Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(41)

The other soldiers drop the wounded man and back away. Death drones pause at the threshold of the hallway where the soldiers emerged. The entire deck grows silent. Everyone backs away from the tagged man.

Except me. I step toward him.

Emmy grasps my sleeve. “Roselle,” she hisses. “There’s no saving him now.” I yank my arm from her and push through the crowd.

Black-bodied death drones emerge silently from the adjacent tunnel, like giant bats from the maw of a cave, following the call of the beacons—the sound too high-pitched for us to register.

Hovering over the wounded soldier’s body, one death drone flashes blue laser lights upon its bloody target. The other drones join it, and the soldier is covered in blue triangles. A moment passes, then two. My throat tightens. I try to get closer, but broad shoulders block my advance, and before I can find a way through, the death drones begin to fire steel slugs into the brain of the Tropo soldier.

I turn from the carnage, feeling ill. Emmy, who had been following, takes me by the arm and wrenches me away from the cheers and jeers of the overworked mob. She drags me into a lavatory and pushes me into a private stall near the back. “Breathe slower,” she says softly. I bend and try to catch my breath. She places her cool hand on the back of my neck.

“They never even gave him a trial!” I whisper.

“There are no trials here, Roselle. There’s only survival. You go against them and you forfeit the right to breathe their air.”

“You can’t believe that,” I mutter.

“It’s true.” She takes a few deep breaths with me. “I can’t save everyone, but this is my shot at saving you. Keep your head down. Do your job and you’ll get through this. The harder you work, the faster you’ll rise, and you could make it out of here. It won’t always be like this. This war will be over one day and things will go back to normal.”

“What’s normal?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know—less violence, more boredom. Listen, let me show you to your dining hall, get you some water. You can schedule time to come and talk to me during my office hour rotations when your unit is stationed here. You’ll be okay.”

Straightening, I nod. A smile of relief crosses her lips. We leave the bathroom together, and my hand shakes as I raise it to look at the map above my moniker. Emmy pretends she doesn’t see my overactive nerves. We follow the map to the nearest cafeteria.

“This is where I leave you, Roselle,” Emmy says at the entrance. “You can contact me on your moniker if you have questions.”

“Okay.” I nod. But it’s not okay. I’m numb.

“Here.” She shoves the bag of crellas into my hand. “You need these more than Stanton. Remember what I said. Contact me if you need me.” With that, she turns and walks to a heartwood, steps onto it, and disappears from sight.





Chapter 11


That Newcomer Smell


There’s almost nowhere to be alone here. The mob sweeps me into the dining hall. Overheated boys slap each other on the backs and shout boisterously to companions. Those who seem disturbed by what they just saw are harder to find.

I scroll through the carousel of cuisine options, the bag of crellas under my arm. The selection of palatable food is limited. The meat options look suspect. I opt for porridge with fruit, toast, and cheese. Ample portions are jettisoned onto a hovering tray that trails me, tracking my moniker as I walk through the seating area. Most of the tables are completely occupied. Every time I think I locate an empty seat, someone looks up, sees me coming, and slides a tray into the empty space at the table. After the fourth time, I begin to take it personally.

Farther back in the dining hall, the uniforms change from beige and blue to other hues. Golden-colored uniforms—Fate of Stars power and technology engineers—are also assigned to this facility. But there is no intermingling between Swords and Stars. I see the red-colored uniforms of the Fate of Atoms medical and science engineers, but not the orange-colored uniforms of the Stone-Fated workers.

I attempt to join a table occupied by four Star-monikered engineers. They seem alarmed as I take a seat and my hovering tray settles in front of me. Three of them rise and depart, leaving half-eaten entrees behind. The trays quickly clear themselves from the table. I turn to the Star-Fated man beside me. The tag on his uniform reads Jakes.

“You must be new here,” he mutters. He shovels food into his mouth as if he’s never eaten before, or else he’s trying to eat fast so he can leave.

“I was processed this morning.” I rest the package of crellas on the table beside me. I unfold a cloth napkin in my lap, pick up my spoon, and stir my steaming porridge. I have no appetite for it, but I know I need to eat it. I have training after this. “Why did they leave?”

“They don’t want any trouble.”

“Am I trouble?”

“Not only are you a Sword, you’re The Sword.”

“My mother is The Sword. I’m just the secondborn Sword. I should be treated like everyone else here.”

He snorts. “Good luck with that. If you’re looking for fairness and equality, you’ve come to the wrong place. Let me clue you in. We’re not supposed to sit together, even if you weren’t St. Sismode. Fates don’t intermingle.”

“Where’s it written that I’m not allowed to sit with you?”