Chapter 10
Intake
I walk past empty turnstiles and corrals that must be used to funnel new recruits along on Transition Day. It feels weird being the only one here. I reach two glass doors that slide open as I approach, leading me into a waiting room filled with rows of metal benches bolted to the floor. Soft chamber music plays through speakers in the ceiling. A beautiful blond woman about ten years older than me sprawls on one of the benches, gazing up at the ceiling, listening to music through wireless earpieces. It must be different music than the song playing overhead because the beat she taps with her black-booted feet is so much faster. Her hair is swept up in a tight twist above the collar of her red uniform. A loose overcoat of the same bright red hangs open and drapes from either side of the bench. She holds a stylus between her top lip and the bottom of her nose. Beside her on the bench rests a medical tablet, adorned with the Atom-Fated symbol of a carbon atom.
“Excuse me.” I try to get her attention by waving my hand.
No response. I walk nearer and stand over her. She squeaks in fright, almost tumbling from the bench, and scrambles to her feet. The stylus hits the ground. “I didn’t hear you come in!” She pulls the earpieces from her ears and shoves them into the pocket of her overcoat. “Intake has been suspended since the attack. No one is being processed until new monikers are issued. I wasn’t expecting you.” I hand her back the stylus, and her eyes widen. “You’re Roselle St. Sismode!”
Her awe might be funny if I wasn’t so nervous. “I’m . . . well, I’m just Roselle Sword now.”
She realizes her breach of etiquette and nods, composing herself. “Of course. So, you’ve been assigned to Tree 177?”
“Yes.” I thought that was obvious.
“Me, too!” She grins at me and holds her hand to her chest. I’m not sure what she wants from me, or what I’m supposed to do. She’s grinning at me like we know each other, but I’ve never met her before. I fidget, feeling awkward. “Oh! You’re here for intake!” she says, like the thought just occurred to her.
“Yes.”
“I never dreamt I’d be the one to intake Roselle St. Sismode.” She doesn’t try to mask the giddiness in her voice. She retrieves her tablet, assuming a much more professional mien. “If you’ll follow me.” She leads the way through metal doors and down a hallway of doors to private rooms. We pass by other professionals in red coats, looking bored as they sit at desks and stare at walls, their chins resting in their Atom-monikered hands.
“My name is Emmy, by the way, and I’m here to make your intake go as smoothly as possible. If you have any questions, just ask.” She guides me to a private room with an examination table and medical machinery. I cringe. The machinery seems archaic compared to the infirmary at the Sword Palace.
“Please take a seat on the table, and we’ll get started.”
The metal slab table in the middle of the room is less than inviting, but I take a seat. Like everything else here, the room has dark metal girders with exposed bolts. “Let me pull up your files, Roselle.” Emmy sits beside me on the table with a friendly smile, then she gasps with a loud intake of breath. “You’ve been given a new moniker! You’re a beta tester, like me. I thought only Atoms were testing it!”
I glance at my moniker. The sword-shaped hologram on my hand shines brighter than my old one, the crown more pronounced. “I was given a new one yesterday.”
“Can I look at it?” She takes my hand, gently touching the small scar that the moncalate device left when Agent Crow implanted the new processor. “Your sword has a rose-colored ring around it. Why was it never removed?”
“The stain of the birthmark is deep, so the only solution would be to cut out the area of skin and regenerate tissue over it. My mentor was against it because he didn’t want my training delayed for something he thought was frivolous. Since I’m secondborn, no one argued with him.”
“Well, I think it’s interesting,” Emmy replies with a conspiratorial wink. “Have you used your new moniker yet?” She goes to the side table and retrieves a shiny silver, laser-like tool.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re equipped with the latest technology. This is top-secret Atom device-ware. Your moniker is state of the art, impossible to clone. The Gates of Dawn will have a difficult time sneaking into our Fates when these beauties get implanted. They’re going to start phasing them in soon to the general population.”
