Turns out it’s worse—so much worse.

  The room you’re in is cramped, long and low; to get to it Gutierrez has taken you (and you’ve followed obediently) through the courtyard and past all the fake trees, to a little side corridor and down a short flight of stairs, past a porthole through which you’ve glimpsed the gilded sea, and up another flight, she has brought you here, into a cloud of smoke through which the faces of cadets and juniors you don’t know swim like bad dreams.

  One of the girls catches your eye. You flinch away and nurse your cup of mystery juice and try to ignore the burn of alcohol already in the back of your throat; at least the music here is low and slow, but it has an unpleasant buzz that rattles your bones. You already wish you’d said no.

  Do they see the academy crest on your hoodie? Do they know who you are? (No way—you’re less important than your doubts make you think—but still.) Do they know you’re a failure?—Do they care?

  You resolve to get up and go refill your cup with more mystery juice before the burgeoning judgment in your head has a chance to make it worse for you.

  On the way to the set of jugs on the big white plastic table in the side room, squeezing past a pair of giggling cadets making out in the corner, you collide with a tall shoulder and pull back, ready to swear. Debrah says, “Oh, shit, sorry, didn’t see you there—” and then pulls back and looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Kanagawa!” she says. “Didn’t know you’d made it. Nice to see you here.”

  “Yeah,” you mumble, “Gutierrez’s fault.”

  “Gutierrez?” Oh no; you realize, too late, from the scent of her breath that she’s drunk, and still in her wetsuit at that, only a jacket thrown over it (same as Gutes’—leather, covered in patches). “Hey, Trace,” she says over her shoulder, “think you left a stray here! Come help her out!”

  No answer. Behind you the two freshman girls break apart, wide-eyed, and scatter to the wind. Great—she’s flung you to the wolves and left you to face them alone. Thanks a ton, Gutierrez. Guess you deserve that for punching her in the face.

  “Whatever,” says Debrah, turning back to you, “she’s probably too busy with that leggy blonde from Oslo—care for a smoke?”

  She’s waving something at you—a flat pressed wedge, crumbly and dark—ah, hash. “With what pipe?” you say dumbly, and she laughs.

  “You use a pipe for this?” she says, and shakes her head. “Nah, girl, you need a hookah to do it proper.”

  “I’m good,” you say, and she just smiles and shrugs.

  “All right, then,” she says good-naturedly, “but at least come say hi to Holly and Yen while you’re here, won’t you? They’ll be tickled.”

  “No thanks,” you say, “I’d better get back.”

  “Oh, well,” she says, “just for a moment? I think Holly would love to know you’re doing alright.”

  She looks at you so earnestly that you want to puke. Or maybe that’s the mystery juice setting in. Then it occurs to you: Maybe they’ll know where the hell Carol is, so you can chew her out for bringing you here in the first place, or whatever you were planning to do anyway.

  So you follow her through a side door and out a narrow hallway that smells of mold and damp, past the crowds of cadets and juniors—some still in wetsuits, the same khakis you wore earlier—through clove-scented smoke and the scents of cheap liquor, sharp and cloyingly sweet. The music has gotten somehow faster, more urgent. It makes you uneasy. You take a sip of your mystery juice and immediately hate the way it burns on your tongue; bottom-shelf vodka is an ingredient for sure. Maybe Everclear. Or detergent. Reminds you of your academy days. Gagging, you force it down and trot to keep up: Damn, Debrah’s got legs on her.

  “That was brave of you out there, you know,” she says over her shoulder. “Putting your arm in the beast’s mouth and all that. Where’d you learn that move?”

  “I didn’t,” you mumble, and, quieter, “Thanks.”

  She laughs. “Of course you didn’t,” she says. “It’s not protocol. Pretty stupid—but brave.” And, as a thoughtful aside: “Maybe it should be protocol. Would love to catch the look on Lau’s face when she sees it codified.”

  A jolt runs through you. Oh shit—“Lau’s here?”

  Debrah laughs again. “No,” she says. “If she were, trust me, you’d know.”

  “What do you mean I’d know?”

  Debrah just winks at you and turns to duck through a curtain of beads that spray glittery magenta highlights over the walls, and your drink, and you. “Come on,” she says, “Yen doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Do you, Yen?”

