I extend the dual-bladed sword to Hawthorne. He takes it, examining it closely. “This is . . . handy,” he says, in awe.
I turn to my Star friend. “Jakes, anyone who comes to you wanting a mole removed, you give him the means to remove it. If he needs to do it on credit, you extend him credit. Do you understand?”
“How many moles are you expecting to remove?”
“An entire regiment’s.”
Hawthorne and I haggle with Jakes over the price of the new sword. He has already made two of them, and I intend to take them both. “When can you have more ready?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m going to need more help—parts—time.”
“Do what you can. Also, look into converting existing fusion-powered rifles to hydrogen. We’ll need hydrogen magazines. If you can think of a way to make it work, I might be able to get a message to Clifton Salloway.”
Hawthorne grasps my arm. “Excuse us for a moment,” he growls to Jakes. He drags me a few paces away around the side of a shipping crate. He positions me with my back to the metal box, his face close to mine, his eyes as dark as storm clouds. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you—you just have to trust me. We have to spread the word about this new weapon, but it has to be a subtle infiltration. Soldiers have to want them because they’re new and in demand, and for no other reason. I don’t know how we’re going to do that, but we have to try.”
Hawthorne’s expression softens. “You just need to be seen using one, Roselle. That’s all it will take. You’re Roselle St. Sismode. They may pretend to despise you, but they’ve watched you for years and copied your fighting moves, your mannerisms, your style—everything about you.”
“You’re an influencer, too, Hawthorne. Soldiers follow you because you’re trustworthy.” I grip his biceps. “Use your sword with me tonight. Practice with me, somewhere that we’ll be seen.”
“You’re acting as if this is a matter of life and death.”
“I’m not acting.”
His eyebrows slash together. “I don’t want you to contact Clifton Salloway—for any reason. Is that understood?”
I drop my hands. “Why not? I’m not going to get personally involved with him. I’m just going to, you know, ask him to mass-produce dual-bladed swords. And maybe a new hydrogen version of a fusionmag. And a fusion rifle with a hydrogen-powered option. And maybe see if he has connections to major airship manufacturers.”
Hawthorne stares at me like I’m insane. “Roselle, Clifton Salloway is not someone you want to owe a favor.”
“Hawthorne, I understand firstborns like him. He’s violently bored. He craves purpose. I can give him that purpose.”
“His purpose will be to get you in bed.”
“I’ll worry about that later. Right now, we have to make this weapon seem like the only one worth having.”
Frustration plays upon Hawthorne’s face, but he nods in agreement. “We’re merely tabling this conversation about Salloway for now.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. He backs away, just a step. I squeeze by him and walk back to Jakes, who is drumming his fingers on the dual-blade’s case.
He straightens. “I have some ideas about who can help me. It’ll be less expensive to convert existing fusionblades.”
I agree with a nod. “We focus on conversion, then. Soldiers will have to bring their fusionblades to you.”
“I’ll get started right away,” Jakes replies.
“Good. I’ll find you later and check on your progress.” Hawthorne and I turn and move toward a heartwood.
“You’re a regular arms dealer, Roselle,” Hawthorne says. I want to tell him everything. I want him to know that I’m doing this to protect secondborn Swords because my mother won’t.
“No, Hawthorne. I’m not an arms dealer,” I say instead. “I’m a privateer.”
Chapter 14
Little Fish
Hawthorne and I face off on the training mats. I want to correct the slope of his sword arm, but I refrain. I’m not here to teach. I’m here to make our new weapons look sexy. The killer-come-to-call stare in his eyes is completely attractive, though. I’m glad we don’t have to fight on a regular basis. I don’t know how he’d take me dominating him, wrestling him to the ground, having my way with him.
He moves first, stalking me. He has a natural instinct for the dual-blade, holding it in balance, twirling it. That’s a relief. I was worried because he isn’t considered a “Master of Swords,” and I’ve already wrecked one of them. His first strike is a wide-arcing thrust, his golden blade whining through the air. I counter it with a similar move. Because the blades are alike, their golden energy repels. A few soldiers stop their training to watch. I try to make whatever Hawthorne does look valiant and virile. It pains me. I have to clamp down on my ego.
When he counters with the hydroblade, I do the same, and they repel each other once more. Our silver blades of energy smash with a fantastic hissing. He pivots the fusionblade toward me in a counterstrike. This time, I meet the golden energy of his sword with my weapon’s silver energy, and Hawthorne’s golden fusionblade cuts through my silver hydrogen blade like it’s air. I’m ready for it, and I compensate by dropping to my knees and rolling away. My hydroblade assumes its full length again. I demonstrate a move that could shear off Hawthorne’s ankles, powering the hydroblade down at the last second. A dither of conversation ripples through the crowd.
We mock-battle for almost an hour. Turning backward tumbles to make his aggressive, lopsided maneuvers look spot-on and deadly, I get a decent workout. The crowd around us chatters excitedly. A few male soldiers approach Hawthorne to congratulate him on a rousing match. One claps him on the shoulder, asking about his weapon. Hawthorne hands it to him, showing him its features.
By evening, the demonstration is already yielding results. We haven’t even docked yet at the Twilight Forest Base, and Hawthorne has fielded a score of questions about his new weapon. No one has approached me. But the men have begun complaining about the sudden shortage of razors in the locker rooms.
We dock on a Tree in the Twilight Forest Base around midnight. The jarring bump shakes me awake inside my capsule. My eyes open to darkness. The sinister demons in my dreams were just gathering momentum. Sweat beads on my upper lip. The slaughterhouse scent of the newly dead is still with me. The Gates of Dawn’s strike was over a week ago, but I’m unable to close the door on it.
I lie awake, shivering. I’m still getting used to my little capsule. It affords me solitude, which is something I crave now, but when I’m inside its hollow shell, the world disappears. I’m lost, a collection of atoms scattered in black space. The darkness wraps around me, and just when I think I’ll go mad from it, the pendulum of fate swings. Bright white light illuminates my capsule. I flinch and blink. Blinded.
The door of my capsule opens automatically. From the speakers near my head, a feminine voice says, “Attention Tropo soldier, you have been selected for an active duty campaign departing Twilight Base in twenty-nine minutes. Report to Deck 134, Hangar 12 for further instructions.” The message repeats on a continuous loop, counting down the minutes. I shove aside my blanket and rub my eyes. If they want to keep me mean, this is the way to do it.