Chapter 16
Where They Bury Me
ONE YEAR LATER
Risk-taking is becoming more and more a part of my DNA. I see it in every secondborn Sword. We’re adrenaline junkies, living for the highs because the lows are so low. Too low. Most of us don’t expect to make it past the next birthday. The average life expectancy of a Sword during wartime is a year and six months. If that’s the case, I only have a few months left to live. My friends are all past due.
I’ve made it through two tours of active duty, and my third is fast approaching. Trained in combat rescue aviation, I’m now able to fly all types of airships. At first, my job was dangerous, but nothing compared to what a normal soldier faces on the ground. Clifton made sure of that. Mostly, I’ve been relegated to resupply runs that don’t require me to be near the front line. The same can’t be said for my friends. Hawthorne, Gilad, and Edgerton fly rescue missions that often require them to pass into enemy territory.
Toward the end of my last tour, though, everything changed. My missions became increasingly harrowing. It alarmed Hawthorne, but Exo Salloway might have been the most furious. He quickly amended the situation, pulling me from duty and ordering me back to inactive status a few weeks before my tour was officially over. Ever since, I’ve done nothing but work for him as a spokesperson for Salloway Munitions Conglomerate. But my most recent briefing in our Stone Forest Base command center indicated that when I go active again, I’ll be on point for more combat missions. It has changed my outlook. I’m growing increasingly reckless—finding it difficult to hide my all-encompassing relationship with Hawthorne.
That’s not all that’s different. The night terrors sometimes follow me around during the day as well. I try to hide my shaking hands when I’m struck with a bout of crippling anxiety. We all do. The only thing that keeps my mind off it all is my illegal boyfriend. When I’m with him, nothing can touch me.
“Do you think he knows?” I ask Hammon again. “He was acting like he knew something was up when I contacted him this morning. Do you think Gilad told him?”
“Gilad would never tell Hawthorne about your surprise,” Hammon replies. She sticks her head out from under the bottom of my Anthroscope airship and holds out her hand. “Air-wrench.” The noise in the hangar is irritating. I can barely hear myself think as airships land and power down. Our Stone Forest Tree is especially busy today because several air-barracks are returning from active duty. A new rotation will deploy in a few days.
“Do you see a problem?” I shout. “I think I have to recheck the weld on the magnetizer.”
She shakes her head. “It’s just a flap rotor. I can adjust it.” She slides back under the aircraft.
Clifton has loaned me the sleek-bodied Anthroscope for my commute between the Base and his warehouses, laboratories, and testing facilities. I try to take care of its mechanical problems myself because this isn’t a Base ship. The airship is hardly military. It looks like a firstborn’s ultimate sports-airship fantasy. It has a cockpit control room with two seats and a little apartment in the back where I can change.
Hammon slides back out from under the airship and hands me the tool. I place it in her toolbox. “Done,” she says. “When are you headed out next?”
“I’m scheduled to be in the Fate of Diamonds in two days to film an ad campaign for the new Salloway fusionmag. It’s the one with the hydrogen-powered magazine option. They’re calling it the Culprit-44.”
“That’s exciting! The glamorous life of the ‘Face of Salloway Munitions’ never ends,” she says with a grin.
I make an ugly face. “Technically, I’m a Weapons Liaison between the Fate of Swords and the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate. Which means that, like you, I’m a secondborn Sword owned by the Fate of Swords. Only now, Clifton is my commanding officer.”
“I know, but having Clifton Salloway as your CO is extremely different than having Commander Aslanbek. I don’t get to leave the Tree or the Forest Base and fly around the Fates consulting on weapon designs, or have dinners with important Salloway clients.”
“Some of those clients have wandering hands,” I reply dryly. “I sometimes have to threaten to break a finger or two.”
“Yes, but he takes care of you.”
“My relationship with Clifton is complicated. He’s my boss . . .”
“And he’s hot for you.”
“He’s just used to having any woman he wants, and I keep saying no.”
“The thrill of the hunt.” She gives me a coy look and wipes some smudge off the side of the gorgeous airship.
“Something like that. He’s being way too overprotective lately, though.”
“How so?” she asks.
“Ever since we returned from our last tour of active duty, it’s like he’s afraid something bad will happen to me. I know he’s been working angles with the powers that be. I just don’t know what he’s planning.”
“You think he’s planning something?” she asks.
“He’s always planning something, Hammon. He’s a master of strategy. And he wants me out of the air-barracks. It’s like a thing with him. We argue about it a lot.”
