SENTINEL 555: WAR ✔

26 THANK YOU

Thank you?

What did that mean? Even a week later when Oni sat down to the briefing in the rec-room, he could hear nothing.

Dev's flimsy control of the crew held but there was a tension about it, one that Sen made no action to counter. He looked uncomfortable, too.

So as Dev walked back and forth before the wall, pointing at the display chart and everything they needed to know when entering the second phase of the program, Sen, chin resting on his forearm, sat up.

"Why are we focusing on the cull itself? Shouldn't we concentrate on what it takes to get that far? Holding their breaths?"

This pulled Oni back from the abyss—Sen was referring to him.

Dev's shaky posture reminded them of her shaky command. In the wake of the breakfast disaster a week prior, the seven sisters began cooperating. Dev, perhaps, saw that as a victory, Oni—and by extension Sen—knew, it was more than likely to keep Dev from realizing there was a harrowing fight the night prior. One that was terrible on many levels. The tense silence wasn't about Dev. It was about Pleasant and Mercy, both locked in some sort of death grip with one another. Each night Pleasant accepted Sen's excuse of training in order to arrive at her bunks well after the female head cadets started their patrol for the night.

So far, this method held, but something brewed beneath the surface. Something big. Something Dev remained oblivious to. And it didn't need to be that way. Should she scrutinize any logs or complaints about her crew, she'd know. The fact that she hadn't meant more than Oni cared to think about.

"Holding their breaths is a given," Dev said. It was one of the few things she said with confidence. "Their stats say each can last six minutes at least."

Sen argued, "But—"

"But it's not our problem." The grit in Dev's voice spoke of fatigue. "I've had it with all of them. Should one of them be lying about something as basic as that, then that's their issue. We've lost far too much rec-privileges. My focus is getting rid of them as soon as they enter the cull. Immediately after. Desperately so."

She waited for further opposition and when none came, she went back to the chart.

"On the other side of the tank, crews look at stats. It won't be about personality or our bad reputations. We'll be able to recruit, and you lovely ladies can find yourselves a 'proper' head cadet. Understood?"

Their little desks formed a semi-circle which ended at the wall.

Sen stated the obvious. "I don't think they do understand—"

"They can read about it."

"They can't read."

Dev turned to face him, seething. "And what's it to you?"

He fell silent and her eyes shimmered as they bore into him; his defense of them came off as a betrayal.

"They can more than have the temp matrixes in their rooms read it for them. Unless, of course, they're just going to fight over it like they fight over everything!"

Sen opened his mouth but eventually closed it.

Dev's discomfort reflected in her grimace. "I believe in the process. And it says crewmen too proud to ask for help, get none. So until someone says they don't understand what I'm saying, I'll assume they all do."

Tightly rowed fingers slid into the air. "I don't understand." Pleasant waited, weathering the storm of Dev's inhospitable gaze beating down on her. "What? I raised my hand. I don't understand. So explain it."