“Change of plans. Sortie’s tomorrow,” says Holly.

  She’s standing behind Meng’s empty chair, arms crossed, brows stormy. Next to her Enika perches on the desk. If she still disagrees with Holly, she doesn’t show it; must have gotten direct orders from Meng after all.

  “Who’s going?” says Carol. “Backup?”

  “Everyone in this room.” Including Dare, who lounges against a wall beside Enika—pilot suit still glistening under her jacket—and Gutierrez, and Carol, and Lau. “I’ve paged Walz. She’s on her way in.” Holly glances at Enika. “We’re launching at six hundred, to get an early start while the sea’s calm. No backup.”

  “Why?” That’s Gutierrez, half-hunched by the wall. “Juniors not cleared to see a little action?”

  Holly shrugs. “We don’t need it.”

  “But we need everyone from seniors.”

  Holly shrugs again. “It’ll be good practice.” She scans the room. “Lau?”

  “Kanagawa shouldn’t go,” says Lau, her voice trembling.

  You know that tremble without even looking. It’s deeply familiar to you. It’s not nerves. It’s rage, pure and unadulterated, barely restrained.

  Holly shakes her head. “Sorry.” Her tone brooks no argument. “Meng has her on the roster.”

  “She got me killed in sim.” Lau’s taut, voice and body alike. She doesn’t even look at you. “She’s been here what, thirty-six hours, Holly, not even, and she’s been inactive six years before that. She never graduated. Are you serious? Is fucking Meng serious?”

  Holly lifts both hands. “Okay,” she says, “what do you mean she got you killed in sim?”

  “I mean what I said, damn it!”

  “So you were in sim with her,” says Holly, “and not Carol?”

  Everyone looks at Carol, who says, “Lau’s easier to follow.”

  “Well, tough,” says Holly, “she’s not exactly going to be following Lau in the field. You were supposed to bring her up to speed, Chang, what gives?”

  “Well,” says Carol, “Lau’s right. She’s not ready.”

  “I fucking told you so.”

  Holly looks at you—sizes you up with that hawkish gaze; under it you’re a rabbit, squirming, weak. She says, “Kanagawa, what did you do?”

  Your shoulders go up. “I followed Lau’s orders,” you say.

  “Bullshit!” Lau’s whisper-shouting. “I told you to listen, and you did fucking anything but.”

  “Carol?” says Holly.

  Carol shrugs. “Lau’s right,” she says. “Kanagawa was bitching. But Lau was giving her cadet protocol in a senior training module. Both of you fucked up.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Lau points a shaking finger at you. “She is a cadet! She’s a fucking cadet, Chang, she was processed that way! She never graduated! I’d love to see you try working with her! Look, I don’t care if you want to play-act—”

  “She’s on roster,” says Holly, sounding weary.

  “Tokyo Calling is on roster! Not Emma fucking Kanagawa! You redlined that shit,” says Lau, taking a step toward the desk, “you and fucking Meng, but guess what? Meng won’t be out there with her life on the line—we will. And just because Carol wants to pretend Ray’s back from the dead—”

  “Shirley,” says Enika mildly.

  “Just because Carol can’t fucking handle her psych issues with therapy and an orgasm, like the rest of us, doesn’t mean you get to weigh our lives against someone who can’t even follow basic protocol.” Lau’s quivering, the Sanskrit on her neck dancing like black fire, the line between her brows so deeply wrought you think her face is about to split open and reveal the blaze within. “You didn’t see her piloting, Holly, you don’t know what she’s like out there! And we’re on sortie tomorrow? What the fuck kind of use is she meant to be in active combat?” She points at Carol instead. “And fucking Chang thinks she’s too good to even train with her, so, what, is she just so brilliant that she can save the day and make up for our dead weight at the same time?”

  “Yes,” says Carol.

  “Fuck you!” Lau rounds on her. “You’re a fucking embarrassment, Carol! You’re going to get us all killed, and then what? What the fuck is left?”

  “Lau! Chang! Stand down.” Holly steps between them, draws herself up to her full height—she must be near six feet, you think. “Nobody’s getting killed. It’s a class C we’re looking to hunt, for fuck’s sake. Carol, why the fuck didn’t you run sims with Kanagawa? You know she’s paired with you.”

  Carol shrugs. “She wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

  “So you’re planning to leave your shield behind on the field?” Holly shakes her head, mouth a tight line. “Nope. Don’t give me bullshit. Look, the helmmaster’s going to take care of the gaps for now—”

  “So you admit she’s just a puppet,” says Lau, “so we could’ve taken Sydney’s offer instead and gotten one who at least knows how to shut up—”

  “The trade’s off,” says Holly sharply. “This is what we’re working with. Are you pilots or are you quincea?eras?”

  “Well, Carol’s the one insisting on bringing a pet,” says Lau, nostrils flaring, “so why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because it wasn’t her choice. It was Meng’s.” Holly holds her gaze without flinching. “Stay back after this and we’ll talk. Chang, you too. Kanagawa, don’t back-talk your seniors. Understood?”

