"We zeroed both targets," Dare says, breaking the silence.
"See, Holls," says Gutes, "that's what I'm saying! Dead Meg, happy Central—what's the big wrinkle for, eh, mama?"
Holly says nothing to this, doesn't look at her. In profile, shoulders taut—that magnificent nose like the hooked beak of an eagle—she says: "Emma, what shield integrity did you read at the end?"
"Thirty percent," you lie.
Lau makes a sound between a cough and a sniff. Holly, still not turning, says, "Shirley, you lost your fighter," and Lau says, "And got the target," and Holly does turn now, languidly pushes off the wall and straightens herself, fixes her with that golden gaze—to Lau's credit, she doesn't flinch—so that finally you see the utter intensity of the look in her eyes.
You, though not her subject, nearly do flinch. I remind you with a pinch in your brainstem that this does not become you, a pilot of Hong Kong—enough to push back on the instinct for a millisecond, enough that you hesitate and do not actually flinch, but the sense of smallness, of panic, is still there.
"Shirley," says Holly. Her voice is quiet, so quiet that if not for her face, you would think she was being gentle. "Walk me through this. What made you feel sacrificing your fighter was worth the kill?"
"We were assigned to secure it," says Lau. "The kill, not the target. Central told us we needed to kill it. No maiming, no deterring from site. So I did what we were—"
"Shirley," says Holly, "that doesn't answer my question."
"It does," says Lau. "I made my calculations and concluded this was the best way to ensure we carried out the mission as narrated. We were down a fighter already, Tokyo—"
"We weren't," says Holly, "since, according to Kanagawa, she still had shields left. Did you eject?"
"It doesn't matter," says Lau. "We zeroed the fucking target."
"You fucking died," says Holly, and Lau's jaw snaps shut with a click, hard and furious.
"Holly," says Enika, "she was doing her best. We all went off half-cocked."
"Oh, good," says Holly, turning the hawk-gaze on her now. "Yes, Venkatesh, you did. Why weren't you in position ocean-side of the mines when your shield was? Fishhawk asked for it."
Well, in her defense, you jumped the gun. Neither of you is faultless there. (Your whole back still aches as a reminder of the supreme failure on your part, muffled now that you are out of sim, but all the same—)
"I didn't think we should go," says Enika, "since Emma isn't trained to traverse mines just yet."
"Kanagawa," says Holly, "that true?"
You can feel your face heating. Yes, obviously it's true. Why else would you have blown yourself up? "Sir," you say, "I suffered a malfunction while approaching the field. My helm—"
"No, that's your fault for not practicing the routine. Your helm threw no error flags in the mission log," says Holly. "Own up to it, Kanagawa, I'm disappointed."
Not the kind of malfunction that would show up in the log, you want to say. Instead you say, "Forgive me for not having covered this one in school," and, "sir," and immediately know this is the wrong move from the way her brow raises.
"What she means," says Lau behind you, "is that she's not used to her helm yet, having had, what, all of three weeks to synchronize, and so she can't execute traversal by jacking into helm archival protocol, and she never learned to do it manually."
Fuck, is it that obvious? "You were doing trickier stuff at two weeks in," says Gutierrez, and Lau says, "I actually know how to pilot by hand," and Enika says, "That's not fair, Shirley, you were fresh out of the academy cradle, Emma's been out six years," and Lau says, "That's the problem, isn't it? She's been out six years."
"I don't care if she's been out six minutes or six years," says Holly. "Emma, get your shit together. Talk to Carol if you have to. Ask her to teach you to navigate the mines without blowing up."
"Isn't it obvious? Carol's off playing hooky," says Lau, "because she's embarrassed. She knows Kanagawa can't do shit and she's pretending she doesn't exist, probably joyriding off in Hainan again, begging one of the purples to be her shield instead. I would be if I were her."
"Shirley," says Holly, "enough."
"What," says Lau, "you think she has some other reason to be gone right now? Seeing, what, all the friends she has?"
"Shirley," says Holly, very quietly and therefore very dangerously. "Shut up and let Venkatesh speak."
"What," says Enika, "me? What am I supposed to be talking about?"
"Why you didn't show up when Fishhawk asked," says Holly, "and didn't comm to tell her."
Enika colors—subtly, unfairly prettily, a dusky rose across her cheeks and throat. But her voice is perfectly steady when she says, "I was in the middle of discussing the approach with Tokyo. My mistake."
"Yes," says Holly pensively. "Don't let it happen again. Dare, why weren't you with your sword the moment she was alone?"
"Sir," says Dare, "one of my wingmates was in distress. I couldn't leave without confirming her nominal status."
