After the two girls left, FM’s head—her short hair clipped back with a glittering barrette—popped out of one of the doors. She gestured with an urgent wave. Kimmalyn dashed down the hall to her, and I followed, ducking into their room.
FM slammed the door, then grinned. Their small room was as I remembered it, though one of the beds had been removed, when Morningtide died. That left a bunk on the left wall, and a single bed by the right. A pile of blankets lay lumped between them, and the dresser held two trays of food: steaming soup in bowls, with algae tofu and slices of thick bread. Real bread. With real imitation butter.
My mouth started watering.
“We asked for extra,” Kimmalyn said, “but they sent soup, because they think we’re sick. Still, ‘You can’t ask for more when you already have it,’ as the Saint said.”
“They removed the extra bed,” FM said, “so we piled some blankets on the floor. The trick is going to be using the lavatories—but we’ll run interference for you.”
It finally sank in. They’d pretended to be sick so they could order food into the room—and share it. They’d snuck me to the room, and made a “bed” for me.
Stars. Gratitude surged up inside me.
I was going to cry.
Warriors did not cry.
“Oh! You look angry,” Kimmalyn said. “Don’t be angry. We’re not implying you’re too weak to walk to your cave! We just thought . . . you know . . .”
“It would be nice to take a break,” FM said. “Even a great warrior can take the occasional break, right, Spin?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Great!” Kimmalyn said. “Let’s dig in. Subterfuge makes me famished.”
28
That soup tasted better than the blood of my enemies.
Considering I’d never actually tasted the blood of my enemies, perhaps that didn’t do justice to the soup.
It tasted better than soup should. It tasted of laughter, and love, and appreciation. The warmth of it glowed inside me like ignited rocket fuel. I snuggled in the blankets, holding the big bowl in my lap, while Kimmalyn and FM chatted.
I fought down the tears. I would not cry.
But the soup tasted of home. Somehow.
“I told you the costume would make her come with me,” Kimmalyn was saying as she sat on her bed, cross-legged. “Black is the color of intrigue.”
“You’re insane,” FM said, wagging her spoon. “You’re lucky nobody saw you. Defiants are all too eager to look for a reason to be offended.”
“You’re Defiant too, FM,” I said. “You were born here, like the rest of us. You’re a citizen of the United Defiant Caverns. Why do you keep pretending you’re something different?”
FM grinned in an eager way. It seemed that she liked that sort of question. “Being a Defiant,” she said, “isn’t just about our nationality. It’s always expressed as a mindset. ‘A true Defiant will think this way’ or ‘To be Defiant, you need to never back down,’ things like that. So, by their own logic, I can un-Defiant myself through personal choices.”
“And . . . you want to?” I said, cocking my head.
Kimmalyn handed me another slice of bread. “She thinks you all might be a touch . . . bellicose.”
“There’s that word again,” I said. “Who talks like that?”
“People who are erudite,” Kimmalyn said, sipping her soup.
“I refuse to be trapped by bonds of autocracy and nationalism,” FM said. “To survive, our people have become necessarily hardened, but alongside it we have enslaved ourselves. Most people never question, and doggedly go through the motions of an obedient life. Others have increased aggression to the point that it’s hard to have natural feelings!”
“I have natural feelings,” I said. “And I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”
FM eyed me.
“I’d insist on swords at dawn,” I said, eating the bread. “But I’ll probably be too full of bread to get up. Is this seriously what you all get to eat every day?”
“Well, what do you eat, dear?” Kimmalyn said.
“Rats,” I said. “And mushrooms.”
“Every day?”
“I used to put pepper on the rats, but I ran out.”
The two of them shared a look.
“It’s an embarrassment to the DDF, what the admiral has done to you,” FM said. “But it’s a natural outgrowth of the totalitarian need for absolute power over those who resist her—the very example of the hypocrisy of the system. Defiance is not ‘Defiant’ to them unless it doesn’t actually defy anything.”
I shot a glance at Kimmalyn, who shrugged. “She’s extremely passionate about this.”
“We are propping up a government that has overreached its bounds in the name of public safety,” FM said. “The people must speak up and rise against the upper class who holds them enslaved!”
“Upper class, like you?” I asked.
FM looked down at her soup, then sighed. “I’d go to the Disputer meetings, and my parents would just pat me on the head and explain to everyone else that I was going through a counterculture phase. Then they signed me up for flight school, and . . . well, I mean, I get to fly.”
I nodded. That part I understood.
“I figure, if I become a famous pilot, I can speak for the little guys, you know? I’m more likely to be able to change things here than down in the deep caverns, wearing ball gowns and sitting primly next to my sisters. Right? Don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I said. “That makes perfect sense. Right, Quirk?”
“I keep telling her that,” Kimmalyn said to me, “but I think it will mean more from you.”
“Why me?” I asked. “FM, didn’t you say people like me have unnatural emotions?”
“Yes, but you can’t help being a product of your environment!” FM said. “It’s not your fault you’re a bloodthirsty ball of aggression and destruction.”
“I am?” I perked up. “Like, that’s how you see me?”
She nodded.
Awesome.
The door to the little room suddenly opened, and by instinct I hefted the bowl, figuring that the still-warm soup might make a good diversion if flung in someone’s face.
Hurl slipped in, her lean form silhouetted by the hallway’s light. Scud. I hadn’t even thought about her. The other two had brought me in while she was away at dinner. Had they cleared this little infraction with her?
She met my eyes, then hurriedly shut the door. “I brought desserts,” she said, lifting a small bundle wrapped in a napkin. “Jerkface caught me taking them as he stopped by. I think he just does that to glare at us before he goes off to be with more important people for dinner.”
“What did you tell him?” Kimmalyn said.
“I said I wanted a midnight snack. Hopefully he doesn’t suspect anything. The hallway looked clear, no MPs or anything. I think we’re good.” She unwrapped the napkin, revealing some chocolate cake that was only mildly squashed by the transportation.
I watched her, thoughtful, as she gave us each a piece, then flopped onto her bed, stuffing the last chunk into her mouth in one go. This was a girl who had barely spoken to me over the last few weeks. Now she brought me cake? I was certainly relieved that she wasn’t going to turn me in, but I didn’t know what to make of her otherwise.