The route to the infirmary wasn’t familiar to her, but it was close enough to the commons that she found her way after a few brief detours. The thin young man behind the terminal wore a medic’s uniform, and Mercedes eyed him dubiously as he ran her identification. He asked her to wait, and she perched on a chair, gazed around the otherwise empty area. Shortly, a woman in officer dress came through a door and asked her to follow. Mercedes obeyed, and they went down a short corridor and into a room unlike any Mercedes had seen at the school. There was neutral carpet, a natural wood shelf full of different sorts of toys, and a big squishy-looking couch against one wall. It reminded her of home, despite the lack of windows.

“Hello Mercedes, I am Dr. Packard. Please, have a seat on the couch.” The woman sat in a smooth leather chair opposite.

Mercedes carefully sat down and waited attentively for her to continue. She couldn’t figure out what emotion marred the woman’s face, but it didn’t seem pleasant.

“I am an IF counselor. Have you talked to a counselor before?”

“No, sir.” Mercedes, conscious of her new training, answered crisply and quickly.

“I am here to help you though difficult situations.” She paused thoughtfully. “Sometimes things happen that upset us. It’s alright to get upset sometimes. I am here to help you understand why you might feel different emotions when you are upset, and how we can act appropriately in those situations. Do you understand?”

Mercedes considered briefly, but couldn’t understand how it applied to her. She wasn’t upset. Certainly, the first few months were hard and strange, but now she knew the layout of the school, had formed a few friendships, and was working hard at her schoolwork.

“Yes, sir.”

“Mercedes, we have had word that your mother has passed away. I understand that she was ill?”

Mercedes frowned and subconsciously brushed the wrinkles from her pants. “But how could that be? Papa said when I left that she would get well.” She felt strange.

“I’m sorry, Mercedes.”

The little girl shook her head. “My papa isn’t ever wrong.” She paused and frowned. “I should get back to class.”

Dr. Packard stood, her gaze resting heavily on the child for a moment. She considered, then sighed.

“Alright, Mercedes. Please think about what I said. You know your mother’s condition was incurable. I will send a copy of the information to your terminal so that you can see it. And you can always come talk to me. Come to the infirmary and someone will get me if I’m not here.”

Dr. Packard thought Mercedes’ nod was rather haughty as the child let herself out. Dr. Weber stepped out of his office and raised an eyebrow. His grimace prompted Packard to speak.

“Denial. She’ll admit it to herself eventually. Better to let her come to it on her own than try to force her.”

“I’d have someone monitor her to make sure we know as soon as she does.”

“Yes. I’ll arrange it.”

Mercedes meandered back to her classroom dissatisfied, disappointed. That the school should believe such lies was a blow to the credibility of the staff. She had been here for six months, and was just starting to enjoy the challenge of the courses, and the routine of school life.

Her class was just heading to their barracks as she returned; they had half an hour before drills. Mercedes sat down at the terminal next to her bunk and scanned the message Dr. Packard had forwarded. It was just words, nothing compelling, nothing real. Time, date, and cause of death as established by the medical examiner, forwarded to the International Fleet Central Communications since the family had been flagged as IF-active.

Four weeks later, she was back in Dr. Packard’s office.

The woman wordlessly handed her an electronic pad and motioned for Mercedes to sit on the couch. She did.

“Play the video, Mercedes.”

Mercedes pushed the button. It was a news report; the familiar logo of Noticias Valencia branded the bottom. She smiled involuntarily at the sight of the ocean; she hadn’t realize how much she had taken its presence for granted until she was stuck underground without the sound or smell of the sea.

The reporter on the screen was using terms like “mysterious ringleader,” “finally exposed,” and “suspicious circumstances” as the video showed a body being pulled out of the surf. It looked like a wet doll, limp and heavy. Above the station’s logo, her father’s name appeared, followed by the word “murdered”. The camera panned towards the bloated face of the corpse, and Mercedes finally recognized the features.

“Papa!” She shuddered and let the pad slip through her fingers and sat, numb.

Dr. Packard knelt to retrieve the pad. “Mercedes?” Her eyes ranged across the girl’s face, searching for some sort of response.

A storm was brewing inside her head. What if they had not lied about her mother? Surely if Papa were dead, Mummy couldn’t live without him. He had always taken care of cooking, of making sure the maids cleaned everything properly. Mummy couldn’t be dead because Papa had said she would get well, but if Papa was dead…

She would not scream. She felt it trying to get out of her throat, but she would not. She stared at Dr. Packard crouched in front of her, and could not stop herself. Her little hand caught the counselor’s cheek hard and suddenly enough to send the woman reeling.

Mercedes ran, even though she knew there was nowhere to go. The commons were filling up with other students. There was always someone in library. Her barracks would be a hive of activity as everyone spent their free hour before dinner. She darted through the hallways, shoved past anyone who got in her way.

She found herself at a dead end, panting for breath, in the hall where gymnasium rooms branched off. Her pale, shaking hands were pressed against the blank wall. She heard footsteps in the silence, then a hiss. She felt a sting though her sleeve, and a wave of fatigue hit her. She helplessly leaned toward the wall, slid down it until her head met the floor. She closed her eyes.

Voices were coming with those footsteps.

“At least it finally got through to her.” Dr. Packard’s tone was dry but satisfied.

“She responds really nice to the lowest inhibitor,” replied a voice she hadn’t heard before. It was a girl’s voice, and sounded pleased. Mercedes hated it.