Here is your thinking: Since you have only four months to become worthy of active duty, and since you do not have the raw experience to meet your team’s level now, and since four months is not enough time to make up what you are missing, deep sync will allow you to fake it meanwhile—have me take over when you cannot, make use of what Rachel taught me and pilot for you. And you will still have enough to be my driver, my strategist, my figurehead.

  It’s not, all things considered, a stupid idea. You’ve shown me now that you have the willpower to make it work. It’s just frustrating that you’re fighting yourself at every step along the way.

  When Meng gave you the choice, you told yourself you had to stay on because, otherwise, you’d be nothing. I think you know better, of course: I know better, certainly; or, if not precisely that, then your sister thought better, and all my opinions of you other than what I’ve gathered through brief firsthand experience are handed down from my conversation with her. I am, as I have said, not her—but still I am shaped by her, by what she told me and taught me; we are not so unlike each other in that regard, it has occurred to me (with no small amount of irony and not a little distaste, but still).

  The question remains: Knowing now what you did not know then, how long the path is to achieving deep sync, let alone in this little time, let alone for damaged goods like you—would your answer then have been the same? Because I don’t think you like me very much, all things considered; I certainly don’t think you enjoy these exercises. Your doubt ripples through me each time I push you to best yourself, and that hubris has brought down pilots ten times your stature too many times to count.

  Carol, of course, you like. You like her very much. Oh, you haven’t realized it yet; your hypothalamus hasn’t admitted it to your forebrain; it remains an instinctual chemical sort of liking right now, that filthy animal yearning that hobbles so many of you pathetic meat-creatures. I am not speaking of a crush. It is simpler and cruder and more pathetic: You are lonely. She is here.

  Isn’t it ironic?—that I have been at your side every hour and minute and second, every step of the way, have not let you down even once—have perhaps twice now dragged you bodily from the jaws of death, whose maw is your own sheer incompetence— But she was here, briefly, but still. And now that she is not here, she’s all you can think of.

  But I don’t think that is purely what drives you forward now, Emma. Maybe then, but now I think you just want to be seen. I think you crave it. And I am giving it to you, in spades, in droves, but it’s not me you want, it’s her, and that is terrible and understandable and deeply unfair, and I am furious and cannot blame you one bit.

  Because you want and want and want—

  “Oh shit,” you say, which interrupts my own musing, which is in turn because there is a new message on your pager, not from me, and you have finally noticed.

  It says: ACCLIM.

  Does that at last satisfy you? Will you stop your whining now that you’ve got an answer? Evidently not; if anything it makes you even more tense; there is a quiet urgency in the way you finish your mouthful and throw out the rest, and you do not bother to look for any other messages on the pager, nor do you speak—not even an Alright, Helm, I’m sorry for dismissing you and shoving you wholesale into your bag, I’m sorry for not bothering to listen, I’m sorry for being an ungrateful little brat.

  By the time you get down to the acclim floor your heart is racing as though you really have gotten stage fright. It’s too bad you don’t have the Walkman. You throw your bag onto the bench in the chlorine-scented dressing room and have your shirt halfway off when, through the ajar door, comes the sound of water breaking and settling, and voices.

  You go still. Quiet arguing, you think from the tight clipped rise-fall of it, which thrills and cautions you at once. Your heart quickens.

  “Oh God,” says definitely Gutierrez, “that means we’ll have techs. Gag me.”

  “It’s a necessary evil.” Not Carol. Too high; the Cantonese shaping more apparent than hers, the lilt heavier. “You’re being a big baby.” Ah, Lau.

  “Come on, Debs,” says Gutierrez, “back me up. Please?”

  “Hey,” you hear Debrah say, muffled, “remember what happened when the kid went out without techs? Or a suit?”

  You don’t listen to the rest. Your face burns; your ears ring. Then the door bursts the rest of the way open and cuts through your shame. Without thinking you push yourself back into the corner, make yourself small behind the row of lockers in the middle.