“Where does he want you to live?” she asks.
“Ideally, with him. That’s completely out of the question, though. I’m staying here.”
“You’re worried that if he moves you, you won’t be able to see Hawthorne?”
“Yes.” Hawthorne has been gone for advanced pilot training. I miss him so much as it is. “If Clifton moves me, I’ll never get to see him.”
“You have Clifton wrapped around your little finger. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to get your way.”
“No one has Clifton wrapped around her finger,” I reply.
She puts away her tools and wipes her hands on her uniform. I hand her a clean rag from the bin. “Do you ever take your gloves off anymore?”
I look down at my black leather gloves with the fingers cut off. The one on my right hand covers my scar. I researched the crest and found out the Gates of Dawn soldier’s family name. It’s Winterstrom. That’s all I’ve been able to get on him, though. I don’t have clearance for anything else.
“I have to handle weapons at Salloway’s testing facilities. Most of the handgrips aren’t exactly fit to be used yet. Metal filings and spurs sometimes cut me if I don’t have gloves on. It’s a habit now.” Hammon doesn’t know about my scar. I keep it a secret from everyone.
Hammon checks the time on her moniker. “Edge should be back soon! Eeep! I can’t wait!”
“You’re sure Gilad won’t tell Hawthorne about the surprise?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’d never ruin the surprise. Edge, on the other hand, can’t keep a secret to save his fool life.” She smiles at me with her beautiful dimples. “You worry too much, though. Hawthorne won’t care about a surprise party. He’ll only care if you’re there. He’s been gone for ten days. He’s going to need some serious Roselle time.”
We enter the Anthroscope’s control room. I sit in the pilot’s seat and Hammon climbs into the copilot’s chair. The engines of the airship fire up so Hammon can check the gauges. “We should take this for a test run,” I say nonchalantly. “You know, to make sure.”
“Let’s!” she squeals. She reaches for a headset. I put mine on, and we strap in. I get clearance from the Tree Fort to take the aircraft to the testing airspace for a mechanical adjustment run-through. We ease out of the hangar. I follow protocol and don’t exceed regulated speeds until I reach the testing area. Then I flood the engines, and the ship molds into an aerodynamic, needle-like shape. I turn spirals, listening to Hammon’s peals of laughter. We make several circuits until we’re ordered back to the hangar.
“I love that so much,” Hammon says, during our return trip. “Just getting out of the Tree for a second and seeing the sky. I sometimes forget there’s a world outside.”
My heart sinks. “Do you hate being a Sword mechanic?” I ask. I got her the job so she wouldn’t be forced into infantry combat.
“No, I actually love it. I’m good at it—much better than being shot at all the time. And I hate search and rescue. The mutilated bodies give me nightmares, and that’s when I can sleep. If it wasn’t for this job, I don’t think I’d still be here. Something would’ve wasted me a year ago.”
After each tour, new Sword faces flood into Tritium 101 capsules, replacing the dead. None of us tries to make new friends.
“What would you be,” I ask, “if you could be anything?”
“I don’t know. I used to dream about living by the water—like being born in the Fate of Seas. What would it be like to work on a boat and just fish all day?”
She doesn’t dream of being firstborn. “That sounds like a nice life.”
“Can you see Edge working as a fisherman? My mountain man,” she says with a twang.
“I think he’d do anything for you.”
“He would.” She smiles.
“What are you going to say to him when you see him?”
“Nothing. I’m going to find a quiet nook and jump him—it’s been ten days, Roselle. Ten!” She holds up both of her hands and spreads her fingers wide. “How about you? Have you and Hawthorne . . . ?”
My cheeks flood with color. “Nope.”
“He’s still holding out on you? I have to hand it to him, the boy has willpower.”
“Way too much.”
“Make Hawthorne forget about caution. Show him that sometimes you have to take risks to prove you’re still alive.”
“You’re right.” I power down the Anthroscope and take off my headset. We disembark.
The smile on my face evaporates. Agent Crow stands in front of the airship. He walks the length of it, passing me, with his hands behind his back. When he gets to the nose, he turns his eyes toward me. At least ten more inky kill tallies curve from their corners on either side of his face, and now he also has them notched on his neck. They’re thin, but together they represent a seriously frightening number of dead bodies. He presses his finger to the Anthroscope and trails it along the length of the airship’s body, stopping in front of me again. “Roselle Sword.”
“Agent Crow.”
“You never show fear, do you?”
“Why should I fear you?”
He leans near me and sniffs loudly. “I smell it on you, though. You’re afraid.”