"So which is it," says Holly. "Venkatesh was busy with you, Kanagawa, or Dare was? You can't both have been. It's admirable that you don't want to leave a crippled fighter behind"—this to Dare, directly, a glance in the eyes, and Dare doesn't quite flinch so much as tauten, as if she would have flinched if not for how stiff and still she has gone—"but you abandoned your sword by doing that. Kanagawa, didn't you say your shields were nominal?"
"Overabundance of caution, sir," says Dare, "I wasn't sure given the heightened danger recently—"
"The heightened danger that led Mazu to face down two hostiles alone?" says Holly, and Dare, too, falls silent.
"I think we can all agree," says Lau, "that Tokyo is the root of the problem here. She distracted Dare, and Venkatesh, and so on, and so we all fell apart around her, including she herself."
"No," says Holly. "It's all your faults. Together, yes, and also individually." She surveys you now, gold eyes so clear and bright they seem nearly gray, and with the solemn pronunciation of a priest she asks you: "You are trained fucking pilots, 49. What the fuck were you thinking?"
(The way she addresses you here—all of you, as one body, by the collective name of 49, not your callsigns or your given names—makes you shiver both in both embarrassment, the pain of being seen and denounced, and some strange and uncomfortable thrill that you will only recognize later as pride—no, satisfaction—no, fear, or maybe exhilaration, the paradoxical and frantic joy of knowing you have just leapt to your death and are falling, now, with no way out but down. Either way, it is pathetic and animal and more shameful than your conscious shame itself, and dangerous, but you do not know me well enough yet to let me erode it into something softer within your subconscious—so I simply take in this feeling, note it down for my archives, and miserably, silently, continue to observe.)
"Sir," you say. Everyone looks at you. "If it's a problem, I can leave."
Holly says, "Pilot. You think you should leave?"
"Yes," you say. Born up and out of your amygdala, terrible offspring of that brief shiver, I see it now: your pulse is racing in your throat; the heat in your face has overspilled its containing walls, spread throughout. "Yes, sir. I think—if I'm such a problem, I should leave."
Holly says nothing to this at first. You hold her golden regard and do not move; you don't think you can; you are as a rabbit caught in a snare, what a lovely snare, what a handsome and terrible one. Then she says, "Why did you cross the minefield?"
"Because Mazu needed my help," you say, "sir."
Holly says, "Which you knew how," and it isn't a question, but you have to answer anyway: "Fishhawk said so. Sir," even as you know this is the wrong answer.
"Why do you trust Fishhawk?" says Holly. "You could have commed Mazu directly."
Your tongue feels thick and heavy in your mouth; it is as if you're speaking through honey. "They're helm-linked," you say. "Anything Fishhawk says about Mazu must be true."
"Wrong," says Holly, "but fine. So you didn't comm Mazu to confirm? Why? Logs showed you had time before crossing the minefield. Fishhawk was already there."
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You weren't thinking at the time. You were upset, frazzled, exactly the kind of thing a pilot shouldn't be. Frankly, this whole thing has gone off half-cocked, right from the beginning when Meng sent you that letter, and you shouldn't be here—
"Turbulence in the water," you say, "and risk of distracting Mazu mid-maneuver. Poor transmission through an active minefield."
This isn't entirely wrong, and Holly seems satisfied with it: she crosses her arms again and regards you, thin-lipped. But she isn't done. She says, "So you went in—blind, and left your sword alone."
"She's not my sword," you say, and instantly regret it.
Holly doesn't quite smile. It's a tightening of the mouth, a constriction in the cheeks that doesn't reach her eyes. You hear a quiet "whoa"—from the corner of your eye you think you see Gutierrez, no longer grinning, eyes gone wide—and Holly says, "No, she's not. Kanagawa—why do you think we brought you up here to sim with us today?"
"To give me the practice to make up for all the shit I've missed," you say, "because it's been six years since I left school, and I haven't been in a cradle since then."
"No," says Holly. "Yes, but no. Enika specifically requested you—because she wants to know how you perform when you have no idea how things are supposed to go."
But you already don't— "She already doesn't," says Lau, which incenses you even though you were thinking it first.
"You do," says Holly, ignoring Lau. "You might be out of practice but you've been through the training. Rachel spoke highly of your aptitude scores, your simulation results." (Your heart stutters helplessly in your chest at this. Rachel, whom Holly told you not to speak of. Rachel, whose forbidden name has been pronounced too many times today.) "You are a pilot," she says, "like it or not. What you aren't is used to having a sword." (Or a dedicated helm, for that matter.) "We wanted to see what you'd do if you were forced to work with a unit who isn't your assigned complement," she says, "to see if you'd figure out how to do your role and be a shield regardless."
You say, "Which I failed at," which Lau might as well have said this time—but she doesn't so much as snort.
