Secondborn

I want to linger here with him, but I force myself to leave the shower. On the way to my locker, I toss my wet clothes into the phloem. Selecting my uniform, I take it to the bathroom closet, towel off, and put it on. Back at my locker, I apply cooling ointment to my hand and rewrap it in a dry bandage. Closing the narrow door, I walk to a sink with a mirror above it. I twist my hair into an attractive coil and secure it with pins. I pinch my cheeks, adding some color, but they’re already flushed, and my lips are full, swollen from kissing Hawthorne. Evaluating myself in the mirror, I have a glow that was never there before.

“You’re stunning, Roselle,” Hawthorne says behind me. He has changed back into dry pajama bottoms. His T-shirt is draped over one bare shoulder. The other shoulder leans against the wall. He’s so handsome that it’s hard not to melt into the floor.

“Do I look different?” I ask as I blush. “I feel different.”

“To me you do, but I don’t think anyone else will notice,” he replies softly.

“I don’t have any makeup. Firstborns are used to makeup.”

“You don’t need it.”

“You’re biased. You’ve loved me since I was nine,” I tease him.

“I have. I still do—love you.”

“How could I not feel pretty now?” I whisper.

My moniker vibrates. I have a message. I read the holographic words.

Meet me at the main gate atrium of your Tree in twenty minutes.

—Clifton

I frown.

“What is it?” Hawthorne asks.

“It’s a message from Firstborn Salloway. He wants me to meet him at the main entrance of the Tree. He was supposed to send an escort, not come himself. I’ll see you soon.” Impulsively, I move toward him to kiss him good-bye, but then I stop and look around. At the other end of the row, soldiers are brushing their teeth. I look down. “This is going to be difficult—not touching you.”

“I know. My instinct is to crush you to me and never let you go.”

I look into his eyes. “I love your instinct. Try to get some sleep while I’m gone.”

“Impossible. Find me when you get back.”

I leave the locker room and go to the main gateway of Tritium 101. In the branch hallway to the main trunk, I have to cross through a checkpoint. I scan my moniker. From behind me, a voice says, “Little fish, little fish, we was just comin’ to scoop you up in our net. So nice of you to swim downstream to us.” Protium 445 soldiers shuffle over to me like a bunch of thugs, their rifles slung on gun straps that hang nearly to their knees. Instead of looking lethal, it looks stupid. I could shoot them with their own rifles.

“I don’t have time for you, Carrick. I’m under orders to meet an officer.”

“We’re under orders to find conscriptions for our next mission, and we choose you.” He pokes his finger into my chest.

“You won’t like what I do to you if you touch me again,” I warn him. He laughs, thrusting his finger into my chest. I snatch his rifle on its low-slung gun strap, shoving it against his heart with one hand on the barrel and one bandaged finger on the trigger. He stills. “Look, little crocodile, I’ve got you by the tail,” I murmur.

His friends scramble to lift their weapons. I unclip the gun strap from Carrick and step back, pointing it at them. “Aw, what happened to the babbling brook?” I ask them.

One of the guards at the checkpoint calls for MPs, who arrive within seconds. I lower the rifle and stand down, offering it to them.

The lead officer speaks to the guards at the checkpoint. I don’t say a word. Carrick and his friends try to talk over the guards, explaining their orders to gather conscriptions. I remain silent. No one has spoken to me yet. It’s not my turn.

The lead MP faces me. “They say they’re under orders to gather conscriptions.” Carrick smiles smugly. I want to beat it off him.

“I believe they are, Patrøn.”

“And you refuse to go with them?” he asks.

“I do, Patrøn.”

“Why? You’re a cadet. You follow orders.”

“I’m under orders, to meet Exo Salloway at the main atrium. I’m late. I was to be there fifteen minutes ago, Patrøn.”

“Why would Exo Salloway want to speak to you?”

“I’m a munitions expert, Patrøn. He’s a munitions manufacturer.”

“It’s past twenty-two hundred,” he says, with a skeptical raise of his eyebrow.

“There’s a war on, Patrøn. Our enemies don’t stop for us to rest. You’ll have to address any further questions to my commanding officer.”

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“As of twenty minutes ago,” a deep voice behind me says, “her commanding officer is Exo Salloway.” Clifton approaches from the shadows of the checkpoint. “I have jurisdiction over this cadet.”

“She’s Tritium 101. She falls under the jurisdiction of Commander Aslanbek,” the MP replies, checking his tablet.