“Other enhancements?” I think of the steel claws that sprang from the Black-Os’ fingertips.
“Lethal enhancements, Roselle. We’re on the cutting edge of tapping into other perceptions, what some would call a sixth sense. The new neural pathways that the VPMD creates have presented us with some tantalizing opportunities. We’ve commissioned Star-Fated engineers to help us with our research—only the brightest.” I haven’t seen these Star-Fated technicians around.
“You’ve commissioned them, or you’ve kidnapped them?” I ask.
“‘Kidnapped’ is such an ugly word, Roselle. Most of them are secondborns. We appropriated them.”
We leave the room and enter a stark-white corridor. The light hurts my eyes. Windows afford a view of a nursery. Swaddled in temperature-controlled cocoons, infants rock gently in nestled bins. Above them, holographic images of faces hover, talking and smiling, giving the impression that a real person is attending to the infant. These are interspersed with other images, flashes of light that I can’t make out.
“They haven’t gotten their cornea or other implants yet,” Agent Crow says. “The holographic images simulate mothers and fathers or siblings—all of them obedient to Census.”
Thousands and thousands of cocoon cradles fill the nursery. It reminds me of a morgue. “Cranston Atom, the mortician at the Halo Palace,” I surmise, “somehow figured out that something wasn’t right about the assassins at the club.”
“He was clever. At first he was fooled into believing the assassins never had monikers. Protocol for missing monikers demands that Census investigate. It was how we planned to recover all the assassins’ bodies before any other agency could investigate. But Cranston was too good at his job. Later, at the Halo Palace morgue, the mortician noticed the zeroborn monikers were once present in the assassins. He figured out that they’d all been cut out of the Death Gods from the Gods and Goddesses Ball and they’d undergone skin regeneration, but the zeroborn moniker had left behind unique imprints inside the corpses’ flesh. The markings were different than normal Fates Republic monikers. Cranston contacted me after my initial meeting with him to tell me about his discovery, which meant I had to kill him.”
“How did you get away with that?”
“We’re Census. No one questions us.”
We’ve reached the end of the corridor. Another elevator opens before us. Agent Crow steps in. I have no choice but to follow. Hawthorne enters after me, the doors roll closed, and I’m relieved to feel the car rising.
Hawthorne’s sandy hair lies over his eyes. I want to brush it away, but if I touch him, he’ll hurt me. He gazes straight ahead, emotionless. My heart aches with sorrow.
“How is it that Hawthorne was converted weeks ago?” I ask. “I just saw him yesterday in the war room of Upper Halo.”
Agent Crow laughs. “Hawthorne has no idea that he’s a Black-O when he’s not being actively redirected. Unless his VPMD is turned on, you’d never know he’s one of us. His eyes have the implants, true, but they won’t shine. You’d have to examine him closely. He’s the perfect spy because he’s unaware that he’s spying.”
“You’re disgusting,” I growl.
“And you’ll make a fine Black-O, Roselle.”
A cold tremor slips down my spine.
We return to the trunk of the Tree. I’m escorted to a heartwood in the center of the facility. Agent Crow gestures for me to enter the heartwood with him. I clutch the pole and step onto a rising star. He is on the step beside mine. We’re lifted together through the tube.
“There is something I want to show you on level five,” he says.
We pass storehouses of neon cylinders containing people—his experiments. On level five, we step off the heartwood and walk together to the area that, in a normal Tree, would be used for the intake of new Transitions. Inside, secondborn Atom- and Star-Fated technicians are busy at work. They don’t appear to be mind-controlled. No silver light shines from them.
Agent Crow commands the attention of the nearest Star-Fated man in an ebony lab coat. The tall, handsome man stops what he is doing on his holographic screen, climbs off his chair, and walks toward us. Dark hair falls over his brow. His eyes are focused on his moniker, but his inattentiveness doesn’t seem to bother Agent Crow.
“I need you to prepare Roselle St. Sismode for Black-O conversion,” Agent Crow says.
My heart pounds in my ears. I turn to bolt, but I’m caught and restrained by Hawthorne and several other Black-O soldiers. I struggle, but they’re ridiculously strong.
The technician doesn’t miss a beat, ignoring my outburst. “I just need a requisition, and I can take her back to an exam room now. I’m sending you the appropriate files.” His fingers swipe the light of his star-shaped moniker.
Agent Crow uses his moniker to send the requisition. They’re still using the Fates Republic communication system. They must have ways of blocking access by nosy Star-Fated firstborns like Reykin, but for my sake, I hope not.
The technician draws a tranquilizer gun from the holster on his thigh. I kick him in the stomach and try again to get loose, but I’m immediately tackled by the nearest Black-O. He growls in my ear until I exhaust myself and stop struggling, and he hauls me back to my feet. I pant in frustration.
Agent Crow leans in, touches my cheek, and smooths my hair away from my eyes. “I’m looking forward to your conversion more than I have with anyone else’s, Roselle. What will it be like when you fall into my arms instead of trying to rip them off?”
I spit in his face. He scowls and pulls a cloth from the pocket of his black leather coat. Methodically, he wipes away my spit. “Hand me the gun.”
The technician places the tranquilizer gun in Agent Crow’s palm. He places it directly over my heart. My eyes defy him, even as the dart penetrates my skin. I jerk at the impact of the needle against my breastbone. My eyes blur. My ears ring. Everything mutes. A dreamy, faraway feeling sets in.
“Let her go,” Agent Crow orders. It sounds distant.
I’m released. My knees weaken, and I almost collapse, but the technician reaches out and catches me, clutching me to him. He smells like lemongrass.
“Opa,” he groans. “It must be too much. You’re such a little thing.”
His deep voice sounds so familiar.
“Don’t be deceived,” Agent Crow warns. “She’s a killer.”
“Oh, I know who she is,” the technician replies. “Everybody knows Roselle St. Sismode.”
“Her mother expects her conversion to begin as soon as possible,” Agent Crow growls, “so quit the rhetoric. Prep her for conversion, and tank her. Alert me the moment she’s ready. I’m leaving the Black-Os to guard her. Don’t let her out of your sight, or you’ll regret it.”
Agent Crow leaves, and the technician says nothing. My head lolls on his shoulder. He lifts me in his arms and, followed closely by Hawthorne and several other Black-Os, takes me to an examination room.
The technician lays me on an examination table beneath a bright-white spotlight. Beside it is a tall tank filled with briny fluid, like the ones I observed earlier. I drift in and out of awareness, trying not to succumb to the tranquilizer. The technician removes my cuffs. I feel him tug off my clothes and wrestle me into a wet suit. He inserts IVs into my arm. Using a powered sprayer, he coats my exposed skin with something.