“Kanagawa,” says Gutierrez, “what the fuck happened to your hair?”

  Ah, right. Last night with the scissors.

  “Go easy on her,” says Enika, who’s delicately ministering to an apple. “She probably got dumped.”

  “I didn’t get dumped,” you say, and Enika laughs.

  “Oh, I know,” she says. “You’ve had ‘single’ written all over you since the day you got here, love, I’m just teasing you. But no, really.”

  “It looks like she got drunk and made out with a clipper,” says Gutierrez in fascination. “You sure there’s not some chick, Smalls?”

  “Girls,” says Holly. “Focus.”

  “Buzzkill,” says Enika. “We have things sorted, don’t we, Gutes?”

  “Sure,” says Gutes, folding her arms and leaning back against the lunch counter. “Except that Shanghai thinks we’re lying, or wrong, or something, and Oslo’s demanding we hold a press release about this, and labs is sticking by their thesis that the Megs are reproducing again, and everything’s on fire.”

  “Other than that, though,” says Enika. “I mean, Chennai said yes. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Chennai always says yes,” says Gutierrez dismissively. “Christ, Kanagawa, that really looks bad. Catch a mirror.” She unfolds her arms and leans forward. “I mean, what if they’re right?”

  “What if who’s right?” you say, ignoring the quip about your hair.

  “Shanghai,” says Gutierrez. “I mean, they shared a pretty solid theory—”

  “They’re wrong,” says Holly. She’s sitting backwards in a chair at the table beside Enika; a hoodie in red and blue and killer whale drapes over her shoulders, and on her wrist is a red cord you remember seeing on Enika a few weeks back. The casualness of her appearance doesn’t match her tone. “We saw the specimens ourselves. We’ve been over this, Tracey. Don’t resurrect it.”

  “Yes,” says Gutierrez, “but how do we know they’re children?”

  “Because labs said so,” says Enika, chewing. “Isn’t that enough for you, you big sweet dumb jock?”

  Gutierrez grins, all teeth. “Oh, Yen, you know nothing’s enough for me.” She stretches, feline, sweat from the morning’s run lining her brown throat in a gleaming sickle, and moves to drop herself into the seat beside Enika - across from you, which is entirely too close for comfort. “Thing is, if we’re wrong and we raise the alarm for nothing, we’re going to look pretty stupid.”

  “We’re not wrong,” says Holly. “The other bases already sent in their assays. They agree.”

  “Doesn’t Shanghai dissent? Whatever, Great Leader,” says Gutierrez, shrugging, “just saying. So anyway, what’s on the agenda today? Who’s on patrol?”

  Holly sighs.

  “I’m seeing Meng at fourteen hundred,” she says. “We might have company next week. Yen wants afternoon patrol with you. Carol and Emma are on for the evening.” Oh, shit.

  “Whoa, no way,” says Gutierrez, “baby’s first pairwise patrol? Damn! We should bake a cake or something.” She sketches a big rainbow with both hands. “Tokyo and Barracuda, Best Friends Forever, First Night Out. With glitter sprinkles.”

  “Carol’s allergic to glitter,” says Holly.

  Gutierrez sighs explosively. “And you’re allergic to fun. God, Holly, I miss you when you were high. What are you talking to Meng for?”

  “The visitors,” says Enika primly. “They’re working out scheduling.”

  “Which visitors?” you ask, suddenly interested.

  “Shanghai,” says Enika, who’s finished her apple: she twirls the core now by the stem, idly, between two manicured fingers. “They’d like to see the evidence for themselves. Manila did already send them their results, you know, but I guess they couldn’t resist a gawk at Carol now that she’s—”

  “They have germane concerns,” says Holly, who you are entirely convinced used germane because it sounds authoritative, and you can’t help but agree. “We’re entertaining them, Carol or no. The only question is when.”

  “Didn’t you tell me off for questioning the results?” says Gutierrez.

  “You’re different,” says Holly. “When they come—”

  She breaks off as the door opens, revealing Debrah and, behind her, Lau, both in their suits. Holly sits up immediately. “Dare,” she says, “good, how was it?”

  “Fine,” says Debrah, “nothing we didn’t expect—Emma, you good?”

  “Great,” you say, “why?”

  “You look like a wet rat,” says Debrah, not unkindly. “Holly, what did Christchurch have to say?”

  “That they’re going to need help,” says Holly. “A lot of it.”

  “No shit,” says Debrah. “How much?”

  “How much can we spare?” Holly says, and Debrah grimaces.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” she says, and moves to the lunch counter to grab an orange. “Let’s talk about it after sim, yeah? Reckon you’d like to get an early start on that, since you’re meeting with Meng and all.”

  “Right,” says Holly. “Lau?”

  “Situation normal,” says Lau.

  The entire time she hasn’t looked at you, and you have tried not to look at her. Saltwater runoff from the edge of her helmet clings to the tattoos around her neck like diamonds, and though her face is unmarked by the characteristic fury to which you’ve grown so accustomed during your training together, the darkness of her eyes and brows alike seems to threaten it.

  “Great,” says Gutierrez. “Sounds like you ladies have got it all worked out.” She unfolds herself from the chair and rises languidly, surprising you, as always, with how graceful she is for her size. Not unlike a Titan. On the way out, she passes you; you feel her elbow knock your ribs and flinch back, but she’s smiling at you, all dimples and canines, and you’re trying not to get another demerit before your probation is up.