“That’s wintergreen. You should have one.” I raise my package of breath mints.
His steel teeth grind, but he presses on. “Did you know that it’s been a year since Census was attacked here at the Stone Forest Base? It took us a while to sift through the bottom level of our underground facility. It was a swampy mess of muck and water from the lake. They just recently uncovered my quarters. I’ve been away, living beneath the Platinum Forest Base. Are you familiar with it?”
“No.”
“It’s in the Fate of Stones. But I’m back now, and I wanted to let you know.”
“I’m sure the Fate of Stones will miss you terribly.”
“You’ll also be pleased to know that I’ve recovered a certain item that had been lost to me.” He pulls back the side of his black coat and shows me my fusionblade in the sheath at his side. The St. Sismode crest is unmistakable. He has had it restored; there’s no outward damage that I can see.
A part of me still aches to take it from him, but not a large part. My identity was so wrapped up in it a year ago. Since then, I have come to accept some of the things that I cannot change. This is one of them. Or maybe it’s because I have more now—I have friends who love me. I manage a genuine smile.
“I guess I’ll always know where it is. You should really try the new sword we designed.” I take my dual-bladed sword from its scabbard and ignite it nonthreateningly. “We’re coming out with an upgrade in the next few months. It should be a top seller. And, you know, Salloways really are the best weapons now.”
He makes no move to take it. Maybe he knows that I could cut him in half without even trying. “They uncovered the vault room,” he says. “Some items that were in it have gone unaccounted for.”
I extinguish my sword and replace it in its sheath. “You had a vault?” I ask. “I thought you just used your lair to torture unsuspecting young women. Did they steal all your belts?”
He leans back, watching my body language. “No, but we did find a severely decomposed corpse of a young woman. We can’t account for her. But it’s her copycat moniker that intrigued me most. Do you want to know why?”
“I love a good mystery.”
“The last moniker she cloned belonged to Holcomb Sword. Remember him? Twisty mustache . . . MP . . . stationed at the detention center . . . on duty and servicing your cell the night you were there . . . the night of the explosion . . .”
“Huh. He sounds familiar, but it’s been so long . . . I couldn’t be sure.”
“Oh, I’m sure, Roselle. It was Holcomb Sword who released you from your cell in the morning.”
“If you say so,” I reply.
“I do say so.”
“I think what you have there is called a coincidence, Agent Crow.”
“In my line of work, there are no coincidences. She had other cloned monikers on her, but the one still inside her had his identity.”
“Who else’s did she have?” I ask, like we’re gossiping and I want all the juicy details. “You know who I’d want to be, if I could clone someone?” I turn to Hammon. “Strato Hammon, that firstborn singer who just ran away with that really good-looking Diamond who sings that song I like?”
“Sarday?”
I snap my fingers. “Yes! Sarday!” I turn back to Agent Crow. “Did she have a cloned Sarday?”
“You really are very clever,” he replies. “It will be such a triumph when I have you all to myself.”
“If you’d like me all to yourself, you’ll have to clear it with my commanding officer, Clifton Salloway. Otherwise . . .”
“You think he can save you?” Agent Crow leans in near my ear. His breath is warm against the shell of it. “He can’t.” With his hands behind his back, he walks away.
“I hate that guy.” Hammon shivers. “He makes my hair stand on end.”
“He’s a psychopath.”
“You attract all the fun ones, Roselle,” she replies. “Here comes another one now.”
Hawthorne strides over from an airship that just docked. Gilad and Edgerton are with him. He looks from me to Agent Crow’s retreating back. He lurches in the direction the agent went, intending to go after him. I grab his arm and hold him back.
“Hawthorne, no!”
He turns to me, and for a moment, there are pain and anguish in his eyes. It’s Agnes. He still wants revenge for what Crow did to her. “When did he get back? What did he want?” Hawthorne growls.
“He wanted to let me know that he’s returned,” I reply. Hawthorne is visibly shaken. I’ve still never told him about stealing the monikers. I won’t make him my accomplice.
“I won’t let him hurt you. I’ll kill him first.” He once told me men like Crow never give up. I can tell he’s thinking about that now.
A shudder travels down my spine. I focus on Hawthorne’s stormy expression. My heart melts a little, and my worry loses its sharp edge. I’m not alone anymore. I have him. I stroke Hawthorne’s arm. “Please don’t let him spoil your homecoming,” I murmur. He gazes at me, and his shoulders ease. He relaxes and loses some of his anger. “Did you have a good flight?”
