the war without water, or food, or sanitation.
Taking jobs like these still felt like settling. Where was the spark, the energy? We were supposed to be Defiant. We were warriors.
The class clapped politely when Citizen Alfir finished. Outside the window, more workers walked in lines beneath statues with straight, geometric shapes. Sometimes we seemed far less a machine of war than a clock for timing how long shifts lasted.
The students stood up for a break, and I strode away before Dia could make another wisecrack. The girl had been trying to goad me into trouble all week.
Instead, I approached a student at the back of the room—a lanky boy with red hair. He’d immediately opened a book to read once the lecture was done.
“Rodge,” I said. “Rigmarole!”
His nickname—the callsign we’d chosen for him to take once he became a pilot—made him look up. “Spensa! When did you get here?”
“Middle of the lecture. You didn’t see me come in?”
“I was going through flight schematics lists in my head. Scud. Only one day left. Aren’t you nervous?”
“Of course I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous? I’ve got this down.”
“Not sure I do.” Rodge glanced back at his textbook.
“Are you kidding? You know basically everything. Rig.”
“You should probably call me Rodge. I mean, we haven’t earned callsigns yet. Not unless we pass the test.”
“Which we will totally do.”
“But what if I haven’t studied the right material?”
“Five basic turn maneuvers?”
“The reverse switchback,” he said immediately, “Ahlstrom loop, the twin shuffle, overwing twist, and the Imban turn.”
“DDF g-force warning thresholds for various maneuvers?”
“Ten Gs in a climb or bank, fifteen Gs forward, four Gs in a dive.”
“Booster type on a Poco interceptor?”
“Which design?”
“Current.”
“A-19. Yes, I know that, Spensa—but what if those questions aren’t on the test? What if it’s something we didn’t study?”
At his words, I felt the faintest seed of doubt. While we’d done practice tests, the actual contents of the pilot’s test changed every year. There were always questions about boosters, fighter components, and maneuvers—but technically, any part of our schooling could be included.
I’d missed a lot of classes, but I knew I shouldn’t worry. Beowulf wouldn’t worry. Confidence was the soul of heroism.
“I’m going to ace that test, Rig,” I said. “You and I, we’re going to be the best pilots in the Defiant Defense Force. We’ll fight so well, the Krell will raise lamentations to the sky like smoke above a pyre, crying in desperation at our advent!”
Rig cocked his head.
“A bit much?” I asked.
“Where do you come up with these things?”
“Sounds like something Beowulf might say.”
Rodge settled back down to study, and I probably should have joined him. Yet a part of me was fed up with studying, with trying to cram things into my brain. I wanted the challenge to just arrive.
We had one more lecture today, unfortunately. I listened to the other dozen or so students chatter together, but I wasn’t in a mood to put up with their stupidity. Instead I found myself pacing like a caged animal, until I noticed Mrs. Vmeer walking toward me with Alfir, the sanitation guy.
She wore a bright green skirt, but the silvery cadet’s pin on her blouse was the real mark of her achievement. It meant she’d passed the pilot’s test. She must have washed out in flight school—otherwise she’d have a golden pin—but washing out wasn’t uncommon. And down here in Igneous, even a cadet’s pin was a mark of great accomplishment. Mrs. Vmeer had special clothing and food requisition privileges.
She wasn’t a bad teacher—she didn’t treat me much differently from the other students, and she hardly ever scowled at me. I kind of liked her, even if her daughter was a creature of distilled darkness, worthy only of being slain so her corpse could be used to make potions.
“Spensa,” Mrs. Vmeer said. “Citizen Alfir wanted to speak with you.”
I braced myself for questions about my father. Everyone always wanted to ask about him. What was it like to live as the daughter of a coward? Did I wish I could hide from it? Did I ever consider changing my surname? People who thought they were being empathetic always asked questions like those.
“I hear,” Alfir said, “that you’re quite the explorer.”
I opened my mouth to spit back a retort, then bit it off. What?
“You go out in the caves,” he continued, “hunting?”
“Um, yes,” I said. “Rats.”
“We have need of people like you,” Alfir said.
“In sanitation?”
“A lot of the machinery we service runs through far-off caverns. We make expeditions