"Why do you think you failed?" says Holly, the mildness of her tone starkly at odds with the glitter in her eyes—in a way that puts you briefly back in the lecture hall in front of your instructors (Rachel spoke of you, spoke of your performance then, of your time at school—Rachel—)—
"I left my sword behind," you say.
"Ah," says Holly, "yes. A very stupid move. You shouldn't have. But did you fail? Did she die?"
You do feel stupid. "Well," you say, "she could have. And I shot my barriers traversing—"
"Thought you had thirty percent left," she says, "which is above nominal," and you feel stupider. She's a shield herself, after all; this comes as easy as breathing to her. "Moving on—okay, yes, so you abandoned your sword on Fishhawk's summon…and you sustained damage, were told to fall back, and did not. Why?"
You struggle to find the words. "Because," you start. Somewhere in the back of your mind is Rachel Rachel Rachel and you will yourself furiously to shut up this part of your thoughts. "Because," you say, like an anvil strike, "Mazu told me the Megs are likely to run."
In your peripheral, Gutierrez whistles, low and long and sharp.
"I thought the target was going to run," you say, though Holly is still merely looking at you, "because our other fighters had sonar-cloaked themselves. I thought the target was going to do what Mazu said it would and cut loose. We were told to secure—"
"You thought?" said Holly.
"I asked my helm to predict the trajectory," you say. "I made the calculations. I concluded that it was headed for open ocean. We needed bait."
Holly says, "You made yourself the bait."
Your cheeks burn. So does your back. You say, "Yes," and nothing more.
"Kanagawa," says Holly, as if considering the sound of your name. Then: "Where did you get the idea for that?"
You open your mouth to answer—and Lau, behind you, says, "Arrowhead." She's upright, jaw taut, eyes blazingly black: "Arrowhead. She said it during the mission. She wanted to do a false bottom."
"Kanagawa," says Holly, "that true?"
"Yes, of course it's true," says Lau. "I told her the parallax trick wouldn't apply here but—"
"Emma," says Holly, fixing you with her glance like it's a physical pin, Barracuda's lance through your chassis. Mutely you nod. Your cooling loop's overrunning safe temperature bounds again.
"Told you," says Gutierrez, almost wonderingly. And, "Kid's more trouble than she looks."
"It was stupid to try to do that without comming first," says Lau.
"Everything you did was stupid," says Holly. "All of you. At least Emma tried. Lau, you should know better than to martyr yourself. Come on."
"I don't see the problem," says Lau. "We got the job done."
"Shirley," says Holly. "I'm not arguing about this."
"If we're just throwing shields in willy-nilly, from fish-and-chips shops now," says Lau, as if Holly hasn't said anything, "who says you need me? Any of us can be replaced, can't we? It's all the same, isn't it? Who cares if I end up zeroed? Does it matter as long as we get shit done?"
She's half-risen from the bench; her hands are fists, held before her waist-high; you aren't even sure she knows she's doing it. Her cheeks are flushed. The black fire on her neck dances red around its edges. And Holly says, "Lau," and Lau says, "Tagouri," and Holly draws herself up to her full height—probably a full foot taller than the other girl—and says, "Yes, Shirley, it fucking matters, the same way Aileen fucking mattered. Do you think we just replaced her? Do you think I let you go through eleven fucking candidates and drive them all halfway to suicide through sheer goddamn bullshit because we wanted to just fucking replace her? I could have recommended Meng to put you on the bench indefinitely, right next to Carol. I could have told her the truth when she asked for my evaluation of your psychological state," she says, "and I could have said I didn't trust your helm to handle you, and I could have gotten one of the girls from Sydney, all of whom are just as combat-qualified and less batshit fucked in the head than you are. I still can. Do you really want to do this, Shirley? Or are you done?"
Lau's chin rises. She says, "It would be a poor trick for you to try and go back on your word now."
"As poor a trick as getting her to keep you on the team in the first place," says Holly. "Your choice, Lee."
But it's Lau, not Lee, you think for a confused moment before realizing horribly that it is a nickname—the second half of Shirley—far too affectionate and intimate to sound right on Holly's tongue, let alone in this of all circumstances. And as you think this you see the flush on Lau's face spread until she is red all over.
"Fine," she says. "I'll tell Meng myself." And—to your utter shock—sits back down on the bench, and shuts her mouth. Oh. Oh, shit.
"As you will," says Holly. "Anyone else have shit to air out, or are we done for the day?"
No one says anything. In the wake of that little back-and-forth it seems nobody will dare. You certainly don't. (Your back aches, once and sharply.)
"Great," says Holly. "Kanagawa, go down to medical if you need something for lingering pain. We'll talk about your demerits later"—(your stomach curls shamefully)—"and yours too, Lau. Dare, Venkatesh…" In the brief pause that follows you see the way Enika looks at her: inscrutable, not quite anger, not remorse either; something harder, more obsidian. "I'm disappointed," Holly says. "Do better."
