Page 55 of Carousel

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.