  “Swing by my room later,” she says. “I’ve got a clipper. Works like a dream. Debs swears by it.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” you tell her, but you run a hand over your scalp anyway—you hadn’t stopped in the mirror in the dark hours of the morning to check yourself out; who cares what you look like when you’re just running laps in the gloom? The sides of your head are shaved now, it turns out. Alright—shaved is a strong word for it. At least your bangs are untouched.

  Gutierrez shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says. “Just think it looks silly, you know? Anyway, good luck with Carol.”

  Ah, fuck, right, you’d nearly blessedly forgotten amidst all the to-do about your stupid hair: your cheeks heat; in your stomach forms a pit. First patrol tonight.

  -

  In the exercise room by the simulation chamber, you number six today. Walz is out—instructing, evidently, at the nearby academy, because you’ve learned that that’s what she does when she’s not needed for patrols—and Holly is getting a head start on her own sims, before the meeting. That leaves you and Dare and Gutierrez and Enika—who has resumed more the personality of Venkatesh the soldier than Enika the girl—and Lau, and Carol.

  “Hold,” says Enika, at the front.

  You hold. It burns.

  You’re glad this position doesn’t allow its practitioner to see much but the floor.

  “Five more minutes,” Venkatesh calls. “You can do it, girls. Come on.”

  Can you? Atop your quivering, tensed core your legs are starting to shiver; you weren’t made to hold a handstand bent at a ninety-degree angle to the ground for thirty seconds, let alone six hundred. But pride gets the better of you. No way you’re letting the Sea Bitch watch you fail—so you bite your lip till you taste copper and double down, and will your legs to stop shaking.

  “Form, Kanagawa,” says Venkatesh. “Keep it straight.”

  Fuck her—your form is fine. Is it? If only you could see the mirrored walls right now.

  Behind you, someone snickers. “Straight. As if—” That’s Gutierrez.

  “Not everyone’s a girl-crazy horndog like you, Gutes,” comes Debs’ whispered retort.

  “Less talking, more zen, please,” says Venkatesh, “you can bitch all you like when you’re done, ladies.”

  Does Gutierrez actually care who you like or is she just being her usual asshole self? You’re reminded for an instant of the comment she made on your first day, all the way back then, during the drill: Prom with a guy? A girl? Gutierrez says, “I bet Holly likes it when you talk to her like that,” and Enika says, “You’re not going to get that invitation, Tracey darling, no matter how hard you keep trying,” and Gutierrez says, “I sure like it when you talk to me like that,” and whatever thread of thought you’d briefly clung to is gone, just like that.

  Venkatesh, for her part, is holding the pose perfectly, as if she were a statue carved that way (from polychrome marble, surely, in unfairly rich shades of deep ochre and jet), because of course she is. You’re starting to hate her a little bit.

  “Yen’s right.” That’s Lau. “Shut up or get better material.”

  “Aw, Shirley, baby,” says Gutierrez, “don’t tell me you’re still sore about my being unavailable.”

  “You’re as unavailable as the Amish directory hotline, honey,” says Dare.

  “Time’s up.” The room rustles with movement. You find yourself kneeling, blood rushing back down from your head in throbbing waves, legs tingling from the effort. “New girl—how are we doing?”

  Dying, actually, but you say, “Good, great,” and Venkatesh grins wickedly.

  “Good!” she says, and uncoils herself. “Let’s do some sparring. Lau, you’re with Kanagawa. Dealer’s choice.”

  “Wait—” you say, but Venkatesh isn’t looking at you at all; she’s moved on to Dare, opposite end of the room. Your protest dies in your mouth. And Lau’s already circling around toward you (not looking you in the eye, customarily).

  Okay, whatever; you can do this. You might not like it, but you can do it. You settle into a loose defensive stance, hands at your ribs, knees bent, and think, Hey, at least you’re not getting graded on this.

  And really, would any of the rest of them have made much better partners? Gutierrez is rough on you, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Debrah’s nice but not even close to your size, arguably worse than Gutes, and Carol—

  “Eyes up,” says Lau, and then she’s on you.

  You barely get your guard up in time. She’s raining down a flurry of blows, Ten Hands but at lightning speed, not Titan-pace at all.

  Fuck! You’ve retreaded enough of what Alcatraz taught you to manage a passable defense when you’re moving at your Titan’s limits—not so at human ones. Lau’s small and fast and vicious, and by God she’s a good fighter. The side of her palm knifes into your jaw, then her ankle hooks the back of your knee, and you go down like a sack of rocks.

  “Hey! Whoa!” From your vantage point on the floor, jaw throbbing, you see Debrah charging over. “Hey, she said sparring, not keepie-uppies with the new girl’s face. What the hell?”

  Sideways, blurring, Lau shrugs. “It was Ten Hands.”

  “I’m fine,” you croak.

  “No you’re not,” says Debrah, and holds out a lean brown hand. You’re not foolish enough to refuse. “Come on, Shirley, she’s been out of it.”

  “I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m all in one piece.”

  “Where’d your spine go, then?” says Debrah. “Do it again, but lead the pace this time. Don’t let her push you around. Shirley, please.”

  “It’s just the crucible,” says Lau, unrepentant. “We all go through it. You think Shi went easy on me?”

  Debrah deflates.

  You say, “I’m going to go prepare for sim.” You don’t say: Shi sounds like an asshole, if she was anything like that. And you definitely don’t say good riddance.

  “Okay,” says Debrah. “Okay.”

  Behind her you glimpse Enika, laughing with Gutierrez: she hasn’t so much as looked your way this whole time. Quickly you avert your eyes; you refuse to risk making eye contact, letting her see your face.

  And Carol? You don't dare look to see if she's noticed. You're afraid of what you might find if you do. You're afraid it could tear you apart.