  “I still think she shouldn’t be on the team,” says Lau.

  Nobody answers her, which may be a blessing, or maybe not. You stay still—hardly dare let yourself breathe—and make out the sound of bags unzipping and towels rustling, and you think to yourself, Fuck you too, Lau, and you hope with the rest of your might that they finish quickly, and you are not sure if you hope Carol’s with them, and you certainly don’t dare look.

  Silence. Then Gutierrez says, “Aileen would’ve liked her.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” says Lau.

  “She always did like pathetic girls—girls she could break,” says Gutierrez. “I mean, am I wrong?”

  Lau says, “Shut the fuck up,” and Debrah says, “Girls, please,” and you brace yourself. But there is no impact of flesh on flesh, no snarl of rage; nothing but silence again, for a moment.

  Then Lau says, very quietly: “You’re right.” And: “She’s pathetic. I don’t know why Chang wants her. I don’t know why Meng let her be here. She clearly doesn’t want to be, at all.”

  That’s not fucking true, you think, I chose to be here. I said yes the last time they visited. But all the same—

  “But Aileen wouldn’t have liked her,” says Lau. “She liked girls who didn’t give up. Not girls she could break.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Hey—suit yourself,” says Gutierrez, “looks all the same to me.” You hear her stand. “Onward?”

  “Whatever,” says Lau, and Debrah says, “Holly really didn’t want the new girl coming?”—and Gutierrez says, “Wasn’t she, like, really clear about that? What’s the point anyway if Carol isn’t here.”

  “We’re missing Hannah,” says Debrah. “Could use the extra body.” (Which makes you sound like grocery store meat, which you suppose you are.)

  “Well,” says Gutierrez, “that’d be up to Yen. She’s the one who’s short a shield.”

  “Holly said—” says Debrah, but is interrupted: “Holly said what?”

  Which is Holly herself, of course—instinctively you pull deeper into yourself, further from the door.

  “Tracey,” says Holly, “you’re pink in the face.”

  “You wish, Cap,” says Gutierrez. “We were just saying—”

  “Tracey’s doubting bringing Kanagawa into sim today,” says Lau.

  The room falls silent.

  “That’s not in question,” says Holly. “Venkatesh said she wants her. We’re bringing her in. I thought you paged her to come in already. Is that why she never showed?”

  “You two kept arguing about it,” says Gutierrez—not a little petulantly—and Holly says, “I don’t care, page her,” and with a sudden bolt of shock you realize what’s about to happen. You dive for your bag, scrabble silently, furiously inside it—

  Too late. The pager splits the air like a scream.

  “Oh!” says Gutierrez, and Debrah goes, “Oh, Holly, love, no”—and there’s no point in hiding. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

  From around the corner Holly says, “Kanagawa,” and, “You good?”

  Well, hell, what do you say to that? Yes, thank you, having a great time hearing you all talk shit about me behind my back. You are pressing yourself into the wall as if that could make you melt into it. You are burning from your face inward—oh, come on, you’re a big girl, you can do better than this.

  “Come on,” says Holly, not unkindly. “Give me a status.”

  “Captain,” you say, your voice hoarse and echoey in this little space, and, “I’m good.” As if perhaps answering will get them to just leave and let you be, to keep waiting for Carol after all.

  No such luck. You watch in horror as Gutes’ face appears around the corner of the locker bank. There’s a nasty purple-redness lingering on her cheek, at stark and jarring contrast with her earnest open-mouthed surprise.

  You look at her. She looks at you. (You notice her suit’s on, zipped carelessly down to her waist, beads of saltwater glittering like jewels; tee over top half, towel slung around her neck—focus.) She says, “So if you wanted to come,” and at the same time you say, “Sure,” and it’s really not at all what you mean to say, but what else can you say? That you were waiting for Carol, who isn’t here at all? That you were waiting for anything but this?

  Gutierrez says, “Oh, okay, great. Like—right now?”

