Secondborn

“See ya around, Roselle,” Edgerton says.

We are stopped before we enter the concrete-and-metal military trunk. Our monikers are scanned. A brawny soldier at least ten years older than us reads the monitor of the scanner. “Roselle Sword, you’re to report to Intake—sector 23, level 5, subsection 7Q.” His deep voice is sharp. He motions to a soldier near him.

Hawthorne holds up his hand. “I’ll take Roselle there.” Hawthorne taps the face of his wrist communicator. A map readout projects up from it.

The older soldier gives him a sharp nod. “Patrøn.” Hawthorne gestures for me to come with him. We enter through a hangar door fortified with artillery shields. As soon as we cross the threshold, there’s an antechamber with metal benches. On the other side of the room is a huge oblong-shaped archway that opens into the trunk of the Tree.

Hawthorne takes off his helmet. His hair is matted down. He swipes his hand through it and moves toward the automated conveyor system. Wall ports of various sizes and shapes cover one side of the small room. One of the conveyor ports activates the moment Hawthorne tosses his helmet onto it. Air catches it and lifts it up through a clear tube, into the ceiling, and out of sight. Hawthorne strips away his rifle, depositing it onto another port conveyor. The air catches it, and it’s gone in seconds.

“When we return from active duty,” Hawthorne explains, “there are drop-off points for your gear. Everything is coded for you, so it’ll be returned to your pod cleaned and conditioned. You want to do this every time you use your armor because it’ll get rank quickly if you don’t.”

“Who cleans it?” I ask.

“Stone workers assigned to our Base.” The stream of air takes his combat boots the moment he throws them through a hole to the conveyor. He removes his remaining weapons—his fusionblade, fusionmag—a handheld fusion-powered gun that fires bullet-like bursts of energy and knife—and they whisk away through the hole. He strips off his chest mail and armor, placing them in the conveyor. Barefoot and attired in combat leggings and a clingy combat shirt, he shifts to an adjacent wall unit. Tropo-ranked soldiers wait in line for automated stations that line the wall. Hawthorne goes to an empty one marked “Strato.” He scans his moniker. Holograms of clothing flash in front of him, all higher in rank than Tropo. He selects a midnight-blue Strato uniform, socks, and training boots. A parcel wrapped in clear plastic descends into a bin next to the wall unit. He unwraps the package and quickly dons the shirt and trousers. I wait, trying not to admire the way his muscles bunch and stretch beneath his shirt. He sits on a bench and bends to fasten the buckles of his boots.

He finishes, straightens, and stands. “C’mon,” he says.

We enter a cargo area. It takes a few moments to adjust to the dim interior. Without windows, this Tree is dark and oppressive compared to the glass one. Natural light is replaced by ghostly bluish tracks of incandescent bulbs. It’s bustling, though. Soldiers are everywhere. No one is sitting around. Whereas the ground floor of the officers’ glass Tree is made for gathering and social interaction, this one is purely utilitarian, with massive storage units and pallets of everything soldiers need for survival.

Hawthorne grabs my sleeve. “Careful,” he says, yanking me back from a shiny, sharp-nosed drone. It flies by at eye level above an outlined track on the floor painted in a wide yellow band. “You’ll want to make sure the stingers aren’t coming through. They travel the perimeter of stone Trees.”

“What do they do?”

“Security patrols, automated drones that catalogue and ping monikers. If you’re not where you’re supposed to be, they’ll deviate from their route and confront you. Never cross a gold road without looking.”

I nod, resuming my rubbernecking. A stinger makes its way around the circumference of the trunk, passing a familiar type of bunker. More stingers are stationed outside the thick metal doors. “What’s that there?”

“That’s a Census access station.”

My heart beats faster. “You mean they live beneath this Tree, too?” Goose bumps form on my arms as I remember Census’s cold cells—the feeling of being buried alive. I imagine the guards stationed on the other side of those heavy doors protecting the elevators that lead underground.

“They live and work beneath most Trees in this area. They have a network beneath this whole Base. We share some of the tunnels. If we’re attacked, all noncombatant personnel will go below ground. Some triage units and medical facilities are also below us.”