Secondborn

“But not very mad,” I cajole.

“The problem has always been staying mad at you, Roselle, and you don’t have to worry about your Sword unit. They know nothing about this. I told Commander Aslanbek that you’ve been with me since your airship went missing. They think you’ve been collaborating on weapons and product strategy at our facility. I’ve had a difficult time fending off a certain Census agent, though. He’s convinced that I’m harboring you and two other Sword soldiers from your regiment—a Hammon Sword and an Edgerton Sword. Do you know them?”

“They’re my closest friends. You helped them about a year ago, remember?”

“Vaguely. I don’t remember the specifics.”

I pluck at the blanket in my lap. “I won’t involve you in it. It’s really not something you’d be interested in.”

He leans back in his seat, his eyes roving over me. “Worth getting your face beaten in for?”

“Only just slightly,” I reply with a rueful smile. “Had I known how awful I’d feel now, I may have reconsidered helping them.” Everything with Clifton has to be minimalized. He understands loyalty, but only to an extent. He expects me to cut any ties that he does not consider advantageous. If they infringe upon my time or my person, or take me from him, they have to go. He’d consider this ordeal a grievous crossing of that line. “I will never see them again, so the point is moot,” I add.

“Then we won’t speak of it again.”

“The Census agent will be a problem, though.” Agent Crow will never leave this be. He’ll hunt Hammon and Edgerton to extinction if he’s able.

“He’ll be dealt with. Your airship veered off course and went down today behind enemy lines. Gates of Dawn soldiers attacked you, but you managed to escape with some injuries. You contacted me because I’m your commanding officer. I came to your aid. I will have my team issue a statement, and I’ll field any and all inquiries on your behalf.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll have to wait to fix your face until after the press sees you. It is, after all, part of the alibi. Then I’ll have my private physician personally see to you.”

“You’re very good to me.”

“I’m exactly what you need, Roselle.” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it before holding it upon the armrest between us. “I was worried about you. I’m glad you’re in one piece.”

“I’m grateful that you came to find me. Are you taking me back to the Stone Forest Base?”

“No. Your air-barracks has gone active. They’re stationed in Twilight now.”

“So, you’re taking me to Twilight?” I didn’t think I could feel worse, but my fear of combat raises the bile in my throat.

“There’s no reason to return you to Tritium 101. In the last few days, I’ve permanently phased out your duties there. You’ll have a place closer to me now. You’ll move in tonight.”

“You already have a place for me?”

“I’ve had it for a while.” I wonder if he’s had it since he decided to kill Hawthorne’s brother, and then I wonder if he’s been making sure that no messages come to me from Hawthorne. “We’ll return to my office, and then I’ll take you home.”

True to his word, Clifton masterminds my alibi. He contacts only the Diamond reporters that he has in his pocket. When we arrive on the rooftop landing pad of Salloway Munitions Conglomerate’s headquarters, the press already have their drone cameras strategically positioned. They capture me disembarking with Clifton’s assistance, huddled in Mags’s shabby cloak.

The amassing correspondents ambush me with hundreds of questions all at once. Clifton shields my face, walking me to the private entrance of his empire in the sky. “Roselle has had a trying day,” he calls to them. “All of your questions will be answered in due course.”

The entire top floor of the headquarters is Clifton’s personal domain. I haven’t been to his secluded suite before. When I consult on weapons, it’s usually in a manufacturing facility, in a laboratory, or in the field. I wander around, studying the prototype weapons behind thick security glass. Clifton contacts his personal Atom-Fated physician, demanding to know his estimated arrival time. When he’s done, he asks me, “Can I get you a drink, Roselle?”

“Water, please.”

He turns on the visual screen. Commentators are already narrating the thirty seconds of “Roselle” footage they received only a few minutes ago. My fusionmag ad campaign and the campaign I did for the newest version of our dual-bladed sword are spliced into the footage, along with old news items. The strike against the Fate of Swords on my failed Transition Day is among them.

I don’t want to relive that, so I walk to the window overlooking the balcony. It faces the sword-shaped Heritage Building. The windows of Clifton’s office are mirrored on the outside, so no one can see me. I take in the view. What I find is telling. Every day, Clifton looks down on the hilt of the Heritage Building from these windows. The Heritage Council is the sole occupant of the spherical penthouse just a few floors beneath me.