  (How lucky you are that she’s pretending this isn’t half as awkward and terrible as it is.)

  You say, “Is that a question, or are you telling me?”

  Gutierrez opens her mouth to reply: Holly appears above and behind her, her face floating like a reflection in water, paler and more pinched than you remember it. “Yes,” she says, “right now, Emma. If you’re not in the middle of something.”

  Why even bother with the courtesy? She’s your captain. Surely she could just tell you if she felt like it. Then you remember what the girls had said, that Holly hadn’t even wanted you, and—oh, she hopes you’re in the middle of something.

  And, right, you are in the middle of something, but they’re both looking at you, and how can you say you can’t come when you know they’re all hoping for it? When you know they all hate you?—when saying no is like admitting weakness, accepting defeat.

  Fuck. You’ll beg Carol for another time, you decide desperately. “Yeah,” you say, “I’m good. I’ll come.”

  “Great,” she says. “Suit up. Meet us in the sim room in ten.” And she withdraws.

  Wait. Suit? Fuck—you haven’t even dipped into the pool yet. You start to ask; then you look at Gutes’ big dumb stupid face, and think of Lau, lurking just beyond those lockers, and shame and impatience alike snap your mouth shut.

  Gutes catches you still staring—winks horribly—says, “Come on, kiddo, it’ll be fun! Turn that frown upside down, and so forth.” The mark on her cheek ripples when she speaks. You just look at her like she’s grown a third arm, presumably until she gives up—except that just makes her go, “Seriously, Ems, what’s up?”

  First Emma, now Ems? “Nothing,” you say, which might have sounded careless if it weren’t you. “Let’s go.”

  “Okay, sure—suit yourself!” she says brightly. “No, seriously. Here, I won’t look.” And she steps dramatically back behind the bank of lockers.

  Was that a pun? Somehow it’s worse knowing she’s there, that she’s spotlighted your embarrassment—at the academy wetsuiting only happened at the tail end of your years, and you hadn’t done it since—not since that day at graduation. And Lau, too. You work your pants off and tug your suit on under your shirt, furtively, furiously, like nobody can see you if you just have enough layers on in between.

  Right on cue: “She clearly doesn’t want to come. You shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Babes, please,” says Gutes, “I’m in a good mood. Don’t ruin it.”

  “You’re lying,” says Lau. “And you deserve to have your mood ruined.”

  “You would say that,” says Gutierrez, “but come on, I’ve been good, I’ve earned this,” and Lau says, “Lying again, idiot,” and Gutierrez says, “Don’t tell me you’re still sore over what I said about Aileen,” and Lau says nothing—but you hear the sound of someone standing up, and a moment later the door slams shut.

  You wait a moment, one, two, three, listening to your blood rush and your heart pound. Christ, is this really what you’re doing?—skipping out on a chance to square away with Carol for the first time in maybe three days to go hang out with these fuckers? You remember what Gutierrez said about Holly: what really is the point if Carol isn’t here? What indeed?

  But there is another, quieter, more painful voice beneath all that: What if Carol isn’t here because she doesn’t care if you make it, anyway?

  No, that’s bullshit. She might be the Carol Chang, your dead sister’s sword and all, an untouchable superstar and an enigma by turns, but fuck it, your helm’s right, she fucked you too. That has to count for something.

  You draw in a breath, steel yourself. Then you pull out the pager.

  “Hey,” calls Gutierrez, “you done?”

  Fuck!—you jump, nearly drop the stupid pager. Christ, what are you doing? “No,” you say, “and don’t look, or I’ll punch you again.” And, “Give me five.”

  “Fine, but just so you know,” says Gutes good-naturedly, “you don’t have a punch to speak of. You really ought to let me teach you.”

  To which you have no good comeback, so naturally you don’t answer. But honestly, Emma, it’s a shame you hate her; you could be so fun together.

  -

  On your pager, addressed to C. CHANG, one new message: SOMETHING CAME UP. SORRY. RAIN CHECK?