“What’s new about it?” I ask.
“Didn’t anyone tell you how to use your moniker?”
“No.”
She lifts my hand in her own again. “First of all, let’s take care of this scar.”
“I don’t have any money to pay you.”
“Oh, this one is free. They should’ve done this for you when you had it installed.” She passes the laser over the incision mark. I feel heat, but nothing more. She sets the laser aside. Reaching into a drawer under the table, she extracts a handful of test-tube-shaped vials. She holds the shades of them to my hand until she finds a match for my skin tone. She removes the cap to reveal a roller-ball applicator and rolls the vial over my incision mark. A cool, fleshy gel covers the scar. She caps the vial and drops it back into the drawer. Lifting the laser once more, she passes it over the gel. The gel melts and blends with my skin. The scar disappears.
“Thank you,” I murmur. I’ve had this procedure done often. Training with fusionblades is dangerous.
Emmy lets go of my hand and sets the laser aside. “Here, let me show you what your new moniker can do. I just had mine installed last week.” Holding up her hand, she shows me her silver moniker in the shape of a carbon atom—six electrons circle a cluster of six protons. “Mine will only respond to my own touch. It’s a series of taps along the length of the moniker. Think of it as a keyboard.” She taps the skin. A holographic screen alights. “Once you activate the screen, you can use this simple menu to interact with it.”
“What does it do?” I ask.
“Well, that depends on your clearance level. I only have some of the most basic functions for my personal use. This will eventually replace our wrist communicators and my tablet. I’ll be able to access files directly from my moniker. It’s supposed to make my work more efficient. Here, let me show you.” She looks at her menu bar, choosing options by glance alone. My profile alights on her holographic display. “This is the best function I’ve found so far! I’m going to contact you.” She stares at my profile on her display. Menu items blink as she chooses them. The moniker in my hand vibrates. My eyes widen. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” She laughs.
“How?”
“Tap the tip of the sword—long–short–long.”
I do as she directs. A holographic display alights from my hand. “What now?” I ask.
“Okay, stare at the menu display that reads ‘Incoming contact.’ Now choose ‘Accept.’”
I do, and the holograph above my hand changes to display the side of her face. She peers into her own screen. Her full-faced grin broadcasts in a tiny hologram. “Hi!”
“Hi!” I can’t help but smile. We play around with the contact feature until I get the basics of it down. Emmy insists that I add her to my contact list. She shows me other features, like the guidance system that will help me navigate Tree 177 and other areas of the Stone Forest Base.
Finally, Emmy sighs. “You should explore your moniker more in your downtime. Just remember that whatever files you access are logged.”
“What do you mean?”
“They can track your location, what you’ve been looking at, and who has contacted you. It’s all logged.”
“Oh,” I murmur. “Is there a way to turn that off?”
“I don’t know. I think you’ll have to ask one of the programmers. I’m medical.” She lifts her tablet once more. “What would you like to do next, the med exam or placement?”
“Placement.”
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.”
“Yay! I can get out of here for a few hours!” She raises her arms over her head and scrunches up her face with exaggerated excitement. Dropping her arms, she calls down the hall. “Stanton, I’m taking a new recruit to her air-barracks!”
A bald man pokes his head out of a doorway. “Oi, bring me back a crella from the Base Exchange.”
She shoots a finger gun at him with a wink. “You got it, even though those things are toxic for your blood. All that dough and sugar’s gonna give you a heart condition.”
“Only if I’m lucky,” he calls back.
Emmy helps me program my guidance system to locate Tritium 101. We leave the Intake facility together, following the glowing map on my hand. We take a heartwood up to level 772, where she shows me which training facilities and dining hall are assigned to Tritium 101. “Don’t make the mistake of failing to report for your ration rotation. If you miss mealtime, you’re not allowed to make it up.”
“Okay.” We continue to an area that resembles a storefront.