  Oh fuck, that is Enika, coiled atop a bean bag between a filing cabinet and a sprawl of cushions. Between her legs lies Holly, and to her right is—yes—a hookah, black-eyed members of the B team sitting around and taking turns drawing from it, and you make eye contact with one of them and instantly shiver and look away. Reminds you of Lau.

  Now Holly stirs—she looks flushed, oddly disheveled, although her fatigues are pristine and her hair is in the same strict ponytail as always. Fuck, is that a hickey on her neck? She peers up at Debrah, then at you, and you flinch away.

  “Shit, Dare, back already?” says Holly, hoarse.

  “Oh, hello, Debs,” says Enika, “come with our resupply?”

  (This has definitely been the biggest mistake of your life since not saying goodbye to your sister.)

  “Not just,” says Debrah. She strolls over and flops down onto the bean bag, right next to Enika. “Brought something better. Got a cart for me?”

  “Sure,” says Enika, and reaches into the recesses of her—is that a robe, in fuchsia silk, thrown over her crew neck and sweats?—to proffer a little metal-topped cylinder, which Debrah exchanges for the square of hash.

  “Sorry,” you say, “what the hell is that?”

  Enika looks at you as if she’s only just now noticing you’re there. “Oh,” she says, studying your face. “Debs, you never said you were bringing company with you. Sure she’ll be alright?”

  “She stuck her bloody arm in a Meg’s mouth today,” says Debrah. “She’ll be fine. Kanagawa, you never played around with feel-good back at the academy?”

  Boy, you’re out of your depth, aren’t you? The whole room is so dimly lit and swimming in shadows that for a moment the spinning reflections of the bead curtain makes you sway and wonder if you aren’t underwater again. “Is that, like,” you say, “a euphemism for sex?”

  Enika bursts into laughter, a bright beautiful cascade of it that peals throughout the little space and causes all the B-team to glance up and snicker, too, as if they’re in on the joke.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Debrah, won’t you be a dear and explain?”

  She’s dangerously pretty—it’s like looking an ice pick in the eye. “Let me guess,” you say, cheeks burning, “it’s a local specialty.”

  “Nope,” says Debrah. She unwinds herself a little from the bean bag (the movement sets her long, neat braids dancing) and produces an inhaler from her jacket. “You’ve had it already, chances are—” she’s fiddling with the inhaler, her face in the low light just the suggestion of an aquiline nose and handsome high cheeks—“but you just don’t know you’ve had it. You know our ox feeds aren’t just oxygen, right?”

  Sure. “Nitrogen, at a modulated ratio,” you say, “and stabilizing additives.”

  “Stabilizing does a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence,” says Debrah, looking at you steadily now; you find her gaze, brown and earnest, is almost as unsettling as Holly’s. Little brass ornaments set into her braids catch the light and twinkle like stars. “You ever wonder why you don’t pass out days into a mission?”

  You’ve never been in a mission that long, of course, but you play along: “Why not?”

  “This,” says Debrah, and tosses the inhaler at you. You fumble for a heartstopping instant, catch it clumsily—more snickers from B-team. Debrah, straight-faced, just says, “The amount of drugs included in that little cocktail is enough to give a racehorse a heart attack. Keeps you from going insane out there, from falling asleep—whatever. Labs calls it stabilizing additives. We prefer to call it feel-good. Sounds more fun, don’t you think?”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  From between Enika’s legs, Holly says, “No. Do not give the newbie drugs on her first day.”

  She’s sitting up now, fixing you with a gaze as sharp as ever—although, yes, her face is red, and her hair is definitely tousled. Even here, off-duty, you instantly heat.

  “It’s my third day,” you say.

  “Exactly,” says Holly. “First real day, anyway.”

  “She can have some if she wants,” says Enika thoughtfully. “She’s an adult, Holls. Let her decide.”

  “You called her a child not three minutes ago.”

  “Oh, let me have my fun. Central’s not watching, my love,” says Enika, “being a buzzkill now won’t win you any extra credit.”

  “What do you mean, first real day?” you say.

  Holly looks at you. So does Debrah, who says, “First day in combat. Sims don’t count.”

  “Don’t they? What sims did you run, anyhow, while I wasn’t there?” says Enika.

  You freeze. Do you tell her—can you admit it? You push back your sudden nausea: “Arrowhead,” you say, “in Shenzhen.”

  “No, no,” says Enika impatiently, “I know that, Lau told me you ran it with her. What about after? By yourself?”