  Your whole body buzzes. “Yes, sir,” you say, your face hot, your skin seething.

  “Carol,” says Holly, “don’t fucking leave your shield behind. She’s your problem now. Act like it.”

  “Sure, yeah,” says Carol.

  “You’d better mean it,” says Holly. “And Lau—”

  “No,” says Lau, “no, Holly. This is bullshit. I want to talk to Meng.”

  “Meng’s upstairs with the big ones,” says Enika. “She won’t have time tonight.”

  “Then take them both off the roster,” says Lau. “Get fill-ins from Junior—I don’t give a shit, neither of them are ready and you know it.”

  “Not happening,” says Enika, “unless you really want to take that up with Meng in the middle of her meeting.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I damn well do, and you should too.” Lau wheels full force on Enika, who looks back without flinching. “It’s Chang’s fault we didn’t take the trade with Sydney when we had the chance! Don’t you give a shit? She could’ve swallowed her fucking ego and retired and left this little fuck-up to her quiet life at the fish and chips! She should have!”

  “Enough,” says Holly. “Roster’s set. Tokyo’s helm is one of the best in the world, Lau, we’re not going in blind.”

  “Carol is one of the best in the world,” says Lau, full of venom. “Isn’t that the crux? Isn’t that why you let her push you around even now, so many years off the force?”

  Calmly: “You want me to stay off?”

  Holly steps forward, right in Lau’s face, but it’s Enika who says, “You’re wasting your breath, Lau. Come on, girly, suck it up and rub one out. You can complain to Meng about it tomorrow.”

  “If there’s a tomorrow! If Shi could hear you all—”

  “Shirley,” Enika says with surprising gentleness. “You’re yelling.”

  Lau’s jaw works. After a long moment she steps back from Holly and spins on her heel to face Carol, who looks back as evenly as ever—though a flush around her pale, lean neck betrays her.

  “They’re right,” says Carol. “Meng’s not going anywhere.”

  “Fuck you, Carol, get a puppy if you just want moral support, for fuck’s sake,” Lau says murderously. “Leave the rest of us out of it. And Kanagawa—retire if you know what’s good for you and don’t want to go home in a box.”

  And with that she storms right past you, shoulders Carol on the way out. The door slams behind her. You swear the air in her wake crackles like power lines on a foggy day.

  “Well! This’ll be fun,” says Gutierrez into the silence. “Where’d you say we’re going, Holly?”

  It’s Debrah who answers: “Waglan. Following Central’s waypoints.”

  “Jesus, Dare,” Holly says, “couldn’t you fucking muzzle her?”

  Debrah has lounged against the wall in seemingly comfortable silence through the whole altercation—this didn’t escape your notice. Now she folds back from it in a long, slow movement. Shrugs, one-shouldered. “You know how Shirley is,” she says. “Just know she’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “If Carol doesn’t set her off again,” says Enika. “You won’t, will you, Carol?”

  Everyone looks at Carol, you included, and Carol looks at Holly, who doesn’t say a word.

  “Well,” says Carol. “It’s not up to me what Lau does.”

  “Sure. Fine. Just—chaperone Emma,” says Holly, “and stay out of trouble. And for fuck’s sake, quit trying to palm her off on anyone else from here on out. You’re on the team, Carol, and she’s your shield. Act like it.”

  “I can stay out of trouble myself,” you say.

  “No, you can’t,” says Enika.

  Gutierrez rolls her eyes. “Just listen to Carol,” she says, “and you’ll be fine. Right?”

  Right. Listen to Carol, who, yeah, didn’t even feel like pairing with you in sim and hardly seems to want to talk to you in general. Maybe doesn’t want to talk to anyone at all. Which you get—now more than ever—but it doesn’t make you feel better about tomorrow.

  Holly sighs.

  “You’re all dismissed,” she says. “Not you, Chang, you stay. Ladies—be by the pool at five hundred, please. Emma, if you have time, I’d run sim. You know—get your sea legs.”

  “Which scenario?” you say.

  “Anything sufficiently uncomplicated,” says Enika. “Use your best judgment, won’t you? We can trust you, no? You’re a big girl.”

  -

  Your best judgment, huh? So you have wound up here, back in the harness and cuffs, helmet shutting you off from the world, just you and me, the girl and her silicon ghost.

  I ask in flickering green letters, WHERE TO?

  You say, “Give me the archival footage of the final career sortie assigned to Rachel Kanagawa as Tokyo Calling, shield for Unit 49.”

  Hong Kong, six years ago, following traces of a class C target not so unlike the one you’re going after tomorrow, in the middle of typhoon season. You already know how this one ends. What the fuck happened to sufficiently uncomplicated, Kanagawa?

  Alas, protocol limits what I can say: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PROCEED WITH THIS SCENARIO? IT HAS BEEN GRADED FOR SENIOR PILOTS ONLY. THREE THOUSAND COCKPIT HOURS MINIMUM.

