You slump against the wall and let all the air in you out through your nose. Thank the gods for the little things: at least Walz isn’t here to draw it out with ever more cheerful small talk.

  And Carol? Carol—who’s still taking her sweet time undressing (for which there must be a reason, of course, surely a veteran pilot of twelve years’ active combat duty doesn’t need ten minutes to undo her cowl—but you are too oblivious to consider that just yet).

  Right. Well. It’s sort of her fault you’re in the crosshairs now, isn’t it? Does she know? Does she care? Really, is she thinking about anything but herself and the way the rest of the team thinks of her stunt right now, much as you’re doing yourself? You could ask her, only you don’t want to. When you think of asking, a ring of heat rises around your neck; you’re angry, you realize, at her for having put you in that position in the first place, because of course the new hire isn’t going to question her senior doing something she’s not supposed to do, not out in the field, not on her first proper day. Carol knew what she was doing, and it was shitty of her to do it to you. She doesn’t deserve your words now.

  (Such a self-pitying way of thinking, that. How fitting for a miserable little worm like you. Is this all you ever think of—how unsatisfied you are—how angry with the world and everyone around you? Will anything ever truly be enough, daughter of salt and dust? Will it be once you get your answers, or will you only find new, more bitter questions to ask?)

  But no, really, who knew Rachel’s companion pilot would be such a bitch to work with? And, Christ, is it too late to request a different seat? To snitch on Chang to the Colonel, or not: that is the question.

  “Something on my face?” Carol says.

  Ah. Right. You’ve been staring at her for a solid thirty seconds now. Of course she’s noticed.

  And of course she’s still not finished dressing. Her suit’s half-peeled, pooled around her waist; above it her skin is browner than you’d expected, lightly stippled with gooseflesh, and her arms are crossed right under her breasts; she’s not bothering to cover them; why would she? Nobody else has. You’re all pilots here.

  What the hell are you supposed to say to that?

  You still haven’t looked away. Neither has Carol.

  You lift your chin. “Looks fine to me,” you say, which had, in your defense, sounded more nonchalant and less corny in your thoughts.

  Carol tilts her head.

  “Ah. Well,” she says, “stare any longer, I’d ask if you wanted to kill me, or fuck me.”

  I mean, you are staring at her tits.

  You color further. “No,” you say. “No, uh, hell no.” Come on, Kanagawa, what are you, twelve? Where’s your defense? “After you dragged me around by the throat out there?”

  Carol shrugs. “Some girls are into that.”

  You bristle. Okay, so maybe she’s not entirely off the mark with that. But you’re desperate to win back any semblance of dignity, so: “Oh, please, fuck off. Who says you’re even my type?” You’re still looking, though. “Or were you just hoping?”—which might have had a chance of sounding cool if your voice didn’t crack on the last bit. Good job, Kanagawa.

  Does Carol smile a little? “So I’m not your type?” she says, and shrugs. “Cool. Gutes might be happy to know.” She drops her arms, starts working her suit the rest of the way off—half-turns away in so doing, blessedly. “Terrible pickup line, by the way. Try better next time.”

  The fuck is that supposed to mean? “Yeah, sure, whatever, fuck you,” you mumble. She doesn’t answer. Good chance to grab your kit and get the hell out before she puts you on the spot again. You do. This time it doesn’t even occur to you to ask about your dead sister.

  -

  In the corridor, heart still racing, pulse still roaring, halfway to the elevator bank, a hand descends upon your shoulder. You whirl.

  A slender, androgynously pretty young woman flinches back from your stare. She recovers quickly and smiles, even and warm.

  “Emma, right?” she says.

  “Yeah,” you say, “uh—what about it?”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She’s wearing a perfectly starched officer’s uniform, you notice, the shoulders spangled with pips, the breast a rainbow of stripes and badges. Her silver-framed name tag, underlined with stars. reads OLADELE. She says, “The Colonel requests your presence in her office.”

  Right; Holly just said. “Yeah,” you say, “I know. I’ll be there at seven hundred with the unit.”

  “No, no,” says Oladele, shaking her head, “now—just the two of you. It won’t be long, I assure you.”

  Now? Without them? With all your shame and nothing to deflect from it? You’re suddenly aware of a growing ache that settles through your muscles, your bones. Out of the cradle, the strain of all your piloting is unmitigated, and it hurts. And you’re tired.

  “No,” you say, louder than you’d meant it.

