“What’s it normally like?” I ask.
“Usually there are thousands of children lined up waiting to be processed. Some are crying, too young to be separated from the only home they’ve ever known. But some are ready—maybe they hope to fit in here like they never did with their families.”
“Were you the former or the latter?” I ask softly.
“The latter.” We cross the landing pad to a wide paved path that leads to an ebony wall that surrounds the gigantic forest. I have to crane my neck back to see the top. Set in the center of the wall is a gate comprised of three golden metal broadswords at least as large as five-story buildings. The center sword is ancient in design, from an era before fusion was reality. It’s taller than the two that flank it by a story. Mystical gates to an enchanted forest, I think.
Hawthorne pauses by one of the armed soldiers stationed along the walkway. “Chet?” He offers the soldier a small white stamp wrapped in cellophane from his pocket.
The soldier looks around as if to check whether anyone is watching. “Thanks.” He casually takes the offered stamp and shoves it inside a compartment on his gun belt. Scanning the grounds, Hawthorne asks him, “Where are all the Transition candidates?”
“Gone. We turned them away. No one gets inside the walls today except the secondborn Sword—orders from The Sword.”
“Why just her?” Hawthorne frowns at me.
“They’re worried about vetting. Monikers were coming up mysteriously inoperable. It’s making everyone nervous. We can’t vet candidates, so we can’t take them. Anyone could show up at our gate saying he was a Sword. No one can verify it if the identifier isn’t working. It’s a Census problem now.”
Hawthorne nods his head, looking on edge himself. “Thanks.” He resumes walking.
“What’s a chet?” I ask, following him.
“It’s for when you need to relax and you can’t. You put it in your mouth, let it melt on your tongue, and everything is okay.”
“You mean it’s a drug?” I frown at him.
“No, it’s a chet—it’s not addictive like a drug, and don’t look so condescending. There may come a day when you need one. If you don’t, then you can count yourself lucky and just use them for getting other things you want.”
“Like information?”
“Yeah, like that.”
The closer we get to the wall, the more defensive features I recognize. An iridescent shield ripples over the surface of the dark wall that surrounds the Base. The shield is more than likely fusion-powered. I cringe. This defense is useless against an FSP. “Are all our fortifications fusion-powered?” I ask.
Hawthorne pauses, turning to look at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Are they?”
“Most.”
“Can they be converted to another energy source? Say—hydrogen cells?”
“Why would we do that? Hydrogen has less than a tenth of the capacity and life that fusion has.”
Suddenly a drawbridge opens ahead of us. It drops from the center of the tallest sword before the Golden Circle inlaid on the ground. Sword soldiers on the other side of the threshold draw their fusion-powered rifles on us.
We enter the beautiful Golden Circle in front of the doors. In the center, an ancient broadsword rises from the ground. Hawthorne removes his black glove, exposing his moniker. He holds it to the golden light of the sword’s hilt. It scans his silver sword-shaped moniker. A holographic image of Hawthorne projects from atop the hilt of the golden sword, detailing his unit, rank, and other information in flashing readouts. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Hawthorne whispers.
“I wouldn’t waste merits on him,” I whisper back.
His eyebrow arches, and he’s about to whisper something else when one of the soldiers at the gate focuses his attention on me. His voice surrounds us. “Scan your moniker for processing.”
I hold up the back of my hand. There’s no obvious glow, just the rose-colored crown-shaped birthmark upon my skin. “It was damaged in the attack this morning. It seems to have shorted out.”
“Scan your moniker for processing or you will be tranquilized.”
I follow his orders. No image of me projects from the podium when my hand is scanned. The soldier who spoke points to another who holds a tranquilizer gun at the ready. My heart accelerates. Hawthorne’s brow furrows. “This is Roselle St. Sismode,” he calls out. “You only need to look at her to know that.”
“She could be—or she could be a surgically enhanced spy made to look like Secondborn St. Sismode.” The soldier spits on the ground.
Hawthorne gestures toward me. “You’ve probably seen her at least a thousand times! Just process her and give her a new moniker!”
“I’ve seen her more times than I’ve taken a shit, but so have our enemies. She can’t be processed without scanning her moniker. If she needs a new moniker, she can’t get it from us. She’s Census’s problem now.”
The very mention of Census sends raging fear through my blood. Hawthorne moves from the podium to block me from the soldier’s view. I’m not one to hide, so I move around him to stand next to him. He frowns and faces the gate. “Can’t we just handle this internally without Census? This is a secondborn.”
An impeccably dressed man emerges from behind the soldiers. His attire would make him the envy of even the best-dressed firstborn in Gabriel’s circle. A long black leather coat—tailored to show off his impressive physique—touches the calves of his high-polished black leather boots. His white dress shirt has the sheen of silk, and his black trousers have the same well-tailored lines as his coat.
But it’s the tattoos near his eyes that give me pause. Thin, black lines are permanently etched from the outside edges of his eyes, curving to his temples. They make him look catlike and lethal. I know what the razor-thin lines mean. Each line denotes a hunt and kill. This Census agent has successfully tracked and executed at least fifty people—probably thirdborns and their abettors.
“Whom do we have at our gates?” the agent asks, his hands behind his back. He strolls through the golden archway, chuckling. “Can it be the legendary Roselle St. Sismode? Why, my dear girl, what brings you to our lair? Why have they banished you to this hellish existence? Surely they could’ve given you a much more suitable position, considering your bloodline.” He stops in front of me and grins like a deranged harlequin.
He’s genuinely handsome, like some ancient king. In his midtwenties, he’s as tall and graceful as a Diamond ad model. His high brows and sharp jaw are appealing, but it’s his smile where things start to go wrong. His four top front teeth have been replaced with steel. So have most of his bottom teeth. I’m having a hard time not reacting to the utterly creepy look he’s giving me.
I knew Census had field agents among the Swords—among all the fatedoms. I just never thought I’d meet one. It hadn’t occurred to me that my moniker would ever fail—that my identity would ever be in question.
The agent’s mood shifts from baiting to thoughtful. “Unless”—he keeps one hand behind his back, the other smoothing back his slick blond hair—“you’re not Roselle St. Sismode. Are you the secondborn Sword—the biggest loser in all of the Fate of Swords?”
I just stare at him, absorbing his insult. He wants me to rush into some explanation—fall over myself in desperation to identify myself. I smile, even though panic is just beneath the surface, but I say nothing.
Hawthorne clears his throat. “This is Rose—”
“Quiet, you!” The agent doesn’t look away from me as he growls, “You have no idea who or what this is. You picked her up on the battlefield, did you not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Let’s not assume anything, shall we?” the agent barks. “Now, let’s take this slow.” The agent bends forward at his waist so that I can feel his breath on my cheek as he stares into my eyes. “Who. Are. You?”