Another kid stuck her cup under the spigot. Others were staring at the first one as he dug his spoon doubtfully into the glop. Mirica was as still as a stump, but at least she'd taken out an eared mug in the shape of a grinning face.
"Ah, snake's not a nickname, ma'am," Blohm said. "Not exactly."
It's what veterans call each other instead of miss and mister, which we're not . . .
Rather than say that aloud, Blohm muttered, "My name's Caius, ma'am. I guess it doesn't matter a hoot what you want to call me."
"Caius, then," Mrs. Suares said with satisfaction. Blohm didn't remember anybody calling him by his given name before.
They got through five of the kids without a problem. Two ate with something like enthusiasm, which said more for their appetite than the meal. Mrs. Suares was feeding the two-year-old from her own bowl.
Mirica took the filled cup and even tasted a spoonful. After a moment she cradled her head in her arms and began to sob. The mug slipped from her hand and oozed its contents onto the ground.
"Oh, sweetheart, darling," Mrs. Suares said with sad concern. "Please, darling, you've got to eat. We all have to keep our strength up so that we aren't a burden on people like Caius here. Please, Mirica. Please sweetheart?"
Blohm detached his mess can from the bottom of the converter. "I know how she feels," he said to Mrs. Suares. "They had a hell of a time getting me to eat at the creche when I was a kid too."
He didn't think about the creche much, but it wasn't that he'd had a bad time there. It was a lot like the army. Not great but mostly okay; and anyway you better get used to it because that was what life was going to be until you died.
"Are you all right, Caius?" Mrs. Suares said.
"Sorry," Blohm muttered. He must have been staring at her or some damned thing. "Sorry.
"But you know, thinking back . . . Hey," he said. "Mirica? Do you like tapioca pudding? That was the only thing they could get me to eat."
Blohm carried the converter over to the berm and dumped its contents onto the wrack from which it had come. Kneeling in the lanternlight, he reset the output and fed an additional length of root into the system. "I never thought of doing this myself, you know? Shit, it must be fifteen years since I had tapioca pudding."
The converter's holding tank had a non-stick surface that wouldn't even raise a meniscus if filled with water. The kid's mug would have to be washed to get the "chicken and rice" out of it, so Blohm ran the new batch into his own can.
They all watched him as he put his finger into the can and tasted it. Even Mirica turned her head, though she didn't lift it from her arms. "Goddam," Blohm said in surprise. "It tastes like tapioca pudding."
He looked at Mrs. Suares. "Ma'am," he said, "this is the first fucking thing I've had through this bitch that tastes like it ought to. It's good. Here kid, you try it."
Mirica stuck her finger out. Mrs. Suares started to say something but caught herself.
Staring solemnly at Blohm, the child licked the goo off her finger, then straightened into a sitting position. He and she each took another fingerful of the sticky mass.
Blohm shook his head. "Fuck if I know why I never thought of doing this before, ma'am," he said. He suddenly realized he wasn't speaking to another striker. "Oh, Christ," he muttered. "Ma'am, I'm sorry about my language. With the kids and all."
"You have nothing at all to be sorry for, Caius," Mrs. Suares said with a smile warmer than the still night air. "And it's Seraphina, please."
Esther Meyer heard somebody talking in a low voice to the doctor who'd just checked her over, but she didn't open her eyes. Kristal had told her she was off the guard rotation tonight. Meyer didn't think she was hurt that bad, but she wasn't going to argue with the decision.
She was okay. She just felt like she'd been dragged all day behind the tractor instead of riding on it. She was face down, her cheek against the cool plastic. Her back hurt like hell whichever way she lay, though the doc said nothing was broken. He'd injected an enzyme to reabsorb the swelling by morning.
The plastic sheeting was fairly stiff, but it creaked and rippled when someone walked on it. Meyer felt somebody stop and kneel on the other side of her. "Yeah?" she muttered. Best guess was she was about to learn she was on guard after all.
"Striker Meyer?" said an unfamiliar voice. "I'm Councillor Matthew Lock. I came to apologize."
Meyer tried to turn over. She gasped and swore with pain. Relaxing, she took a deep breath.
"Striker Meyer?" the voice repeated in concern. "Please don't—"
"Can it!" Meyer wheezed. "Just give me a sec—"