"Sorry, sir," says Dare.
"I don't care if you're sorry," says Holly. "Just promise me you'll take these things more seriously. I know you think it's only sim, but it's also all we have."
"Right," says Dare. "Yes." And, "What about Chang?"
There is a mole at the side of Holly's mouth that you have been looking at very hard—the better to not look into her eyes head-on, the way you would the sun. It quivers when she says, "She'll be here. Focus on yourselves for now."
Out of the corner of your eye you see Lau. You are so used to the expression on her face—stubborn, incandescent, downright hateful. Now, however, for the first time since you've gotten here, you can make out no hint of edge in the set of her jaw, of defiant brightness in her eyes. She looks almost, you think, at peace.
-
You finish undressing and then dressing again in silence, all of you. Holly—must have exited her pod first, alongside Gutes—was clothed by the time the rest of you got in; she left when she finished talking, and Gutes stayed a little and smirked at you all till Enika finally looked at her and said, sweetly, "Do you have something better to do or would you like to just keep ogling?"—and Gutes said, "Can't a girl enjoy the quiet a little?" and Venkatesh said, "Is that the excuse you gave Xu, too?" and Gutes made a noise somewhere between a pained gurgle and a laugh, but got up just the same, the fading mark on the side of her face flashing past you like a knife, and left too.
So now it is just you and Lau and Debrah and Enika—whom you have been watching out of the corner of your eye, and who is no longer wearing that obsidian look from earlier. She has, you've always thought, something of a supermodel about her, stately and serene, lovely in a sort of removed way; this makes sense, since she has done a lot of modeling for sponsors, not that you'd know this particularly, since you spent your teen years trying as hard as possible to know as little as possible about your sister and her team. (All those years spent underwater.) But if you hadn't—
The door slams and you come back to yourself to find that you are alone, unmoving, all your clothes back onyour suit dripping on the bench next to you—no, not alone. There's Lau, fifteen feet away, hands encircling her one bent knee, suit not even unzipped, and you almost ask out of instinct if she's alright, only then you remember that she's Lau.
It is strange, being back in your shirt and pants after so long in the suit and the salt; everything is too loose— You want with a sudden aching pang to be back in your room, in the room that isn't really yours, truly alone. Easy answer: you should pick up your bag and leave now; you have found yourself once already lingering in the dressing room with one other pilot, one of your dead sister's fellow pilots, and that only didn't go disastrously because you lucked the fuck out, and even then it didn't exactly go well. But you are stinging, still, inside and out, and your heart is racing in your chest, and being hurt makes people do stupid things.
You say, "Did you want me to cross the minefield," which is even stupider than it sounded in your head—but hey, you were never one for tactics.
Lau says nothing. That's fine; patience is a good virtue for you to learn. Five seconds pass (you count with each heartbeat) and then her arm drops (you jump) and she turns to her bag, half-open, and draws out her shirt. She hasn't so much as looked at you—which is a relief, it means she's not going to talk to you, you can go now and be out and flee unscathed.
Instead you say, "Sorry." And, because you haven't specified what you're sorry for, because what would you even be sorry for, frankly you're not saying this because you are sorry (you might not be) but because there is some greasy unlikeable weight in your gut halfway between resentment and sympathy: "For not comming beforehand." Which is true, you admit this was a mistake, which might thus please her to hear aloud.
Nothing. She's drawing her thumbs down each seam, opening the shirt like a puzzle. You try: "What would Aileen's approach have been?" No, no, stupid, wrong move. "As a shield?" Irrelevant! You aren't Mazu's shield at all—you're Barracuda's; the two of you have entirely different fighting styles; why bother to ask her what her shield would have done?
Still she doesn't answer. She's unfolding the tee slowly, methodically, like she's performing some elaborate ritual, and the weight in your gut becomes a buzz, rises up into your chest. You say, "I want to do better," by which you mean fuck up less, and then the buzzing crests and spills over, and you taste salt.
You say, "Did Rachel say something about me that made you all just think I'm shit, or do you really just think I'm that fucking bad at piloting?"—which is even stupider than your last question. Wait. Ah—
Lau puts the shirt down in her lap. "Rachel never told us she had a sister," she says.
While you stare she gets up, puts the shirt back, grabs the bag and shoulders it—still open—and walks past you, and out the door.
- I really like the way u do like
- Morally gray women with homoerotic tension
- I know Sarah and Roberts aren’t really enemies but
- There’s genuine enmity and suspicion between them
- There’s also genuine attraction and care
- I think making the reader believe in both of those elements simultaneously isn’t easy to do, and you do it
Also, spicy steamy smut. ??