Secondborn

She nods. Her blond eyebrows lower in concentration, a tiny crease forming between them. “You’re Tritium 101—T-101 for short. You’ve been assigned to the ambulatory brigade for active field operations. For now, you’ll be tagging casualties in the field during active duty.” She must know how grim her news is because she forges on with a fake optimism. “They have you slated for aviation training when you cycle out of active duty—whoa . . .” she says. “You must be seriously smart to have tested into pilot training.”

“When does Tritium 101 go active?” I ask.

“You’ll ship out to the front line in a few days.”

“For how long?”

Her eyes are apologetic. “A rotation usually lasts a few months.” My odds of making thirty days just dropped significantly. “You can contact me anytime you want while you’re in the field. I’ll always be available to you for counsel. I’ll check in on you. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Ready for the medical exam?”

I nod numbly. She has me lie on the table and does a quick body scan with a handheld device. She asks about my bruises, but I tell her I fell and they don’t bother me. She gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t press. Instead, she has me sit up once more. “Everything looks normal—it all matches up with your records from a few months ago. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Let’s get you outfitted then, shall we?” she asks with feigned brightness.

She guides me from this room to another down the hall. It’s a shower facility of sorts. She directs me to take a shower. I’ve had one today, but I don’t argue. When I’m done, I wrap myself in the coarse robe. My long hair is sodden and heavy. I towel off and exit the stall.

Emmy already has a uniform for me. The holograms on the lapels shine with brown swords, T-101 emblazoned on the glowing blades. Quickly, I change into it. It’s the coarsest dull brown and beige I’ve ever worn. The boots are hardly better, stiff and unyielding.

Emmy bites her lip. “Normally, we’d cut your hair, but there’s a note in your file that it’s not to be cut. I have these.” She holds up hair ties. “I’ll show you how to style it a few different ways that will be acceptable to your CO. Don’t deviate from them or you’ll earn demerits, which will result in the loss of privileges.”

“Why can’t we just cut it?”

“I can’t.” She looks almost embarrassed. “I see this sometimes, when an intake subject is exceptionally lovely. There’s sometimes a proviso that stipulates details about appearance.”

“Who wrote the stipulation placed on me?” I ask.

She looks at her tablet. “Who didn’t? There’s a list.”

My eyebrows slash together. “Who?”

“Sword Admiral Dresden, Sword Exo Clifton Salloway”—her voice goes up an octave—“Virtue Census Agent Crow!”

A parade of horribles. “Let’s cut it,” I reply.

“No!” She throws out both her hands, looking panicked. “I’m dead if you do.” Although I think she’s overreacting, I don’t fight her. Instead, I sit in a chair in front of a mirror and study the way she styles my hair. “You’re going to be a distraction in the ranks.”

“Then let’s cut it,” I reply. I was never allowed to cut it before because Emmitt was in charge of my appearance. Maybe it’s time to do what I want. I cast a defiant look in Emmy’s direction. “What are they going to do, send me into battle?”

“Don’t think for one second that your situation cannot change, Roselle. There is much worse than this. Do me a favor—try not to anger the powerful people who take an interest in you. It’s bad for your survival.”

I know she’s right, but ever since I left my home, I’ve wanted nothing more than to rebel. A hollow darkness grows in my chest. I feel betrayed by everyone. Maybe this is how every secondborn feels when she finds herself here.

Emmy gathers a package filled with clothing that looks similar to what Hawthorne wore under his combat gear. She places it in a hoverbin to send to my quarters.

“Can I keep those?” I ask, indicating my discarded uniform and leather jacket. I don’t know how things work here, but if chets are traded for information, then I wonder what one can get for leather, suede, and silk.

She bites her bottom lip. “I’m supposed to discard them. It’s contraband.” She looks around, and then picks them up and quickly stuffs the items underneath the other clothing in the hoverbin. “I know nothing about this if you get caught.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

She programs the drone, and it disappears into a wall tube unit. “Are you ready to see your capsule?” Emmy asks, referring to my sleeping quarters in the dormitory of one of the airships docked on the branches above us.

“I’m ready.”

She leads me to the door. “I’m supposed to call one of your shipmates from Tritium 101 to come and retrieve you, but”—she looks around at the empty hallways—“because no one is here, I could take you there and show you around—if you don’t object.”

I smile. “I don’t object.”