Yen’s short for Enika, as in Enika Venkatesh, which shouldn’t surprise you. What does is how stunning she looks—even in the same standard-issue crew neck and khakis as the rest of you she’s nigh Parisienne, her shirt tucked in to highlight a slender waist, her perfect face rendered in glowing tones of polished candlenut, her sleek black curls somehow at once riotous and perfectly coiffed, a cloud you can’t imagine fits well into the standard pilot helmet. (Did she ever look so pretty on the old CRT?) Her posture manages to make the white laminate cafeteria counter look like an executive’s desk. Even more surprising: Gutierrez doesn’t seem to fear her in the slightest. (Speaking of Gutierrez: she’s too busy destroying her third bowl of rice porridge to pay attention, which leaves you at the mercy of these two.)

  “Toothpaste,” Enika says thoughtfully. “Would that really suck very much, though? Why not something a little more caustic? Detergent?”

  Behind her, Lau snorts.

  “You’re talking about Carol,” she says. “Doubt she even uses lube.”

  “Maybe.” Enika lifts a spoonful of porridge, blows daintily, eats and swallows; returns the spoon to stir her bowl with a slender, birdlike hand, which a thin red-corded bracelet accentuafes. “Wouldn’t put it past her. Trace said you can’t dance, huh?”

  She doesn’t say your name—or look at you, for that matter—and the abruptness of it leaves you blinking stupidly in the long pause that follows.

  “Been six years,” says Lau. “She might’ve forgotten.”

  Which, ouch, but not entirely wrong, either. Enika looks up at last; she arches a perfect eyebrow and fixes you with a stare somehow no less hawkish than Tagouri’s, for all that her features are far more delicate, somehow floral.

  “So?” she says. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Alcatraz taught me to pilot,” you say. “So, yes, I learned. Like we all did.”

  Lau rolls her eyes, but Enika smiles, which is very damn pretty of her.

  “They didn’t teach you that you needed a suit for dives?” she says.

  You want to stamp your foot and shout, It was a drill! Holly all but shoved me in! I didn’t have time! But you remember Gutierrez’s little speech earlier, and you remember, too, the flash of her canines, and you are reminded: If you make excuses for yourself now, they’re never going to respect you.

  So you shrug. “Always wanted to know what it would be like going in cold,” you lie. “Let the intrusive thoughts win, I guess.”

  Enika’s eyebrow rises further. “Okay,” she says. “Weird kink, but I won’t shame. We’re all sinners in this house anyway, right, Shirley?”

  Thank God you don’t have to figure out an adequate retort in the fallout to that, because Lau cuts in: “Yen, whenever you’re done playing with your food, you want to talk about sims?”

  Enika smiles again.

  “Sure, yeah,” she says, and takes another bite of porridge. “Emma, how much do you know about simulation training?”

  Took the same courses in those as any of the pilots at any of the academies, didn’t you? They’re globally standardized. But you bite your tongue and say, “Enough to ask for a suit before I go in wet. And find the start button.”

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  Enika laughs, a sound like bells. “Oh, so you do know something! Emma, darling, I think we’re going to get along swimmingly.” She’s still smiling; it’s irritatingly lovely. “Let’s meet on the sim floor at oh-six-hundred. Don’t be late.”

  You steal a glance at Lau, whose flat gaze avoids yours.

  “Oh shit,” says Gutierrez, having finally surfaced from her bowl. “Does Carol know we’re doing sims today?”

  “Trace! Thank you for finally joining the class.” Enika claps her hands together. “You always ask such excellent questions. What do you think?”

  “Oh, how am I supposed to know?” says Gutierrez. “She’s in her room all day, jacking off—”

  “She’s practically a nun—”

  “Everyone thought you were a nun when you first got here,” Gutierrez quips, and Lau colors, subtle but just there. “Or she’s off sulking in the pool, or on one of the decks, or wherever else emo losers go to sulk. Or she’s night joyriding in ‘Cuda—”

  “Gutierrez,” Enika warns.

  “Well, Holly knows. We all know. It’s not our fault Meng doesn’t have the balls to get her under control.” Gutierrez crosses her arms. “And I’m not Carol’s keeper, or dogwalker, or Ray, so if nobody’s told her—”

  “Told me what?”

  You all turn. Carol’s standing twenty feet away by the fruit bar, apple in hand.

  “Oh shit,” breathes Gutierrez.

  Well, Enika and Lau apparently just want to sit and smirk, so what else are you supposed to do? “Sim training. Today,” you say. “At six.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I know.” Carol takes a bite; the sound echoes around the room. Behind her the freckled portrait of Hainan flickers silently. “Dare said.”

  If Gutierrez’ comment got to her—if she’s heard any of the past ten minutes’ shit-talking—she doesn’t let on. Either she’s the world’s densest pilot, or she’s got an excellent poker face. Somehow you don’t imagine your sister would’ve suffered a fool for long, so.

  “That all?” says Carol into the silence.

  “Yup.” Gutierrez rises with a clatter. “See you girls at six hundred.” She sweeps past and out the door, uncharacteristically brisk. Lau follows.

  That leaves Enika and Carol, and you really don’t want to stick around for either of them, so you rise too, but Enika says, “Oh, Emma—aren’t you going to finish your food?”

  You look back at your bowl. A third’s left, at least. No chance you’ll keep that down now. “Nah,” you say. “I’m good.”

  Enika chuckles.

  “Poor bird,” she says, “this isn’t California. You don’t have to diet for your figure here. Besides—trust me—you’ll want the energy later.”

  She’s right, no doubt. Sim training involves stamina. Listen to her, you idiot—don’t let your pride get in the way this time.

  But there’s Carol, her black eyes boring a hole into the back of your head (or is that just your imagination? You don’t dare look—and surely, surely, she doesn’t care as much about you as you obviously want her to). And there, in the pit of your too-empty stomach, is the burning, burning question you’ve been wanting to ask and can’t. Not here, not until you’re alone, at the least.

  “I’m good,” you repeat, against your better judgment—fool child!—and you spin on your heel and head for the exit before you can second-guess yourself, walking fast, as if your poor choice is hunting you down. Your footsteps echo on the way out. You don’t let out the breath you’ve been holding till the doors swing shut behind you. Blessedly, the hallway is empty; the white tile walls are cool and blank and bright. So much for making friends.