Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(37)

I glance at my moniker. The sword-shaped hologram on my hand shines brighter than my old one, the crown more pronounced. “I was given a new one yesterday.”

“Can I look at it?” She takes my hand, gently touching the small scar that the moncalate device left when Agent Crow implanted the new processor. “Your sword has a rose-colored ring around it. Why was it never removed?”

“The stain of the birthmark is deep, so the only solution would be to cut out the area of skin and regenerate tissue over it. My mentor was against it because he didn’t want my training delayed for something he thought was frivolous. Since I’m secondborn, no one argued with him.”

“Well, I think it’s interesting,” Emmy replies with a conspiratorial wink. “Have you used your new moniker yet?” She goes to the side table and retrieves a shiny silver, laser-like tool.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re equipped with the latest technology. This is top-secret Atom device-ware. Your moniker is state of the art, impossible to clone. The Gates of Dawn will have a difficult time sneaking into our Fates when these beauties get implanted. They’re going to start phasing them in soon to the general population.”

“What’s new about it?” I ask.

“Didn’t anyone tell you how to use your moniker?”

“No.”

She lifts my hand in her own again. “First of all, let’s take care of this scar.”

“I don’t have any money to pay you.”

“Oh, this one is free. They should’ve done this for you when you had it installed.” She passes the laser over the incision mark. I feel heat, but nothing more. She sets the laser aside. Reaching into a drawer under the table, she extracts a handful of test-tube-shaped vials. She holds the shades of them to my hand until she finds a match for my skin tone. She removes the cap to reveal a roller-ball applicator and rolls the vial over my incision mark. A cool, fleshy gel covers the scar. She caps the vial and drops it back into the drawer. Lifting the laser once more, she passes it over the gel. The gel melts and blends with my skin. The scar disappears.

“Thank you,” I murmur. I’ve had this procedure done often. Training with fusionblades is dangerous.

Emmy lets go of my hand and sets the laser aside. “Here, let me show you what your new moniker can do. I just had mine installed last week.” Holding up her hand, she shows me her silver moniker in the shape of a carbon atom—six electrons circle a cluster of six protons. “Mine will only respond to my own touch. It’s a series of taps along the length of the moniker. Think of it as a keyboard.” She taps the skin. A holographic screen alights. “Once you activate the screen, you can use this simple menu to interact with it.”

“What does it do?” I ask.

“Well, that depends on your clearance level. I only have some of the most basic functions for my personal use. This will eventually replace our wrist communicators and my tablet. I’ll be able to access files directly from my moniker. It’s supposed to make my work more efficient. Here, let me show you.” She looks at her menu bar, choosing options by glance alone. My profile alights on her holographic display. “This is the best function I’ve found so far! I’m going to contact you.” She stares at my profile on her display. Menu items blink as she chooses them. The moniker in my hand vibrates. My eyes widen. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” She laughs.

“How?”

“Tap the tip of the sword—long–short–long.”

I do as she directs. A holographic display alights from my hand. “What now?” I ask.

“Okay, stare at the menu display that reads ‘Incoming contact.’ Now choose ‘Accept.’”

I do, and the holograph above my hand changes to display the side of her face. She peers into her own screen. Her full-faced grin broadcasts in a tiny hologram. “Hi!”

“Hi!” I can’t help but smile. We play around with the contact feature until I get the basics of it down. Emmy insists that I add her to my contact list. She shows me other features, like the guidance system that will help me navigate Tree 177 and other areas of the Stone Forest Base.

Finally, Emmy sighs. “You should explore your moniker more in your downtime. Just remember that whatever files you access are logged.”

“What do you mean?”

“They can track your location, what you’ve been looking at, and who has contacted you. It’s all logged.”

“Oh,” I murmur. “Is there a way to turn that off?”

“I don’t know. I think you’ll have to ask one of the programmers. I’m medical.” She lifts her tablet once more. “What would you like to do next, the med exam or placement?”

“Placement.”

She nods. Her blond eyebrows lower in concentration, a tiny crease forming between them. “You’re Tritium 101—T-101 for short. You’ve been assigned to the ambulatory brigade for active field operations. For now, you’ll be tagging casualties in the field during active duty.” She must know how grim her news is because she forges on with a fake optimism. “They have you slated for aviation training when you cycle out of active duty—whoa . . .” she says. “You must be seriously smart to have tested into pilot training.”