“You’re hiding from Census? In here?” I gesture to our cell.
“That’s right,” she whispers. “They’re changing out monikers. Mine is cloned—they’ll be able to tell when they extract it. I must find a way off this Base without getting caught. They’re working on the Tritium 101 monikers right now because we’re scheduled to ship out soon to the Twilight Forest, and from there, the front line. I just have to avoid them until we do.”
I’m shocked. “You’re in my air-barracks?”
“Aye. It was me who put your leather jacket in your locker for you. I never felt leather that nice before. It’s contraband, mind you, and if they catch you with it, you’ll do time in here again. You’re in Section Black, same as me, except I’m in the underdeck, where they put all Stones who assist Swords.”
My eyebrows lower in confusion. “I didn’t see my leather jacket in my locker.”
“Oh, I hid it for you. It’s there, in the false bottom that I created for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I can find a buyer for you, if you’re interested. You can get quite a few merits for it, if you go through me.”
“Are you thirdborn?” I ask, on a hunch.
She wrings her hands, the first sign of fear I’ve seen from her. “No. I’m secondborn. I just don’t come from the Fate of Stones.”
“You’re from Stars.”
“Aye.” She points to her tattoos. “I got these beauties before I became a privateer.”
“Why would you change your moniker?”
“Stone-Fates don’t have many advantages. It’s probably the worst Fate to be born into if you have ambition, but it’s the best Fate if you want to become invisible. No one sees us, even in our orange uniforms. We’re beneath notice. Being invisible is an advantage for someone in my profession.”
“What will happen if you’re caught?”
Her face pales, and she looks away from me. “They may think I’m a good-for-nothin’ thirdborn, but even if they do believe that I’m secondborn, they’ll want to know how I came by my cloned moniker, and that I can’t tell ’em. If I do, people will die. So they’ll torture me until I talk, or until they kill me. Either way, it’s not worth livin’ for. I have this.” She holds up a small white capsule. “Cyanide. It’s a better death.”
I rub my forehead. The stress of the day has brought on a headache. “Listen, I’ll help you avoid Census. Please get rid of that.”
“I promise you that I will pay you back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Why would you help me and not expect payment in return?” She’s studying me.
I lower my chin, unable to meet her hazel eyes. “I’m responsible for Census’s getting someone who tried to help me—a Moon-Fated advocate. An agent named Crow killed her. In a way, I owe a debt.”
“Then, you’ll help me . . . for real.” She expels a pent-up sigh.
“I’ll help you. What’s your plan?”
A little more than thirty-two hours later, at around midnight, I’m writhing on my bed, pretending to be ill, watching as Flannigan tries to get the attention of the MP on duty. It takes a lot of door-banging, jumping up and down, and hand-waving, but she finally gets a detention guard to come into the cell.
“Oi, are you sick?” the guard asks, twisting his mustache like he doesn’t believe a word.
I groan. “I’ll be okay,” I reply, holding my hand to my stomach, lying on my bunk in the fetal position. “Stomach problems. I ate the porridge.”
He’s not unsympathetic and calls an Atom-Fated medic for me. The medic dispenses a couple of antacids and tells me to drink water. Before the guard leaves, Flannigan rests her hand on his arm and thanks him. The guard sees the doctor out and closes the cell door behind them.
When he’s gone, I sit up, drinking water to wash away the taste of the chalky antacids. “Did you get it?” I ask.
“Aye.” She sits beside me on the bunk, showing me her moniker, which has changed from a brown mountain-range symbol to a silver sword-shaped symbol.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
“’Tis my processor. They call it a copycat. It cost me a fortune, and by tomorrow, it’ll be absolutely worthless. The new monikers repel its ability to infiltrate the technology. Until someone comes up with a way to beat the new moniker processors, I’m in serious trouble.”
“Do you still have your old moniker?”
“I do, but it’s not here. It’s back in Stars. I couldn’t let it be found on me when I crossed fatedoms.”
I lift her hand and admire the sword hologram. “Have you been many places?” I ask.
“I’ve been everywhere. I’ve had thousands of lives that were not my own.” She doesn’t look much older than twenty as she stands and crooks her finger at me. “And now, whenever you’re ready, I’ll have one more to share with you. Follow me, and we’ll be Holcomb Sword for a while.” She giggles, like this is a game, but it’s a deadly game, and I’m just waking up to the fact that I’m ready to play it.
When the hallway is clear, Flannigan scans her cloned moniker at the gateway. Circumventing the guarded hallways, we reach the heavily guarded outer gate of the detention center, and Flannigan pulls me into a room filled with cleaning equipment. She opens a grated vent at the back wall. “Follow me,” she whispers and disappears into the vent. I climb in next to her, and she pulls the grate back into place. We crawl through a metal shaft that leads to another grate. This one empties out into a dim concrete tunnel.
This tunnel is empty and dank, lined with sapwood pipes that transport water, fuel, and waste along the trunk of the Tree. It also has clear tubes filled with data lines. Flannigan looks directly at one of these and follows it down the tunnel until she comes to a small access panel with a holographic scanner. “There it is,” she says, rubbing her hands together.
“What is it?” I ask. My heart is pounding. I’m afraid we’ll be caught at any moment. Flannigan doesn’t seem to share my concern and places Holcomb’s moniker under another scanner. “What are you doing?”
“I’m accessing the detention center’s inmate roster, making it look as if you were in our cell all night. I’m scheduling you for release at five a.m. I, on the other hand, was never even there. No connection will exist between us. You won’t have to go back to the cell. I’ll make the action log close out seamlessly.”
“You can do that? You can take yourself right out of the detention center logs?”
“I can do anything,” she says. Her grin is full of bravado. “Watch—I just erased myself from this Base.”
“What happens if we get caught?”
“We won’t.” She winks at me. “This is like a golden halo stroll down the streets of Purity,” she whispers.
“How do you know how to do this?” I ask.
She quirks her eyebrow. “I’m a Star, remember? I was born to create this kind of technology for the ease and comfort of the aristocracy. I got bored and decided to see the world instead.” She plucks at holographic screens with her index finger.
“Of all the places to go, I’m surprised that you ended up here.” Something isn’t quite right about Flannigan. She may try to appear as if she’s just a free spirit, but there are an underlying intensity and drive that don’t quite fit what she’s telling me.
“I took a wrong turn.” She shrugs. “Believe me, I want out of here as fast as I can manage it.” That I can believe. She closes down the holographic screen. “There,” she says triumphantly. “We are officially free women.” She links arms with me. “C’mon, let me show you my world. But first!” She holds my hand and lifts her boot up. Sliding the heel to the side, she reveals a small compartment. From it, she extracts two pieces of thin metal, two inches by four inches. She slides the heel closed and extracts a couple of fingerless gloves from the heel of her other boot. Both are left-handed.
“This,” she says, holding up one of the pieces of metal, “is lead.” She opens a small slot between the finger and the thumb of one of the gloves and slides the metal into it. She hands me the glove. “Put this on.”