Hawthorne and Edgerton reply in unison. “No.”
“I have something planned for all of you that will alleviate some of your stress,” I reply. “If you’ll all follow me to Deck 227, I’ll show you the surprise.”
“I thought it was just a surprise party for Hawthorne,” Edgerton interjects.
“Nope,” I reply. “I missed all of you. Even you, Gilad. So come this way . . .” I gesture and start walking. Hawthorne catches up, his hand brushing mine. That one small touch sends an electric current through my body. My knees feel weak.
“I missed you,” he says, so softly that only I can hear.
“What, no date nights while you were gone?”
“No. This really pushy soldier I know spent all my extra merits financing dual-bladed swords for my unit.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I reply. “I’d loan you some of mine, but I used them all for the same purpose.”
“I guess we’ll have to figure out our own date night then.”
“Way ahead of you.”
“Where’re we going, Roselle?” Edgerton asks.
We take a heartwood down to the lower deck and step off into a sea of soldiers. Hawthorne uses the cover of the crowd to take my hand. His strong fingers thread through mine. I want to wrap my arms around him. “We’re just over here,” I call behind me. I raise my moniker to the scanner. A steel door opens into a private shooting range. Hammon closes the door behind us.
It’s quiet, the walls soundproofed. I hand everyone eye protection. “What about ear protection?” Gilad asks.
“You won’t need it.” I try to suppress a smile. He gives me a skeptical look. Each station in the gallery has a black box. “This is your surprise,” I murmur. “Everyone line up in front of a black box. You, too, Hammon.”
“Why me?” she asks with a crooked smile.
“Because it’s a family party.”
She takes a place in front of one of the black boxes. So do the men. “You can open them,” I say. Hawthorne lifts the lid of his box, as do they all. “This is a Culprit-44,” I announce. “It’s equipped with both a fusion-powered magazine and a hydrogen-powered magazine. Note the dual sides. You will find two extra hydrogen magazines in your black boxes. You will need to swap them out more frequently than the fusion side.”
I walk past the tall walls that separate each station. “Do not let that deter you,” I continue. “The hydrogen-powered magazine is just as effective in most combat situations as its fusion counterpart and can fire five times faster. It has automatic action. You can trigger continuously, not just in bursts. The weapon maintains accuracy even with the increased rate of fire and frequency because the hydrogen barrel doesn’t overheat. The fusion barrel requires a slower rate of fire and frequency because its projectiles are hotter, so it’ll warp and lose its precision with automatic action. And, as we all know, switching out a scorched fusion barrel on the battlefield can get you killed. Thus, the need to curtail the frequency of its bursts. You won’t run into that with the hydrogen-powered barrel.
“The weapons before you are prototypes. Only a few of them exist. We’ll be rolling them into production next week. I wanted my friends to be the first to have them.”
Hawthorne, Gilad, Edge, and Hammon slip on their eye protection.
I show Hammon the proper way to load the weapon. Edge aims at the target downfield. Gilad fires several bursts with the hydrogen barrel. “Notice how quiet it is?” I ask. Then I show him how to switch to the fusion barrel, with just a flick of my thumb.
I move on to Hawthorne. He has destroyed the Gates of Dawn silhouette at the farthest point on the range. “What do you think?” I ask him.
“Can you strip this for me and show me how to reassemble it?” he asks, setting it down on a stone slab counter.
“Of course,” I reply. He takes a step back. Lifting the weapon, I take out the magazine and begin to disassemble it. Hawthorne inches closer. His nose touches my hair and he inhales. His arm slips around my waist from behind.
Strong lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear and nuzzle it. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes. Setting the pieces of the Culprit on the counter, I reach up and cup the side of his face, leaning into his kisses. Then I turn in his arms. His hands reacquaint themselves with my curves.
Edgerton’s voice hollers from two stations down. “Whoo! This is better than flying upside down in a vector spinner!”
I giggle against Hawthorne’s lips. “What’s a vector spinner?” I whisper.
“You don’t want to know. I feel like I’m still wearing his puke from it, though.”
“Aw, you poor thing.” My hands on the back of his neck gently guide his mouth back to mine.
“I like my present,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
Edgerton peeks around the wall. “Hey,” he says, chewing on something. “Are these crellas for us, too?” He holds up an already-bitten pastry.
I nod. “Yes, and drinks to go along with them on the bar next to the—”
He shows me his other hand. “This?” he asks. Both hands full, he steps toward me and hugs me with his forearms. “You’re the best, Roselle.” Hammon joins us with two sparkling wines. She gives one to me. Gilad passes another to Hawthorne.
