Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(40)

Emmy shows me the rest of the dormitory airship. There’s a deck below our quarters where fighter planes are stowed. Mechanics and pilots work on the sleek vehicles and the troop movers, readying them for combat missions. The rest of the air-barracks is restricted to higher clearance levels and off-limits to Tropo soldiers like me.

“Most of what you’ll do will take place in the trunk of a forest Tree or on the battlefield. This is really just your quarters. So now, I’ll release you into the system and you’ll get your first activity.” She takes her tablet and stylus from her pocket. “Okay, open your schedule and tell me where you’re supposed to be.”

I open my schedule on my moniker. “Lunch,” I say, “and then fusionblade training in facility Q.”

“I’ll walk with you as far as the dining hall. I’d eat with you, but I’m not coded for your facility,” she explains. “And you wouldn’t want me tagging along with you anyway. I may scare all of your potential Sword-Fated friends away—Atom-Fated, you know—we’ve sort of got a bad reputation lately because of the Gates of Dawn and all.”

“I could never see you as the enemy, Emmy,” I reply. “It would be nice to have a friend like you.”

She grins at that. “You’re special, Roselle. Try not to change.”

A loud siren sounds, startling us both. I look around in panic. A red light blinks above one of the branching hallways. “It’s okay,” Emmy says. “That siren is a call to all the soldiers on this level to gather. A new airship has docked—returning soldiers from the front line. More airships will return over the next few days because a cycle is ending. This is a way of welcoming them back. Whenever you hear that siren, you have to drop whatever you’re doing and go to the designated area.”

We follow the flood of soldiers gathering in the trunk. Thousands of us crowd the main deck in front of a branch hall airlock. The airlock opens, and everyone around me applauds. The first grim-faced soldiers emerge from the dark tunnel and file by. Their uniforms look new, like mine, but the soldiers in them are as different from me as they can be. New fusionblade scars have turned faces to railway lines. Eyes are missing. Ears are missing. Fingers and hands are gone. These are just the ones who can walk.

The applause fades. Harrowed looks and a growing sense of horror ripple through the crowd. No one among the thronging crowd expected this kind of parade. They expected a victory celebration, not a procession of haunted stares. Red-coated medical professionals move through the crowd. Doctors rush soldiers past us on hovering gurneys to hospital facilities beneath the trunk.

As the last of the wounded are cleared, we move to leave, but the siren sounds again, and we both still. The red light turns on above the adjacent hallway. The hangar door lifts. Tropo, Strato, and Meso Sword soldiers file out of the tunnel, none of them injured. The crowd erupts. Hats fly into the air as war heroes file by, their expressions grim. The crowd quiets. The returning soldiers don’t disperse. Instead, they wait in a wide circle with their backs to us.

The last two soldiers drag a severely beaten Tropo soldier across the floor. His head hangs listlessly as they carry him to the center of their ring. Then the unit commander appears from the shadows of the corridor. Battle scars etch his face. He surveys the gathered crowd. When he speaks, his voice booms throughout the deck.

“Soldiers!”

“Oosay!” Everyone answers as one.

“We have a coward in our midst!” He walks to the bleeding young man in the middle of the circle. If he’s even conscious, he cannot hold his head up. Two soldiers hold him up by his arms.

“This man is a traitor!” the commander shouts. “Why, you may ask? What has he done, you may wonder? Nothing! He has done absolutely nothing!”

Confused chatter breaks out among the soldiers.

“His job,” the commander continues, “is to beacon wounded soldiers in the field for evac. Did he do his job?” His hand shakes back and forth. “Passably. He tagged some wounded soldiers. Medical drones came to help the fallen. He did the minimum required of him.”

He fishes into a pouch and holds up a black circular disc the size of a thumbnail. He holds it aloft, turning it. “This is a death-drone beacon. It is used when ambulatory medic soldiers come across a wounded enemy combatant! Simply place this beacon on the body of a wounded enemy soldier and alert a death drone. The death drone will arrive and interrogate your enemy for you! The death drone will determine whether that enemy should be transported to a Base for further interrogation. If there is no need for your enemy to continue breathing the air that belongs to you, the death drone will deliver swift and righteous justice to your enemy!”

Manic applause ripples through the onlookers. The commander nods. “Do you know how many death drones were summoned by this soldier?” the commander asks. “Zero.” He makes a 0 with his hand and turns so that everyone can see it. “He did not tag a single one of your enemies for termination.”

Soft hisses build among the crowd and the soldiers.

“That means that those of you who are about to ship out on your next active tour will have to face the same Gates of Dawn soldiers that could’ve been killed if he’d done his job!”

The commander points to the unconscious soldier, circling. After a full rotation, he approaches the wounded man. Holding the pouch of beacons above the Tropo’s head, the commander empties the satchel. The discs cascade down, sticking like black rain to the soldier’s skin and uniform. A deafening surge of cheers erupts again.