10. The Accords for Soldiers #2
I learn Captain’s orders are apparently final, and must be obeyed by all they are issued to.
I learn some offences are minor and would only lead to a ‘strike’ or stint in the brig, like disobeying orders from authority, which the Accords refer to as Obstruction to Instruction (OTI).
But I also learn many would get you a Trial on Deck as a punishment – with Execution By Airlock if a guilty verdict is found. Execution for Self-Saviour (IES) can even be carried out without the privilege of a trial in what the Accords call exceptional circumstances of poor conduct.
And the word Negligence really does keep popping up. Cosmer and Riss will likely face execution if they fail to get us Integrated. Just as Riss had said.
I want to change my fate.
What if that ends up changing theirs?
I don’t know Riss. I don’t really know Cosmer, now.
But I wouldn’t want my actions to get them killed.
To distract myself from this growing and probably ridiculous anxiety, I study the lengthy prisoner of war section, handwritten presumably by Dezeeves himself.
An Integration plan may be different for each prisoner. No FI who has undergone the process shall discuss what transpired during their own.
Lower down, it really does state that once Fully Integrated, a former prisoner shall be considered no different from any other soldier of Hevalla.
I double-take. Because underneath the section is a signature and the name State Craftsman Vikemy Pire, followed by the Assembly’s stamp.
I close the book. I can’t read it any longer. The words are invading each other on the page.
But what else to do with my time?
Paper. I have paper, and a pen. And that is power.
I could write a letter to Old Mother and Eric. I doubt Riss will let me post it, but at least I’ll have it ready, when I can.
Old Mother, I write. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you. Please know that I wanted to and wasn’t permitted to. I miss you, so much. I dreamed of you last night. I wonder what cards you are drawing for me, in my absence. Please say it’s The Card of Hope.
Eric, I hope you’re doing everything I said. Keeping an eye on the rations. Planning every dinner to serve. I know we love Babba, but don’t feel guilty if you need to send her out on Seventh Day. She had her purpose—
“What are you doing?”
I look up, my pen still blotting ink on the page. Riss.
“I’m writing a letter to my family,” I say, calmly.
“You can’t do that. The paper is only for—”
“Taking down messages. I know that. But I’ve had absolutely nothing come through on my frequency. Other than a debate on sea biscuits versus saltines.” I push the lid back on my pen. “I’d be very happy to share that write-up with you if you’d like. It was fascinating.”
“Cut the attitude,” she snaps. “I was just starting to like you.”
I’m still holding my letter. “When can I post it?”
“When you’ve FI’d.”
“Riss,” I say, quietly – aware we’re drawing the attention of the analysts around us. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to them – my brother and my grandmother. I have no idea how they’re coping without me—”
“That’s not my problem.”
But then she moves her head. Looks at me from a different angle.
“Let me take it,” she says, softer. “I’ll keep it safe, and I’ll give it back to you when you can actually post it.”
“That’s not doing me a favour. You were going to take it off me anyway!”
“Yes,” she says. “But now I’m doing it nicely. You’re welcome.”
When the standing clock in the room strikes eleven past the hour, five hours since the start of duties, some of the intelligence analysts start leaving the room. It all looks coordinated – they know exactly who to hand their headbands to.
Riss is back at my desk.
“Want to take a break, too? I can take you down to eat if you’re hungry. The cooks don’t do a meal for lunch, but there’ll be saltines or mince cakes or boiled eggs or baked potatoes to pick up. Something like that.”
I nod. Skipping breakfast had begun feeling like a bad idea – even though deep inside I knew it wasn’t, as it meant Cosmer could eat.
Riss hands one of her analysts my headband, and then leads me back down to the Mess Hall.
The ship is sweltering now. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand.
“It’s like death in here.”
“You’ll acclimatise.”
Soldiers around the Mess Hall are eating bread and jam.
The slices have been individually wrapped in tin foil, which is a material I’ve heard of, but have never seen.
The little silver packages have been piled up high on a table so that crew members can help themselves – although a cook stands nearby, keeping watch.
Riss throws me one, then unwraps her own.
Foil is so shiny.
“Stop playing with that,” she snaps. I’d been bending it to and fro.
“Sorry.”
I wonder why we aren’t moving off. But then, when the cook’s attention is on another soldier, I see Riss very stealthily lean back against the pile and swipe a second package. Delicately, she slips it into her jacket pocket.
As we walk out of the Mess Hall, now both eating, I say, “Is the other slice for Cosmer?”
She nods.
“What’s up with that, by the way?” I feel brave enough to ask. “Why isn’t he allowed to be served food on the ship?” I think about The Accords. How many of them listed removal of food privileges as a punishment. Not concealing my concern, I add, “Did he do something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” she says, crumbs flying from her mouth. “I mean, you can have food privileges removed if you’ve broken an Accord. But that’s not why Cosmer can’t eat.”
“So, why can’t he?”
She swallows her mouthful. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. He gets really awkward about people knowing. And he is your senior up here.”
“I’m just worried.”
“He’s fine. He keeps loads of food from land missions in his ship. And I feed him whenever I can. And he’s been doing it a long time. He could go days without a meal, if he had to.”
That doesn’t settle my nerves at all.
Before I can ask Riss anything else, I notice Rike, heading down the same flight of stairs we’d just been climbing to get back to Deck 9.
“Rike,” I say.
He marches straight past me, his head down. Even though I’m certain he saw me, and heard me.
Riss states, “FIs aren’t permitted to talk to prisoners of war.”
“He did this morning.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have. He probably got a talking to from his officer – which might even be Cosmer, thinking about it, since he’s clearly a pilot. You can tell the difference between soldiers and pilots by their collars. Turned up – pilot. Turned down – soldier.”
“Wait,” I say, fast. “I read the prisoner of war section. I never saw anything about FIs not being allowed to talk to us.”
Riss shrugs. “I guess that rule’s an unspoken one. Put it this way – you’re a prisoner. Assume you can’t talk to anyone, other than me. And maybe, Drake and Cosmer. Does that help?”
“Barely,” I say. But I keep walking.
Written rules. Unspoken rules.
Rules, rules, rules.
And punishments.
Much like in Hevalla itself, I suppose. I shouldn’t be surprised.
I just wish I knew why Cosmer would want to punish himself.