  For a moment that nausea returns, threatens to overwhelm you—you can’t say it, you can’t. Then you think of the way they called you a newbie, a child. You say, “The last one my sister was on.”

  The room falls silent.

  “To the Rift,” Enika says.

  “To the Rift,” you agree, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah.”

  Enika says nothing. She just looks at you; you can feel Holly’s eyes on you too, and you wonder if they’re wondering if you’re lying—if they think it’s a pathetic attempt at insulting them, or an even more pathetic attempt at bravado, which it is.

  A moment passes. Three thousand milliseconds. Five. Then Enika says, “How far did you get?”

  You shrug. You say, “I didn’t blow myself up.”

  “Well shit,” breathes Debrah.

  But Enika just keeps looking at you; she doesn’t say anything at all. The space between you stretches out and you hear it over and over in your head, what you’ve just said—if only Gutierrez had been here to hear you say it.

  Finally Enika sighs. Something in her seems to relax. She reaches down to take Holly’s hand—Holly offers it without looking—and she says, “All right, yeah, Kanagawa, sure. Go ahead.”

  “With what?” you ask stupidly.

  “With the inhaler,” she says, “duh. Unless you’d rather not?”

  Well, Holly has a point. But half of B-team is looking at you—and Enika—and Debrah—and Holly, Holly Tagouri, your captain. Are you really going to pussy out in front of all of them? You remember, of all things, Carol saying, Kanagawa, it would be pretty lame if all you ever did was follow orders.

  So you say, “Okay, yeah, fuck it,” and you lift the inhaler to your mouth and fit the inlet to your lips and breathe in.

  It tastes like ass. Shit, is this really what they put in your ox feed? Coughing, you lower the inhaler and, eyes streaming, squint up to see Enika looking at you expectantly.

  “Easy there,” says Debrah encouragingly, “don’t choke.”

  “She’ll be fine,” says Enika. “How do you feel?”

  Fine, really. Not much different from normal. “Like I’m at a bad party,” you tell her. At least the Everclear mystery mix has you a little buzzed. Speaking of which—“What the hell did you put in the punch, anyway?”

  “Ask Holly,” says Debrah, “she’s the one who made it.”

  “Here,” says Enika, “have some more, if you like it.”

  She hands you her cup and you throw it back without thinking. Doesn’t taste so bad after all, or maybe she’s doctored hers. Does it matter?

  “Hey,” says Debrah, “how come Gutes brought you down here, anyway? You two really make up after she said all that shit to you?”

  Enika laughs. “Please,” she says, “Trace is like a starved puppy. She’ll make friends with anyone who so much as bothers to kick her and then thank them for kicking her afterwards.”

  “Yeah, sure,” says Debrah, “but what about Emma? I mean, what does she think?”

  “Emma thinks you’re all assholes,” you say.

  Enika leans forward suddenly. “Oh!” she says, and claps her hands, delighted. “Oh, Emma—please, do go on.”

  “I mean,” you say, “you all laughed at me when I first showed up.” (“Means we like you,” says Debrah good-naturedly.) “Gutierrez earned that punch and fifty more, honestly, I’m not sorry for it. Carol doesn’t so much as look at me half the time, and she’s supposed to be my combat partner. Meng’s an inscrutable piece of work. And what the fuck is wrong with Lau?”

  “You know why we call her Ketch?” says Debrah.

  “No,” you say, buzzing pleasantly. “Why?”

  The room swims, pink and blue. “Short for Ketchum,” explains Debrah, her face wavering before you like a mirage. “As in Ash. Because she keeps collecting new shield pilots to her sword.” She gestures with the end of the hookah. “You know—gotta catch ‘em all.”

  “And that’s supposed to justify her being a gigantic bitch?” you say.

  “No,” says Debrah, “you’re mixing cause and effect. She keeps losing pilots because she’s a gigantic bitch.”

  “She has her reasons,” says Holly.

  “Fine,” you say, “well, I have my reasons for wanting to give her and Gutes a 2-for-1 special. Hope that’s cool.”

  “Oh, Emma,” says Enika reverently, “please let us drug you more often. You’re an absolute delight. I’ve never been so charmed by a stranger forty hours in, much less one who’s only meant to be a cadet.”