“This is the Base Exchange where you can find edibles, entertainment items, personal items—you pay with merits. You can track your merits here, on your moniker.” She shows me my profile menu on a different screen.
“I don’t have any merits. I’m broke,” I muse.
“You’ll earn some. I have faith in you,” she says. “But be careful how you earn them.” Her warning hangs in the air. She purchases a few crellas for the staff back at her post, and we make our way through Deck 772. Branches split off, dark hallways that lead to ports where hanging dormitory airships attach to the exterior of the Tree. The trunk in the center has several sectors: hangars for fighter planes, training facilities, dining facilities, and communications and debriefing areas.
Following one of the branches off the deck, we enter a dark, winding hallway. An airlock to our right has a wide octagonal archway. Above it, the illuminated sign reads “Tritium 101.”
We enter the dormitory airship. The inside is kidney-shaped and tiered like an amphitheater. Each tier has an iron-mesh walkway and columns of capsules stacked five high with round hatch doors. Ladder-like rungs and handrails alternate between columns. The doors are color-coded and numbered. Heartwoods move up and down the catwalks at intervals. The place is almost empty, just a few soldiers here and there.
“I’m Section Black, row 102, capsule 1001D.”
She looks around. “There.” She points to the section with black doors. “We can take that heartwood.” Catching a step up, I hold on to the pole, taking it with Emmy up to row 102. We step off onto the iron catwalk and follow it until we locate capsule 1001D, the fourth in the pillar. I climb the rungs on one side. Emmy climbs the other. The round door has a scanner. It opens upward when I press my moniker beneath the laser. The capsule has a three-foot radius and about a nine-foot depth.
I climb inside. A thick white pallet, a thin white blanket, and a plump white pillow are the only items inside. I lie on the pallet.
“There’s storage for some personal items beneath the pallet,” Emmy says, pulling aside the mattress to uncover a shallow cubby beneath the metal slat. I fold the pallet back down. I can sit up without hitting my head. The ceiling is made of the same material as a virtual screen.
Emmy pushes a few buttons on the console by the door. The virtual screen turns on, dialed to live coverage of the Secondborn Trials. “Aw, that Petree Atom is divine, don’t you think?” Emmy asks, sighing over the secondborn Atom champion as he enters a labyrinthine obstacle course that looks like it was designed by a complete sadist.
“He looks scared,” I observe. And who wouldn’t? All The Trials are designed to kill him.
Emmy climbs in next to me and we watch the screen, shoulder to shoulder. “He doesn’t look scared,” she disputes. “He looks determined.”
I shake my head. “He looks like he’s having second thoughts.”
“He looks dreamy.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“In your locker, in the shower facility in this sector. Do you want to see it?”
We leave the capsule. The door closes and locks automatically. We take the catwalk over to the lavatory. The room is used by both sexes. Rows of sinks and mirrors are everywhere. Individual shower rooms resemble small closets, timed for a five-minute shower in the morning and another after training. I have a designated locker with the same number as my capsule. Inside is a beige-and-brown active-duty uniform, one set of beige pajamas that resemble the clothing I got from Census, a pair of boots, shower slippers, socks, underwear, bra, combat armor, helmet, generic fusionblade, fusion rifle with cartridge, and personal items, all perfectly situated. “Everything a Sword needs to survive,” Emmy says with a hint of sarcasm. “You have a schedule, Roselle. As soon as I release you into the system, you’ll need to follow your schedule and join your unit. Failure to report for duty on time will result in demerits. Get enough demerits and there will be consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?” I ask.
“Depends. Could be loss of meals, loss of privileges, detention—or more painful consequences. Read your Intake manual in your files. Here, this icon on your moniker has your schedule. You see these little icons?” A sword, a rifle, a uniform, armor, and more. “They will appear on your schedule so you’ll know what you’ll have to wear and bring with you for training. Your Stone-Fated locker room attendants will know what you need, and they’ll have it ready for you. Just place your dirty gear back in here and it will be cleaned and returned.”
