Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(43)

I’m not unhappy to strip off the armor at the end of the training session. I rub my sore neck and hurry to my next class: weapons training. I’m instructed on the parts of a rifle. I listen to the instructor with only half an ear because I already know everything he explains. He notices my inattention and calls on me. “You there. Come ’ere. You think you’re too clever for this class?”

“No, Patr?n.”

“I want you to reassemble this rifle and shoot that target there.” He pulls a timepiece from his pocket. “Go.”

I reassemble the rifle in under ten seconds and shoot the target. The shot is dead-on. An unbidden smile crosses his lips, and his eyes narrow in mirth. He turns his timepiece to show the other instructor, whose mouth shapes an O. For the rest of the session, they make me shoot at everything that moves on their simulated battlefield. A crowd forms to watch me take down simulated enemies with one-shot-one-kill accuracy, eliciting wary and envious stares from my fellow classmates.

My next class is fusionblade training. I’d like to skip this one. I’m already a pariah, my advanced training alienating me from my fellow Tropo cadets, but there’s no way of avoiding it, so I enter the training room and stretch while we await the instructor.

The instructor’s name is Chaplan. He’s Meso, two ranks above me. Tall and strong with a full beard and green eyes, he instructs us to call him “Master of Swords” or “Master” for short. He gives us an initial demonstration of his skills, and although he has a decent understanding of how to wield a fusionblade, he doesn’t strike me as someone who has mastered it.

We pair off and use modified training swords capable of leaving burns and bruises but not removing limbs. The first cadet I pair with has had next to no training. He’s not happy that I know more than he does and asks to switch partners during our first break.

I beat several cadets in mock battles, and then I’m asked to spar with Master Chaplan’s assistant, Brody. Master Chaplan stops the fight when it’s plain that I could take Brody’s head off. The Master taps in, relieving his assistant. He indicates that I should switch from my training fusionblade to my combat sword.

I bow to him as is customary, straighten, and stand before him, watching as he executes a series of moves. I’d be impressed if they weren’t my moves from a virtual access instructional training session recorded a few years ago. Is he trying to let me know he has trained with me, or is he trying to pass that off as his own work?

Whatever the case, he gets cheers from the cadets. They’re waiting for someone to take me down a notch. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all. I consider deference for a few seconds, and then my pride kicks in, and I change my mind. “Are you ready, cadet?” Master Chaplan asks with palpable condescension.

My chin dips, a small assent. I hold my sword with both hands, the hilt near my right shoulder. He circles me, his back stooped as if he’s more inclined to wrestle than to battle with swords. I stand perfectly still. Waiting. He charges at me from behind. I easily catch the angle of his sword with my own, blocking him. He lunges. I sidestep, planting my left foot on his thigh, twisting my body, and wrapping my right ankle around his throat. Then it’s only a matter of arching my back and throwing my weight backward, which chokes him and causes him to fall flat on his back lest I snap his head from his neck. With a small backflip, I land on my feet.

He struggles to rise from the mat, startled and winded. He gazes around at the silent crowd, rattled by the takedown, but instead of acknowledging my skill, his pride gets the better of him. He begins to stalk me again.

I wish he wouldn’t take this personally, but he has. He lowers his eyelids and puckers his mouth. I kick him in the side and block his sword as it descends from above my head. My kick moves him into position in front of me, and I swing my fusionblade across my body from right to left. At the last possible second before striking, I loosen my grip. The blade extinguishes as I sweep it across his body. Everyone cries out, certain that they’ll see him fall in pieces. My grip tightens again once the blade has cleared his body, the move so quick it creates the illusion that my sword passed right through him.

It’s a parlor trick, and if Dune were here, he’d scold me for it, but I don’t feel the least bit guilty. Master Chaplan drops his sword and touches his chest with rising panic. He stares at me as understanding dawns. His mouth is no longer pinched in anger. It contracts in fear as he realizes he’s punching above his weight.

From behind me, someone claps slow and loud. “Bravo! Brav-o!” It’s Agent Crow. A group of black-coated Census agents wind their way around the room, taking up positions by the doors. I extinguish my sword and sheathe it.

“You do have a knack,” Agent Crow says, “for making people look ridiculous.” He turns to my instructor, whose face is mottled and flushed. “Don’t worry. I once underestimated her, too. It’s a failing that we cannot be too hard on ourselves for committing. We must both promise each other never, ever to do it again.”

Agent Crow strolls toward me, his black leather coat flaring in his wake. The training facility has grown quiet. “Agent, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Chaplan asks.

“Census has been given a new assignment. It just came down to us today.” Agent Crow indicates the other Census agents lining the room. Soft murmurings of unease ripple through the crowd. “I’ve been tasked with transitioning this Base to new monikers.” The Census agents begin lining up the soldiers against the wall and scanning their existing monikers with handheld devices. “If you would please, step that way, Master of Swords. All of your questions will be answered by my associates.” He raises his hand and gestures in the direction of another Census agent. I try to leave as well, but Agent Crow blocks my path.