You get to the dressing room first, and when she follows a minute later you say nothing and do not look at her. The two of you strip off your dripping wetsuits (the colors of yours are still strange to you) and get back into your fatigues in silence. But the silence is palpable, it has weight, and sooner or later one of you must break it.

  You’re unwilling to yield, though, so the silence grows and grows until at last Carol says, “You sound like you’re done for the night.”

  You snort. It’s hardly night anyway—still a good two hours left before your scheduled patrol time—but the point stands. “We finished the sim.”

  “I thought you might want to try it again,” she says.

  You look at her, finally. She’s half-bent over her kit, the long black curtain of hair obscuring her face from you, and you can tell from the angle of her head that she isn’t looking at you, is focused on her bag; but from the tone of her voice you know she’s anything but nonchalant.

  “What for?” you say. “So I can fail again?”

  You’re starting (really, Emma, only starting?) to sound like a petulant child, and you know it, but you remain stubbornly unrepentant, fixed on zipping up your kit. The team already thinks you’re a child, anyway, so who cares if Carol does too?

  Carol just sighs.

  “I mean,” you say, “come on, don’t fucking baby me. That was your success, not mine.”

  “I thought you said it was a joint effort,” she says.

  Which is such obvious bullshit that you can’t help but think for an instant that she’s joking, and maybe she is, but does it really matter either way? Ever since you’ve gotten here you’ve been a fish out of water—or in it, as the case may be—and here’s the closest thing you have to somebody you actually know, because at least she knew Rachel, and surely Rachel knew her. But to you Carol is a complete wall, a black hole, and it just destroys you, doesn’t it, it drives you up a fucking wall. You could throw a tantrum about it, you could stamp your foot and cry that it isn’t fair, that you deserve better, and maybe you do, and maybe that would comfort you, maybe not—it would be pathetically on-brand for you, that’s for certain.

  Instead you say, “Sure. Let’s call it that,” which is still kind of a tantrum in its own right; just because you’re not fire and brimstone doesn’t make you fair. “Good talk.”

  “No it’s not,” says Carol. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  You don’t like being told what to do, do you? “I told you.” Comes out harsher than you meant it to, but you push onward anyway: “Lau was right. You’re this, this superstar veteran lone wolf, the civilized world loves you, and I can tell you’re fucking exhausted having to babysit me—”

  “Not the word I’d use,” Carol says slowly, which just incenses you further.

  “Then what’s the word you’d use?” You turn on her, guns blazing. “Nannying? Tolerating? Fucking animal husbandry?”

  Carol says, “Collaborating.” You snort. “Kanagawa, why are you so hell-bent on acting like you’re a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” you say, “maybe because I am one?”

  “Okay,” says Carol, “why do you think that?”

  “I failed,” you say.

  Carol says, “Sure. Depends on your perspective,” and, “You say that like failing is a bad thing.”

  “It is!” Something wells up inside you, between fury and the pathetic urge to cry. You take a deep breath instead. “You know that Meng told me, after sortie, that I get four months to prove myself,” you say, “and then I’m off. Right? Both of us, because that leaves you without a shield.”

  “Right,” says Carol, unconvincingly.

  “So what,” you say, “you just don’t want to be on the team? You want a different shield? Am I your scapegoat, because I’m the new girl and you’re too proud to just say so?”

  Carol shifts uncomfortably. “No—”

  “Then what fucking gives,” you snap, not waiting to let her explain herself. “Because you saw Lau beat me up today. You know damn well I’m not ready. Not for sim, not for patrol, definitely not for sortie. I’m not ready now and I probably won’t be in three months.” She doesn’t answer. “Don’t you?”

  “You won’t be if you keep telling yourself you’re not.”

  “I won’t be if you keep fucking standing by,” you say, which isn’t entirely fair, since you can do things to improve by yourself, but still.

  Carol pushes her hair back from her face, closes her eyes briefly. “Look,” she says, then stops. “I’m not trying to—” She stops again, exhales. “I’m trying not to be overbearing. You’re new. I debuted with Rachel.”

  There it is, the thing Holly said not to bring up to her, and she’s bringing it up. You ignore the shock that runs through you. “So?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She blinks. You’ve never seen her nonplussed before. “So,” she says, “you’re twelve years behind me.”

  “I was in the Academy,” you say.

  “Academy doesn’t count. No offense.” Halfhearted, but sure, you’ll take it. “Point is, you don’t know anything.” Okay, full offense. “I know everything. I’m trying not to make you drink from the firehose.”

  “Right,” you say. “Well. That’s nice of you.”

  Her mouth twitches.

  “But,” you say, “hey, what happened to I’ll just make up for the dead weight?”

  Now she really does smile, the littlest bit. (It’s startlingly lovely.) “That was Carol one month ago,” she says. “This is Carol now. Though, yeah, you still are kind of dead weight. Being new.”

  “Right,” you say, “and I don’t have any form.”

  Her mouth twists. “Your form isn’t that bad,” she says, which hardly even sounds like a backhanded compliment, coming from her.

  “Lau says otherwise,” you say, and her mouth twists further.

  “Don’t listen to Lau,” she says. “She can’t help herself.”

  “I think she can,” you say. “I think she likes it. I think she’s just a bitch.”

  “Well,” says Carol. “Yeah.” And even from this angle you can see the twist in her mouth give way and properly become a smile again—however briefly and wondrously, which makes you feel both a little sheepish and oddly emboldened.