I nod.
“You’ll need to take your fusionblade with you everywhere you go from now on. You can leave your rifle here unless otherwise directed for training or combat purposes.”
I take the fusionblade from my locker. It’s not nearly as nice as my other one, the one from my grandfather, but it feels better to have it all the same. The smooth hilt is generic, except that it has been coded with my number: 00-000016. I buckle the thigh harness to my right leg and sheathe the weapon.
Emmy shows me the rest of the dormitory airship. There’s a deck below our quarters where fighter planes are stowed. Mechanics and pilots work on the sleek vehicles and the troop movers, readying them for combat missions. The rest of the air-barracks is restricted to higher clearance levels and off-limits to Tropo soldiers like me.
“Most of what you’ll do will take place in the trunk of a forest Tree or on the battlefield. This is really just your quarters. So now, I’ll release you into the system and you’ll get your first activity.” She takes her tablet and stylus from her pocket. “Okay, open your schedule and tell me where you’re supposed to be.”
I open my schedule on my moniker. “Lunch,” I say, “and then fusionblade training in facility Q.”
“I’ll walk with you as far as the dining hall. I’d eat with you, but I’m not coded for your facility,” she explains. “And you wouldn’t want me tagging along with you anyway. I may scare all of your potential Sword-Fated friends away—Atom-Fated, you know—we’ve sort of got a bad reputation lately because of the Gates of Dawn and all.”
“I could never see you as the enemy, Emmy,” I reply. “It would be nice to have a friend like you.”
She grins at that. “You’re special, Roselle. Try not to change.”
A loud siren sounds, startling us both. I look around in panic. A red light blinks above one of the branching hallways. “It’s okay,” Emmy says. “That siren is a call to all the soldiers on this level to gather. A new airship has docked—returning soldiers from the front line. More airships will return over the next few days because a cycle is ending. This is a way of welcoming them back. Whenever you hear that siren, you have to drop whatever you’re doing and go to the designated area.”
We follow the flood of soldiers gathering in the trunk. Thousands of us crowd the main deck in front of a branch hall airlock. The airlock opens, and everyone around me applauds. The first grim-faced soldiers emerge from the dark tunnel and file by. Their uniforms look new, like mine, but the soldiers in them are as different from me as they can be. New fusionblade scars have turned faces to railway lines. Eyes are missing. Ears are missing. Fingers and hands are gone. These are just the ones who can walk.
The applause fades. Harrowed looks and a growing sense of horror ripple through the crowd. No one among the thronging crowd expected this kind of parade. They expected a victory celebration, not a procession of haunted stares. Red-coated medical professionals move through the crowd. Doctors rush soldiers past us on hovering gurneys to hospital facilities beneath the trunk.
As the last of the wounded are cleared, we move to leave, but the siren sounds again, and we both still. The red light turns on above the adjacent hallway. The hangar door lifts. Tropo, Strato, and Meso Sword soldiers file out of the tunnel, none of them injured. The crowd erupts. Hats fly into the air as war heroes file by, their expressions grim. The crowd quiets. The returning soldiers don’t disperse. Instead, they wait in a wide circle with their backs to us.
The last two soldiers drag a severely beaten Tropo soldier across the floor. His head hangs listlessly as they carry him to the center of their ring. Then the unit commander appears from the shadows of the corridor. Battle scars etch his face. He surveys the gathered crowd. When he speaks, his voice booms throughout the deck.
“Soldiers!”
“Oosay!” Everyone answers as one.
“We have a coward in our midst!” He walks to the bleeding young man in the middle of the circle. If he’s even conscious, he cannot hold his head up. Two soldiers hold him up by his arms.
“This man is a traitor!” the commander shouts. “Why, you may ask? What has he done, you may wonder? Nothing! He has done absolutely nothing!”
Confused chatter breaks out among the soldiers.
“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.