form on my arms as I remember Census’s cold cells—the feeling of being buried alive. I imagine the guards stationed on the other side of those heavy doors protecting the elevators that lead underground.

“They live and work beneath most Trees in this area. They have a network beneath this whole Base. We share some of the tunnels. If we’re attacked, all noncombatant personnel will go below ground. Some triage units and medical facilities are also below us.”

Around me, automated heavy machinery moves supplies onto air-powered conveyors that lift into tubes. These tubes form arteries into the Tree, carrying everything from munitions to rations and cartons of new boots and blankets. Hawthorne points. “Those tubes are called phloem. Everything gets unloaded and coded, then transported along the thousands of phloem to different departments and distribution centers within the trunk. Those pipes there,” he says as he points to liquid-filled pipes of different colors, “are called sapwoods. They carry water, fuel, waste, et cetera, up and down the trunk, to and from the branches above.”

A unit of soldiers runs by us in formation, using a green track that spans the perimeter. Soldiers hang from the sheer cliff faces of the trunk by harnesses and rock-climbing gear. Zip lines connect levels. Soldiers use handheld trolleys on the zip lines to descend floors and automated ones to ascend. Looking up, dark hallways are visible everywhere in the trunk, leading in every different direction, presumably, to the branches and then the exterior hanging airships that make up the leaves of the Trees. Unlike the officers’ Tree, the open air of the trunk does not extend all the way to the canopy. Solid levels begin far above us.

I follow Hawthorne, circumnavigating the cargo areas, and we arrive at the center of the trunk. “This is called the heartwood,” he explains. A series of poles with steps on either side moves continuously up or down. Fifty or more are clustered in this one area. Soldiers grab the poles and step onto stairs that either lift or descend, like a ladder, but with the rungs on the outside at alternating heights.

“Have you ever used one before?” Hawthorne asks. “They’re easy. Just get on a step, secure yourself by holding the pole, and then step off when you reach your level. In your case, it’s level five.” He walks toward one and pauses, blocking the flow of traffic onto one of the heartwood lifts. Tropo soldiers move to different lines to avoid the delay. “Whenever you’re ready, Roselle.”

I climb onto a step and clutch the pole with both hands. It lifts me, and my leather coat slides to the crook of my arm. Hawthorne steps onto the same lift at the same time, taking the adjacent step slightly lower than mine. I gaze into his gray eyes, feeling my face redden and my heartbeat rush in my ears. We enter a glass pipeline, and now it’s reasonably hard to fall off the lift and very intimate.

“Approaching level one,” a feminine robotic voice announces. As we reach the floor, there’s an opening to step through, but we continue upward, encircled once again by the frosted glass tube.

Hawthorne reaches out and touches my cheek. His fingertips are warm and rough. He caresses the sore spot where I hit the marble floor when he stopped me from retrieving my fusionblade. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” He frowns. “You’re so light. I used too much force. I was afraid you were going to hit Agent Crow, and then you’d be taken from us. I didn’t think I could get you out of Census twice.”

“I was going to hit him.” I can hardly blame Hawthorne. He probably saved me from much greater torture, maybe even death. What he doesn’t understand is what my fusionblade means to me. Everything here is considered disposable—including people. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “It’s not my first bruise.”

“Approaching level two.” We pass the floor.

His thumb traces my bottom lip as we slip hidden behind frosted glass again. Longing like I’ve never felt before shatters the anger that I felt earlier. “It may not be your first bruise, but it’s the first one from me, and I’m sorry for it.” My insides tighten, and my whole body floods with heat. The violence of the ache leaves me breathless.

“Should I punch you in the face and call it even?” I ask, leaning my hip against the pole between us for support.

“Approaching level three.” I don’t even glance at the platform as it goes by.

He grins. “Would you? It’d make me feel so much better.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

“Approaching level four.” The floor glides by us.

Hawthorne drops his hand. “The next level is five. We’ll step off there.” The heady rush of being near him is knee-weakening. I’ve been surrounded by powerful men all my life, but not one has affected me like this. It’s a vicious craving for something that I don’t entirely understand. I want to touch his hair, to slide my fingers over the angular planes of his face.