some bread and looks as if she’s trying not to hiccup. “Don’t know if you can bet on that, Eri. Beetles have seen more Earth ships nearby these past few years, so the Militia’s sending more people to dispatch those ships and on actual recon missions.”
“Ugh, and the food on the ships is probably even worse than this . . . .” Eri hasn’t touched her meal; she glares at it, as if doing so will turn it into fresh sushi and fluffy coconut cake. “Think we can get our parents to send some real bread?”
Groans of assent arise from around the table. These girls surely grew up in middle-income families, eating the kind of food mine only bought for special occasions. White bread, still warm from the Culinary steam ovens, filled with fruit paste or lab-grown meat. Water infused with carbon dioxide and sweet stevia leaves that bubbles delightfully on the tongue.
I whisk my soup with the spoon, aiming to create a smooth, sloping vortex until I admit to myself that the chunky liquid will never cooperate.
Nash’s low voice wafts from beside me. “It’s not that bad, Eri. At least they care about our health.”
Defense is feeding us now so that we can do their bidding before either completing our service or dropping dead. Great investment , I think with a sardonic smirk. We might as well take advantage of their generosity.
“You know who’s going to place at top two and end up on recon?” Vinasa winks at Eri, whose face turns the color of a radish. “Wes Kappa.”
I wonder if she’s talking about Copper Head.
“Yeah, Eri, your stalk-ee ran like a comet today—I mean, if comets could run,” Nash adds. “I saw you staring at him like . . . well, the way you’ve stared at him since Level Ten Primary. . . . Top twenty in every subject! Pretty hair like the surface of Mars!”
Eri hunches over her food and shovels a spoonful of the soup into her mouth. Now’s a good time for her to eat it, when she’s so embarrassed she won’t notice the taste.
She swallows. “Fuzz off, Nash.”
About ten years ago, some colorful individuals derived the swearwords fizz, fuzz, and fuse from nuclear fission and fusion, violent processes from which the best lunar weapons draw their power. I’m unused to profanity, but given Militia’s coarse environment, hearing such phrases shouldn’t be a surprise.
“But it’s so much fun to tease you!” Vinasa erupts into laughter, clutching her middle. “Also, you do nothing about him, even though he’ll never make the first move.”
Nash snorts. “Vin, Wes is right there, with Orion. Quit with the giggles unless you want them to hear.”
Indeed, Copper Head sits at the end of a nearby table full of babbling trainees, facing the wall and watching the evening news on his handscreen. The fellow responsible for most of the mirth—Orion, I suppose—has peachy skin and wears his wheaten hair in a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face and shoulders are so strong, even the hairstyle doesn’t make him look effeminate. While he makes conversation with the unfortunate girl beside him, her spoon misses her mouth and stew spills down her front. I let out a snort of amusement.
Oblivious, Copper Head spears his bread with his fork and chomps it with his premolars, on the side of his mouth. Something on the news holds his attention, or he’s pretending it does. Because I’m in a similar social situation, I feel a sudden closeness with him, but I repress it. He deserves no empathy from me.
After dinner, Colonel Arcturus Theta, an older officer with a round, ruddy face and gray hair shaved close to his scalp, delivers a lecture on rules that focuses on our 23:00 curfew—“23:00, and not a second later!” We mustn’t wander about after curfew; boys and girls must be in their respective halves of the barracks after curfew; handscreens must be silenced after curfew. . . .
“People call him Arcturus the Assiduous.” In the row above me, Orion whispers
“Ugh, and the food on the ships is probably even worse than this . . . .” Eri hasn’t touched her meal; she glares at it, as if doing so will turn it into fresh sushi and fluffy coconut cake. “Think we can get our parents to send some real bread?”
Groans of assent arise from around the table. These girls surely grew up in middle-income families, eating the kind of food mine only bought for special occasions. White bread, still warm from the Culinary steam ovens, filled with fruit paste or lab-grown meat. Water infused with carbon dioxide and sweet stevia leaves that bubbles delightfully on the tongue.
I whisk my soup with the spoon, aiming to create a smooth, sloping vortex until I admit to myself that the chunky liquid will never cooperate.
Nash’s low voice wafts from beside me. “It’s not that bad, Eri. At least they care about our health.”
Defense is feeding us now so that we can do their bidding before either completing our service or dropping dead. Great investment , I think with a sardonic smirk. We might as well take advantage of their generosity.
“You know who’s going to place at top two and end up on recon?” Vinasa winks at Eri, whose face turns the color of a radish. “Wes Kappa.”
I wonder if she’s talking about Copper Head.
“Yeah, Eri, your stalk-ee ran like a comet today—I mean, if comets could run,” Nash adds. “I saw you staring at him like . . . well, the way you’ve stared at him since Level Ten Primary. . . . Top twenty in every subject! Pretty hair like the surface of Mars!”
Eri hunches over her food and shovels a spoonful of the soup into her mouth. Now’s a good time for her to eat it, when she’s so embarrassed she won’t notice the taste.
She swallows. “Fuzz off, Nash.”
About ten years ago, some colorful individuals derived the swearwords fizz, fuzz, and fuse from nuclear fission and fusion, violent processes from which the best lunar weapons draw their power. I’m unused to profanity, but given Militia’s coarse environment, hearing such phrases shouldn’t be a surprise.
“But it’s so much fun to tease you!” Vinasa erupts into laughter, clutching her middle. “Also, you do nothing about him, even though he’ll never make the first move.”
Nash snorts. “Vin, Wes is right there, with Orion. Quit with the giggles unless you want them to hear.”
Indeed, Copper Head sits at the end of a nearby table full of babbling trainees, facing the wall and watching the evening news on his handscreen. The fellow responsible for most of the mirth—Orion, I suppose—has peachy skin and wears his wheaten hair in a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face and shoulders are so strong, even the hairstyle doesn’t make him look effeminate. While he makes conversation with the unfortunate girl beside him, her spoon misses her mouth and stew spills down her front. I let out a snort of amusement.
Oblivious, Copper Head spears his bread with his fork and chomps it with his premolars, on the side of his mouth. Something on the news holds his attention, or he’s pretending it does. Because I’m in a similar social situation, I feel a sudden closeness with him, but I repress it. He deserves no empathy from me.
After dinner, Colonel Arcturus Theta, an older officer with a round, ruddy face and gray hair shaved close to his scalp, delivers a lecture on rules that focuses on our 23:00 curfew—“23:00, and not a second later!” We mustn’t wander about after curfew; boys and girls must be in their respective halves of the barracks after curfew; handscreens must be silenced after curfew. . . .
“People call him Arcturus the Assiduous.” In the row above me, Orion whispers
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