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.
“I already have a new moniker, Agent Crow. There’s no need to detain me. I’ll leave you to your duty.”
He lifts my left hand, admiring the glow of the silver sword hologram. He frowns, his thumb running over my skin. “You had your scar removed.” His look is accusatory, as if I’d removed his brand of ownership.
I pull my fingers from his grasp, my back rigid. “This must be a boring job for you, Agent Crow, being the hunter that you are.”
He smiles, showing the gleam of steel teeth. “I thought that at first. This kind of work dulls the senses, but it’s proving to be interesting.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy tearing into people’s flesh.” I try to walk away again, but he grasps me by my upper arm, staying me. I shake him off and back away a step.
“Don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?” he asks. “Or should I say, who I’ve discovered?” Does he know about Dune? I raise my eyebrows because I don’t trust my voice enough to speak. He comes closer, touching his halo-shaped moniker. The hologram changes to an image of Agnes Moon. “It would seem that your friend had a few secrets of her own.”
Agent Crow stares at the menu on his moniker, selecting another option. It changes from Agnes’s profile to an image of her beaten almost beyond recognition. “The woman who came to take you from my custody was an imposter. She had a cloned moniker.” Bile rises in the back of my throat as I view the gruesome postmortem image. Agent Crow leans in close. “Thank you for the soaps, by the way. Did you know that if you wrap them in a towel, they become quite an effective bludgeoning weapon?”
I shudder. The thought that I may have provoked him is not something I can just shove away. “You murdered her. She was no more thirdborn than you or I.”
He grabs my elbow. “Careful, Roselle. Questioning the integrity of a Census agent has consequences.” I clench my teeth, knowing that there’s nothing I can do to prevent him from hurting whomever he wants, and calling it justice.
He strokes my hair. “What I find most intriguing is that this Moon-Fated Agnes would be an advocate for you. Why would a thirdborn enter Census knowing that she could be discovered?”
I shy away from his touch. “I’d imagine that she was instructed to do it. Grisholm Wenn-Bowie was particularly interested in you, Agent Crow, in my debriefing. He found the idea of sending you that basket amusing.” Disinformation. Steer him away from Hawthorne.
“The First Commander is interested in very little that happens outside the Fate of Virtues, that I can promise you. You must have made an impression on him.”
“I’ve known him for a long time. One could say I’ve left a dent in him,” I reply. “Did Agnes say someone sent her?” How much does he know? I cannot allow this to lead back to Hawthorne, Walther, or Dune. The thought of Dune at the mercy of Agent Crow pains me.
“I never got around to asking Agnes about her connections—I know it was bad form. Anger does not usually overwhelm me, but she was solely to blame for it. She provoked me at every turn. Her relentless pursuit of your release was something I found . . . personal.”