  “Ah, well,” she says, nearly apologetic, “I’m afraid it’s an order.”

  “Then she can give it to me herself,” you say. Probably wrong, but you’re too pissed to really care.

  She can’t be much older than you, can she? Still, she has the gall to be unfazed: “As her aide, I represent her, so you may consider this to be—”

  “Fine,” you tell her, “go ahead and fire me for insubordination. I’ll take the next shuttle home.”

  Is that how it works in a quasi-military collaborative outfit like the Atlas Defense Force? Does it matter? You don’t pause long enough for either of you to answer that. You push past her and make to storm down the hall, kit up across your chest like it’s your shield.

  “We’d only like to ask you a few questions,” says Oladele. You ignore her and keep moving. Behind you now, she adds: “It’s on Carol’s behalf.”

  On Carol’s behalf? You think of your little tete-a-tete in the dressing room and color. Bullshit. But the doubt that plants is enough. You stop and look back. Her smile is gone; the intensity of her stare is not. “What questions?”

  “Regarding your experiences,” she says, “and the way your fellow pilots have been treating you. I’d really just like to know how you’re feeling, Emma.”

  Bullshit again. You don’t believe for a minute that she cares. “You’re asking,” you say, not moving closer, “or is Meng?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “It’s just me here, isn’t it?” she says. “Off the record, Emma. I promise.”

  “So I can just answer you,” you say, “and you’ll let me go.”

  She tips her head. Good enough. “Well, Lau’s a joyless bitch,” you say. “The dusty you gave me was too tight, and I think my engine shrouds are too loose. Nobody bothered to brief me ahead of time. And I don’t like surprises. So feel free to tell Meng that.”

  You turn away, but she crosses the distance—faster than you’d expected—and closes a hand on your wrist.

  “Wait,” she says, her grip as soft as her gaze isn’t. “This is important, Emma. New cadets are important, especially those in situations as unusual as yours.” Sure, right, pussyfooting around the reality of it, particularly after Meng as good as told you she won’t stop any bullying. “How are you feeling about Tokyo? The sync? I know you had trouble—”

  “It’s just a machine,” you say automatically, before you can regret it. (Thanks, asshole, I can still hear you.) She blinks, so you add quickly, “It’s fine. I’m learning.”

  “Good. And your sword complement?” Oladele says.

  Carol? “Sure,” you say, “peachy.”

  “No trouble out on the field?” she says. “Trust me, I know, first times can be overwhelming. It’s nothing new. Congratulations, by the way.”

  The orders, the ambush, the skulking around with your radio off.

  “It’s really alright,” she says, as if reading your mind. “You can be honest. No demerits for honesty, and I promise nobody is eavesdropping.”

  She’s right; the corridor is empty within human earshot—a quiet ping from me confirms this to you. Still.

  You shake your wrist free. “Fine,” you lie. “No comment.”

  Does that satisfy her? You can’t tell, past the crisp uniform and the ever-present smile.

  “Thank you, Emma,” she says. “That will be all. Get some rest.”

  You don’t answer that; you pretend you don’t hear her at all. You turn away again and head back toward the elevator, feeling an itch where the place where her fingers met your wrist overlap the phantom pain inherited from the Meg’s jaws on your mech; and this time, you don’t stop till you’re in the elevator, doors shut. Then you drop your kit and bash the button for the dorms and shut your eyes and let out the breath you’d hardly realized you’d been holding in.

  Why did you lie? What the fuck was that about, anyway? Like hell she asked on behalf of Carol—like hell even Meng really cares about your feelings; she didn’t that first day, and she doesn’t now. You’re sure of it. And if she really wanted to meet with you, well—fuck her.

  Not today, Meng, you think savagely through the burgeoning pain, the exhaustion, not today and not tonight, not after so many hours pushing yourself to play along, not after all the bullshit in the ready room, with Lau, with the others. Not after facing down what could have been the death of a teammate—on your first day out, no less, six years after you’d failed to graduate. Not after whatever the fuck that was with Carol, on the field, in the dressing room. Let Meng read your face and voice on the playback, let her figure out that you’re not being honest; let her decide you’re not such a special, necessary dashboard charm after all if she likes; surely worse fates await you than going back to the fish and chips. After everything, you’ve earned this.

  Now, orders be damned, you need to find somewhere quiet and dark and enclosed, so you can fall apart—finally, finally—in peace.