  Is it the alcohol or just the unexpected praise that leaves you feeling warm—and confident—more than any regular buzz does? “Well,” you say, “not my fault I’m a cadet, is it?”

  Enika’s smile doesn’t waver, but she tilts her head. “Sorry?”

  “Oh, well,” you say, “it wasn’t my choice, you know. Being here. I didn’t ask Carol to drag me along—I don’t even know her. Rachel knew her. But Rachel’s dead. But I didn’t ask her to be, either.”

  “You accepted the invite,” says Holly. “You could’ve said no.”

  You couldn’t have; you remember the hollowness in your gut before that, facing the sea, thinking of walking into it. You couldn’t possibly have passed up the chance to wrench yourself free of that. But you can’t explain that to them. You just shrug and say, “Fine, so get Meng to send me back. Why don’t you?”

  “Why would we?” says Debrah. “You’ve only been through one sortie, Kanagawa, you’re doing fine.”

  Usually when people are all staring at you at a party it makes you hyperventilate and dissolve into little pieces—in fact, even when just one person is staring at you. But you aren’t now. Now you feel downright daring.

  “But I’m not Rachel,” you say. “Right?”

  “Kanagawa,” says Holly, “not everything is about your fucking sister.”

  “But you all keep comparing me to her,” you say. “So what gives?”

  “We’re not a monolith,” says Holly. “You’re right—you’re not Rachel. You’re your own person, Kanagawa, and we picked you. Tokyo did. You have plenty of time to prove yourself.”

  “Okay, let’s say it’s not about my sister,” you say. “Let’s say you picked the college dropout over a trade with Sydney for excellent reasons. But you don’t want me talking about her to my own sword, so what’s that about?”

  “Because it’s a tough subject,” says Holly, “obviously, and you can’t go around asking her about that on your first day here. And she’s not your sword. She’s Tokyo’s.”

  “Third day,” you say, “and that’s bullshit. I’m Tokyo’s pilot, and Tokyo is Barracuda’s shield, so Carol’s my sword. And it clearly isn’t tough enough for you all not to joke about it.”

  “Okay, fine,” says Holly, “Carol’s your sword, then. She won’t be if you keep trying to sabotage yourself. Just don’t talk to her about it and you’ll be fine.”

  “We’re supposed to be helm-entangled, right?” you say. “How is that going to work? Because she’s going to hear me thinking about Rachel sooner or later. And then what?”

  Holly sighs. “Yen, I told you not to give Kanagawa drugs,” she says. “Kanagawa—that’s not how helm entanglement works. Just behave. We’re going to talk to Meng about the sortie tomorrow. First things first.”

  “No,” says Debrah, “she’s got a point. You owe her an explanation.”

  “Debrah,” says Holly, “don’t fucking start.”

  “No, seriously,” says Debrah. “You said Lau was right. So what’s the deal? We going to keep picking on her or are we going to lean into the decision and be nice? It was her choice, yeah, but it was ours too.” She leans forward. “We took a vote on it. All of us, not just Carol. Yen—that’s you. Stop calling her a cadet if we’re not treating her like one.”

  “She didn’t,” says Holly, “and besides, it’s protocol.”

  “Fuck protocol,” says Debrah, “you think protocol is what really matters? Out there? Is that what got you home from the Rift?”

  “You have no idea what got us home from the Rift,” says Enika patiently. “Ladies, I think we’re done here. Emma, that’s on me for not clocking you as a lightweight—why don’t you go sober up.”

  “No,” you say. “Tell me where Carol is so I can ask her myself. Why she picked me.” If you’re just her pet, like Lau said—her consolation prize.

  “She did pick you,” says Holly, “and so did we. And so did you. Debrah said it—we all picked this, so it’s high time we got over ourselves and got along. Take her to her room, please, Debrah, and Emma, for crying out loud—quit trying to compare yourself.”

  “Gutierrez started it,” you say.

  “Sure,” she says, “so end it. Be the bigger person. And don’t tell me you’re not comparing yourself. You picked that sim all on your own.”

  Reminds you of Meng telling you to act like a pilot,and you’re about to make some retort about how if this is how pilots act then aren’t you fitting right in when Debrah takes you by the arm and whispers in your ear, “Better scoot before Yen smells blood in the water, trust me,” and she all but drags you out—you try halfheartedly to resist, but she’s strong, and you’re drunk.

  So much for finding Carol.