Laura pressed the connector of a synchro-tube into her back; it shocked her skin into a more pliable state and sunk into her muscles, almost touching bone. She inserted another. And another. Six in her back with a thinner wire in each arm and the nape of her neck. She could faintly feel the generators of her mech - her Dancing Queen, Dancer Vinifera - working in her abdomen.

She tried to shift focus.

Shifting focus was like trying to get an autostereogram to work, the kind that was in those magic eye books; she unfocused her vision and tried to treat the sleek cockpit pod like a window screen to look past. She started to see stars in the static of the shadows, and as her vision blurred the static doubled. Laura dialed in her vision until she saw through Dancer Vinifera's eyes and felt every mechanical pop within her loud and clear, her own heartbeat now distant and small.

And she got back on the road.

She'd been living out of the Dancing Queen for months now, having left home in it in search of an old friend. A hidden trash compartment within the Dancer Vinifera's pod was piled high with take out boxes, and a comforter was stored beneath her seat. It was at once a warm place to sleep and a body which negated her existence beautifully.

One could say that the stars had aligned for this trip. Laura's brother, who she keeps forgetting is named Justin and not AT506, was away helping an old friend from the military. Her father was away on business. Her mom was . . . not all there. And Laura had just been reunited with her only real friend. Sort of. She saw Nova on a billboard, posed getting out of an A.B.A., pulling synchro-tubing out of her back and stepping down onto an outcropping of the mech's reflective black armor. She had the same cropped hair from when she and Laura were in high school together. Brown skin. Short in stature. Cutting Glare. Tank top and cargo pants. No makeup. No jewelry. No bells and whistles. Written in bold letters was Cycle Space Force followed by an ultimatum: Come fight me or come fight with me, and below that was respectively her division number, call sign, and the quadrant she was assigned to, D32 AM1339 A2$, followed by a QR code that lead to an enlistment form.

. . .

I support you, but do you think this is what being a woman is? Eye shadow shaved legs and dresses? You should be grateful you don't have to deal with all that.

Fuck off.

See? You're so aggressive.

Laura remembered watching the digital moon rise over the arching towns of the eleventh torus space colony—little squares of light glinting off a thousand roofs and stinging her eyes. Nova was young and sweet, only 17, etc., wearing sunglasses so she was fine, her shoulder touching Laura's on the dormitory balcony—all cold metal and exposed piping.

Nova said, “Well, she's kind of right. I'm sure you agree with her, somewhat?

I mean that's not really the point.

What's the point, then?

“That she would never say that to anyone else! That she's never commented on it for any of the other girls in the dorm.

But she's letting you stay here.

Yeah, she has to.

She said she supports you. That's nice, right?

Fuck off.

And you are kind of aggressive.

Fuck off!

Nova stuck her tongue out. Meanie. She leaned her weight more into Laura, who was pliable just for her. Nova watched as Abas were driven through the streets, all painted bright and matte, tied down lamely on flatbed trucks. Huge. Casting cool shadows on the orange bathed city. See, said Nova, I'm never seen as aggressive. I'm awful and everyone treats me like I'm a kid.

You aren't . . . awful.

I shot someone, Laura. He died.

Laura turned her attention to the Abas. He had it coming.

Following Laura's gaze, Nova said, Pilots have been so lousy lately. All falling back on the same old tropes and poses.

Do you think you could do better?

I know I could do better. You know, soldiers will hold funerals for any old hunk of military junk. It’s no wonder that 'A.B.A.' became 'Dancing QueenY. You've seen old footage of the Aba Mark 1, right? It flew around with its legs stretched straight out behind it. It was undignified. Unenviable. I don’t even understand why you'd make something look like a person if you wanted to disgrace it like that. Queens can pose, they have excellent articulation, right? If you pose cool enough—if you make other pilots jealous—they follow in your footsteps. Only then are you not alone.

And this is what you want? To strike a pose so good it grants you an army of killer robots with which you can . . . what, take over the world?

Nova cracked a smile. No. What I want is a beautiful enviable killing machine fitted perfectly for a murderer like me.