“A toast,” I say, holding up my glass. They look at me funny.
“It’s wine, Roselle,” Edgerton whispers.
“Er . . . a toast means . . . never mind. Let’s drink a sip in honor of our little secondborn family.”
“To family,” Hawthorne murmurs, looking like he’d prefer to have his mouth on me.
“Family,” I say and take a sip.
Hammon chokes on her drink and coughs. Eyes wide, she stares at Hawthorne as if he has ordered her into active infantry duty. “Hawthorne,” she gasps with gut-wrenching dread in her voice. “Your moniker has gone golden.”
He focuses on his left hand. The holographic sword is no longer silver. Hammon’s eyes dart toward me, then to the floor. Gilad stares at Hawthorne as if he has become a walking corpse.
Edgerton is the first to speak. “Hey, congratulations, Hawthorne. Looks like you won the lottery. We’re all really happy for you.”
“This can’t be right,” Hawthorne mumbles, as if to himself. “Flint can’t be dead.”
I turn away, tears stinging my eyes, and pick up the pieces of his Culprit-44. Reassembling the weapon, I place it back in the velvet-lined box and close the lid.
Hawthorne grasps Hammon’s upper arms. “How long has it been like that?” She stares at him, growing paler. “Do you know?” He shakes her a little.
“Hey, now,” Edgerton says, touching Hawthorne’s arm. “Take it easy. Erething’s gonna be—”
“How long?” Hawthorne repeats, more desperately.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I just noticed it.”
Hawthorne turns. “Did you notice it before, Roselle?” I shake my head. I don’t want to face him because I don’t want him to see my tears.
Edgerton tries a softer tone. “Hawthorne, take a breath. This ain’t such a bad thing.”
Hawthorne growls. “I have a life here! I have someone I love—who loves me! I have nothing out there!”
“I get it. I do.” Edgerton rests his hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. “But there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. You’re firstborn now. You has to go be firstborn.”
Hawthorne backs against the counter next to me. Edgerton’s hand falls from him. “I can fix this. I have to fix this,” he mutters aloud, but he sounds as if his thoughts are in disarray. He grabs me to him. My tears wet the front of his flight suit. He strokes my hair and rains kisses on the top of my head.
Pounding on the metal door breaks us apart. “Military Police,” a deep voice yells through the door. “We’re looking for Hawthorne Trugrave.”
Hawthorne and I are bred to be cautious. We’ve trained ourselves always to show restraint, to avoid getting caught, to stay one step ahead of anyone who would tear us apart. But as Edgerton moves to open the door, I know it really doesn’t matter now. Hawthorne and I will be separated, and there isn’t a thing either one of us can do about it. All of our concealed caresses, all the times I forced myself to look away so no one would notice the love written all over my face—all for naught. I’m still going to lose him.
MPs wander into the gallery. The one with the bushy eyebrows gazes at the holographic image of Hawthorne shining up from his moniker’s screen. He finds Hawthorne. “You’ve Transitioned, Firstborn Trugrave. We have you scheduled on an airship leaving in twenty minutes for Forge. Your possessions will be sent to you. We need to go—”
“I’m not ready,” Hawthorne growls, like a cornered animal.
The MP remains friendly. “Of course you’re ready. Just come with us. Everything else can be taken care of. Your family needs you now.”
“I said I’m not ready!” Hawthorne’s hands ball into fists.
The MPs look at one another with here-we-go expressions. “Everything will be fine,” one says in a placating tone. “You’re going home.” All three MPs grab Hawthorne, who thrashes and bucks like a wild beast. Edgerton holds my arm.
“Roselle!” Hawthorne yells. “Just wait!” He struggles against the MPs. Spittle flies from his mouth. The cords of his neck muscles strain as he wrenches. “Roselle! You don’t understand. I need to protect her. They’ll find a way to bury her. This is where they’ll bury her! I have to fix this. I need to fix this!”
“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” one of the MPs growls as they drag him toward the door.
“Don’t hurt him!” I shout through tears. Edgerton holds me back. I clutch the black box.
“Let ’em take him,” Edgerton growls in my ear. “He’ll fight harder if you get in the middle of it, and they’ll hurt him worse.” I know he’s right, but it takes every ounce of willpower not to pull the firearm from the box. The MPs drag Hawthorne from the room, and it’s over almost as soon as it began. And then he’s gone.
I don’t remember returning to my capsule, but I can’t imagine ever leaving it again. This is where they can bury me.