The rest of the ride in is a lot less exciting once the fireworks are over. Mule slides us from the bridge onto an offramp to the left, and we roll past honest to god farmnd - cornstalks taller than I am, beans snaking around those, pumpkins and squash at their feet; then tomatoes, cukes, lettuces, all sorts of reminders that the st food I had was a square of chocote. I think I even hear the grunting of pigs, the bleat of goats.

  We finally come to a stop in front of a barracks. Like, literally, an E-shaped old World War Two navy surplus barracks.

  “Wasn’t expecting actual milspec,” I say as we disembark.

  “The Department of Labor tried to turn these swords into plowshares, while it still existed,” Isaac said. “You’re looking at what was the Job Corps dorms. Now, once again, a barracks.”

  Only some of it was in good repair, on closer inspection. I brush my hand against the ivy climbing up the walls and windows – into cracks in the concrete. Just like on the mainnd, everything was falling apart after 7 years with no janitors or repairmen.

  But here, there were people fighting back. Against time and chaos and things fucking up, as much as against the invasion. Somehow a handful of kids my age kept at least the front of the building safe enough to sleep in,

  "I’m going to drop you and Mun off.” Isaac said, almost apologetic. “I have other work to do.”

  "And Majors to avoid?" Mule added, as if under her breath but way louder than if they were really whispering.

  Isaac throws her a brittle smile. "Just an added bonus of how busy I am," he says.

  "Grow some balls, nu qi," Mule growls, though it seems friendly.

  "As soon as you start to act your age instead of your shoe size," Isaac fires back.

  Mule brays ughter. "Joke's on you, I’m wearing size thirteen, it’s both."

  I hear someone clear their throat.

  “If you two are quite done razzing each other, I believe I need to show a new recruit the tour,” says a sweet, smooth voice.

  It belongs to a girl with dark skin and reddish hair, in loose bundles that remind me of coiled copper wire. She’s short, about a half head shorter than I am, and a little wider. The fact that she's swaddled in yers - a green and yellow jacket over a skirt over more skirts - makes her look even more soft and plush. Her eyes are dark and make her look gentle, maybe even a little tired.

  Mule grins at her. "Yo, Merry! We got some fresh meat for ya."

  Merry sighs. "Please do not refer to our new recruits as ‘fresh meat.’ It tends to unnerve them."

  I ugh and step forward. She offers me a firm handshake and a smile.

  "Meredith Baker,” she says. “You must be our test recruit. May I have your name?"

  “Jesus F. Castelno.” I smirk; I can’t help it. “Call me Soos if it bothers you, everyone does.”

  "Jesus F. Castelno...” For a moment I think she frowns. “I see. You look like you've had a rough time of things out on the mainnd."

  I snort, but manage not to roll my eyes at the understatement of the year.

  “At least now I’m in a pce where I can do something about it,” I say. “No point bitching about it when we can make things better instead.”

  That gets an actual smile out of her. “I joined TIR for much the same reasons.”

  “Be big heroes, make things right,” Mule says, rolling their eyes. “Not to mention the free food and the warm bed, right?”

  “Ain’t easy fightin’ a war on no sleep and an empty stomach, sugar,” Meredith snaps back – in a completely different accent, without a frown or a moment’s hesitation. “Think that might be why I bring up ‘the free food and warm bed’ to new recruits?”

  “The good PR don’t hurt neither,” Mule says.

  “Don’t you have a job to do in the fields?” Merry asks.

  For a second it looks like Mule’s going to flip her off, but they turn it into a peace sign and a stuck-out tongue at the st minute.

  “See you at dinner, Soos,” they say as they walk off. “Ribs courtesy of me and our boy Christopher Percival Bacon.”

  Meredith shakes her head, turning to me.

  “I take it Chris P. Bacon is a pig,” I say.

  “And we’ve got chickens named Tagine, Cacciatore, and Lemon Pepper.” she says, pointing with her whole arm in the direction we’re heading. “I take it you saw the fields on the way to TIR.”

  “Never heard it called TIR, just ‘the Resistance,’” I say, hands in my jacket pockets for warmth. We’re still a block from the Bay, a huge heat-sink, and the wind from the water is cold even now in July.

  “An acronym,” she expins, as if that expined it. “Treasure Isnd Resistance, Tee-Eye-Are, TIR. And the farms are the first thing you see, among other practical reasons, because they are always avaible to recruits.”

  “I don’t follow,” I say.

  She pauses, hand over her mouth, fingers over her lips, as if praying. Finally, she nods.

  “If you can’t hack it as a Padin or an Oracle, either because you ck the knack or because you’re wounded in the line of battle, we won’t throw you out,” she says. “There are never enough kids to work the fields, mend the broken, count our supplies. You don’t have to fight to contribute, and we…”

  She frowns, and I catch it.

  “I won’t think less of you for joining the Resistance as a civilian instead of as a soldier,” she amends.

  I nod, taking a hand out of my pocket, offering it palm up. “Hard work is hard work,” I say. “Wouldn’t think less of anyone else who genuinely wants to help make things better who does it that way.”

  Meredith nods.

  “But that’s not me,” I say, folding my arms. “I came here because those – things – took my Mom and Dad and sister and all of my friends from me, made me live in terror and eat scraps for seven years. And because one of yours made one of those monsters the punchline of a spstick routine.”

  Meredith puts her hand over her mouth, but I can tell she’s smiling.

  “I’m here to fight,” I say. “And to thank whoever… showed me it could be done, today.”

  “I can arrange that,” Meredith says, offering her hand.

  I take it.

  “Let me show you the Round Table,” she says.