Secondborn

“His job,” the commander continues, “is to beacon wounded soldiers in the field for evac. Did he do his job?” His hand shakes back and forth. “Passably. He tagged some wounded soldiers. Medical drones came to help the fallen. He did the minimum required of him.”

He fishes into a pouch and holds up a black circular disc the size of a thumbnail. He holds it aloft, turning it. “This is a death-drone beacon. It is used when ambulatory medic soldiers come across a wounded enemy combatant! Simply place this beacon on the body of a wounded enemy soldier and alert a death drone. The death drone will arrive and interrogate your enemy for you! The death drone will determine whether that enemy should be transported to a Base for further interrogation. If there is no need for your enemy to continue breathing the air that belongs to you, the death drone will deliver swift and righteous justice to your enemy!”

Manic applause ripples through the onlookers. The commander nods. “Do you know how many death drones were summoned by this soldier?” the commander asks. “Zero.” He makes a 0 with his hand and turns so that everyone can see it. “He did not tag a single one of your enemies for termination.”

Soft hisses build among the crowd and the soldiers.

“That means that those of you who are about to ship out on your next active tour will have to face the same Gates of Dawn soldiers that could’ve been killed if he’d done his job!”

The commander points to the unconscious soldier, circling. After a full rotation, he approaches the wounded man. Holding the pouch of beacons above the Tropo’s head, the commander empties the satchel. The discs cascade down, sticking like black rain to the soldier’s skin and uniform. A deafening surge of cheers erupts again.

The other soldiers drop the wounded man and back away. Death drones pause at the threshold of the hallway where the soldiers emerged. The entire deck grows silent. Everyone backs away from the tagged man.

Except me. I step toward him.

Emmy grasps my sleeve. “Roselle,” she hisses. “There’s no saving him now.” I yank my arm from her and push through the crowd.

Black-bodied death drones emerge silently from the adjacent tunnel, like giant bats from the maw of a cave, following the call of the beacons—the sound too high-pitched for us to register.

Hovering over the wounded soldier’s body, one death drone flashes blue laser lights upon its bloody target. The other drones join it, and the soldier is covered in blue triangles. A moment passes, then two. My throat tightens. I try to get closer, but broad shoulders block my advance, and before I can find a way through, the death drones begin to fire steel slugs into the brain of the Tropo soldier.

I turn from the carnage, feeling ill. Emmy, who had been following, takes me by the arm and wrenches me away from the cheers and jeers of the overworked mob. She drags me into a lavatory and pushes me into a private stall near the back. “Breathe slower,” she says softly. I bend and try to catch my breath. She places her cool hand on the back of my neck.

“They never even gave him a trial!” I whisper.

“There are no trials here, Roselle. There’s only survival. You go against them and you forfeit the right to breathe their air.”

“You can’t believe that,” I mutter.

“It’s true.” She takes a few deep breaths with me. “I can’t save everyone, but this is my shot at saving you. Keep your head down. Do your job and you’ll get through this. The harder you work, the faster you’ll rise, and you could make it out of here. It won’t always be like this. This war will be over one day and things will go back to normal.”

“What’s normal?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know—less violence, more boredom. Listen, let me show you to your dining hall, get you some water. You can schedule time to come and talk to me during my office hour rotations when your unit is stationed here. You’ll be okay.”

Straightening, I nod. A smile of relief crosses her lips. We leave the bathroom together, and my hand shakes as I raise it to look at the map above my moniker. Emmy pretends she doesn’t see my overactive nerves. We follow the map to the nearest cafeteria.

“This is where I leave you, Roselle,” Emmy says at the entrance. “You can contact me on your moniker if you have questions.”

“Okay.” I nod. But it’s not okay. I’m numb.

“Here.” She shoves the bag of crellas into my hand. “You need these more than Stanton. Remember what I said. Contact me if you need me.” With that, she turns and walks to a heartwood, steps onto it, and disappears from sight.

Chapter 11

That Newcomer Smell

There’s almost nowhere to be alone here. The mob sweeps me into the dining hall. Overheated boys slap each other on the backs and shout boisterously to companions. Those who seem disturbed by what they just saw are harder to find.