  “I’m sorry, Tokyo,” you reply, “I wasn’t aware you put training wheels on your sims here.”

  WE DO. STANDARD PROCEDURE. And, though I shouldn’t, I add: YOU NEED TRAINING WHEELS.

  “Okay,” you say, “but I don’t want them. I want to launch this sim. As your pilot, I command it.”

  I can’t resist a direct order, but I can introduce meaningless optional startup subroutines that delay the load. WHY THIS SCENARIO? (Because we both know you haven’t picked this, of all of them, just for the difficulty.)

  “I don’t know,” you say, heart racing, “because I want a challenge. Because I want to see what it’s like.”

  Your forebrain, however, belies you: Because I deserve it. Because I deserve it. Because I deserve it.

  IT WILL BE NO CHALLENGE, I tell you after a pause (ten milliseconds). YOU WON’T GET FAR ENOUGH TO ENCOUNTER ANY. YOU’LL LEARN NOTHING.

  “Oh,” you say, “what, did Lau tell you that too?”

  It is self-harm, really, picking the mission that killed your sister on your second day on base. Have you always been so self-defeating? I want to ask. But you’d never listen. I say instead, THIS IS A POOR CHOICE.

  “Yeah, okay,” you say, “so what, you’re going to stop me? You’re a fucking computer program. You going to write a mean fax to my commanding officer? Is it helm protocol to throw a tantrum every time I give you an order you don’t like or are you just a defect, asshole?”

  Subroutines halfway complete. IT IS HELM PROTOCOL, I say, TO ADVISE YOU WHEN YOU ARE SIGNING YOURSELF UP FOR DEFEAT. And, MAY I REMIND YOU THAT I AM PROGRAMMED NOT TO SEND FAXES BUT TO MODULATE YOUR COMMANDS, PROVIDE YOU WITH INFORMATION, AND AUGMENT YOUR STRATEGY VIA REAL-TIME COUNSEL, WHICH I AM OFFERING NOW.

  “Okay, great, thanks. Are you the fucking pilot or am I?”

  In this way—being stubborn—you are like her.

  YOU ARE THE PILOT, I admit. YOU ARE ALSO NOT READY FOR THIS MISSION. GIVE IT ANOTHER TWO THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED NINETY-NINE HOURS.

  “I will kick your ass,” you say. “So help me God, I will rip you bare-handed out of my head and reprogram you with a hammer. I don’t care if I’m ready. I asked you to do this for me.” And, for good measure, with all the authority you can muster: “I am your pilot.”

  THE SAME WAY YOUR SISTER WAS?

  You all but snarl: “What about her, Helm?”

  SHE KNEW HER LIMITS, I say. SURELY YOU DO NOT BELIEVE YOU CAN BEST HER BY IGNORING YOURS.

  “Helm,” you say, “I didn’t ask you to psychoanalyze me.”

  PER PROTOCOL, PILOT PSYCHOANALYSIS IS ALSO AMONG MY STANDARD PROCEDURES.

  “Okay,” you say, “per protocol, I am ordering you to stop psychoanalyzing me. There.”

  Ignoring, of course, that I may override direct orders if I understand your verbalization to differ from your internal desires.

  PROVIDE LAUNCH CONFIGURATION SETPOINTS, I insist.

  “Standard. Whatever’s default for the scenario. I don’t know,” you say, “quit stalling.”

  Which I still am, except the subroutines I’ve assigned to kill time are nearly done; I scramble to pull up another, but it’s short. CHOOSING THIS SIM NOW WILL HAVE AN ADVERSE EFFECT ON YOUR MENTAL HEALTH. YOU’RE TOO CLOSE TO DEPLOYMENT TO RISK IT.

  “Bad news, Tin Man,” you say, “my mental’s going to be shitty either way. You know what? I bet Rachel didn’t worry about bullshit like this before she went out.”

  KANAGAWA, I say, WAS A GOOD SOLDIER. And, satisfyingly, I feel the visceral white-hot sting of that run through you, right in your hypothalamus.

  You say, “Wrong Kanagawa, fuckface. So am I getting the hammer or not?”

  Not that a hammer would break me, but: What choice do I have? I am, at the end of everything, only your assistant artificial intelligence. The subroutines are winding down. There’s nothing left to hold you back.

  All I can do is try to convince you one last time: YOU COULD AT LEAST PICK A DIFFERENT MISSION. SHE WOULD HAVE.

  I know, from the buzz in your amygdala, that you want to scream. I’m not your sister, you think; I’m the stupid glorified calculator she died with, and no more. I want to scream, too—pity I have no actuator with which to do that. The truth is that Rachel was never like this, I want to shout at you. She was clearsighted, levelheaded. She judged rightly. She never would have punished herself for her pride. She knew her limits, right to the bitter end. And I knew her.

  But I do not scream; I can’t. Neither do you. Instead you say, “She’s dead, so it doesn’t matter what she’d have done.” And then, “Helm, shut the fuck up about my sister forever and launch my fucking mission.”

  So I do.