  “Okay,” you say, “noted.” And then, because you can’t yet swallow your pride enough to apologize, “Thanks.”

  Carol considers this. You watch her chew her lip, slowly. She says, “Just my opinion. So you think you’re a problem? Other than being new?”

  Your turn to blink. “Yes,” you say, “right, yeah. I mean…”

  Carol says, “Why?”

  Why indeed? Aside from being new, you were pretty decent, once. You say at last: “I don’t know, I guess.” And: “It’s not about my form, is it?”

  “No,” says Carol, as if she’s considering this. “It isn’t. It’s…the way you think, the way you move.” (Barracuda cleaving the neoradiodont in two in one long strike, Barracuda moving like a stag in the forest.) “Like…” She shakes her head; her brows are furrowed. “You know, I didn’t really plan on doing this now.”

  “You could try anyway,” you say.

  “I could.” She tilts her chin and regards you. “Is this all because of Lau?”

  “What about Lau,” you say, and then, “What, that she thinks I suck? That she hates me?”

  Carol shrugs. “She hates everyone.”

  True. Maybe not Debrah. “So it’s nothing personal when she beats me up,” you say.

  “No, well,” says Carol, “it might be. Hard to say with her. Look, if you’re still sore about her—”

  “I’m not,” you lie.

  “Sure, yeah. Just don’t be,” says Carol. “I told you—she’s not worth it.” She shrugs. “Nobody’s worth it.”

  “Maybe I should get to decide who’s worth it,” you say, and, “If you’re my sword, I think you ought to be worth it. Which is why I’m asking you this.”

  Your heart thunders in your chest, and Carol’s looking at you now, really looking, which frankly petrifies you. But you say it anyway.

  “If you really want to be on the team, if you want to be my sword, and you can tell me if you don’t—but if you do, don’t fuck around with me,” you say. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it. You need to take me seriously.”

  For a long moment Carol just looks at you, and you look at her. And it strikes you how really, truly black her eyes are: blacker even than the sea when you were in it, so black that it is as if they come back around to being bright, so that you have the distinct feeling of being pinned under Barracuda’s searching headlamp, deep underwater. You can’t tell if you like it. You can hardly bear it. You will yourself to regardless.

  “Okay,” she says at last. “I admit I fucked up. I’m sorry.” And: “Try not to jump down my throat again?”

  “No promises,” you say, “not if you do, I don’t know, something shitty.”

  She snorts, then gets up and approaches you, kit under arm. She’s holding out her hand. Oh, you realize dumbly, she wants you to shake on it.

  After a moment you take her hand. You don’t shake, though. You raise your chin and hold her gaze, the frank blackness of it, the impossible depth that is somehow also without any depth at all. (You could drown in this. You will not let yourself.)

  “Teach me how to do better,” you say. “Don’t fucking sandbag.” And: “Please.”

  Carol pauses. She’s considering, you realize—what you’re asking, and what you’ve said, and maybe also your hand on hers. “It won’t be easy,” she says. “And I’m still counting on you not to jump down my throat.”

  “I won’t if you teach me,” you say. “I promise you that.”

  The faint smile is back.

  “Alright,” she says, and shakes, once, short and firm. “Deal.” You hadn’t realized how relieved you’d feel, and then how ashamed of having been so angry at her earlier. (She could choose to be angry at you right back, like Lau, like you yourself.)

  Was it really this easy, all along? You have been so busy feeling sorry for yourself you never really considered this possibility, did you? There will be time enough for guilt later; for now she’s looking at you, waiting for an answer.

  “Okay,” you say. “Great. When do we start? Patrol’s tonight, right?”

  “Yeah,” says Carol. She lets go of your hand. “See me in the antechamber beforehand. I’ll give you the rundown. No sandbagging.”

  It’s weird seeing her look so frankly at you, remembering her smiling—twice!—just a moment ago. And there it is again, that sudden surge of boldness. You say, “Sure, Sensei, I look forward to your lessons.”

  Just the corner of her mouth lifts now. “Pleasure working with you, Cadet Kanagawa.” By the door, kit over her shoulder, she pauses. “Hey,” she says, “next time you have a problem with me, you could just page me and talk.” Then she pushes past you and is gone.

  You watch her go. Your blood’s still rushing in your ears.

  Do you regret it? Will you? Too early to say yet. All I can offer is that it’s a bold gambit, Emma, courting the least popular pilot on your team. Let’s see if it pays off.

  Thirteen years ago, the Lich Queen was merely Kai’s quiet and awkward classmate at Lokora’s Magic Academy.

  In hindsight, Kai should have probably defended her from her bullies.

  Luna’s lich transformation killed thirteen. The academy burned to disbandment, and Kai lost his dreams in a coma, waking up with an odd power: the ability to witness traumatic events through the eyes of the victim. In the years since, Luna had become the Lich Queen—the most feared black magic practitioner alive.

  When Luna returns to Lokora for unfinished business thirteen years later, Kai’s power offers an unexpected opportunity. To return to the past, into the classroom where Lich Queen Luna is still a fourteen-year-old despised prodigy of magic, who sits alone at lunch, called cursed by the students around her.

  This time, Kai sets out to stop Luna from causing the transformation, until he learns that bullying alone may not have been what pushed her to darkness…