“No,” Natalya said curtly. Then she shook her head. “God, you ask questions. Even when you’re told not to. Why so many questions? Isn’t the whole point of your specialization that you don’t have to ask, you can just tell?”

The implication being that she expected Park to be psychic, Park thought; Natalya found her to be a disappointment. She answered, “I can tell a lot from topologies, but not everything. Of course I ask questions.”

Natalya grunted. “Why do we need you, then?”

Park wanted to say, I don’t have to explain myself to you. I don’t have to justify my existence on this ship. But she thought this was a good opportunity to shift perceptions about why she was there, so she said instead, “I provide a holistic view on what’s going on in the ship; what state of mind people are operating under. I try to provide the truth of what’s happening, just as any scientist does; and even though I don’t play a role in the decision-making or research, I ask questions about what I’m observing. Like a good scientist.”

“But do you understand the content?” Natalya asked then. “Do you know what it is you’re observing and analyzing? What it all means? Or do you just transmit back what you’ve discovered without understanding it, like a robot?” She shook her head, her scorn palpable. “It’s all meaningless if you don’t get it.”

Park felt a tremor, a little quiver down in the dark meat of her heart. How to answer? To admit weakness or doubt would only incite Natalya further—and not to sympathy. “I get what I need to get,” she said finally. “But thank you for your concern.”

Natalya made a dry clicking sound with her tongue. “Just focus on doing your job, Park,” she said, turning away. “And doing it well. Don’t meddle into all these other things.”

Who’s the one meddling? Park wanted to ask her. Who was the one sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, asking questions, invading privacy? And who was the one who was getting drunk on the job? But she only said, numbly, “If you need to talk, Natalya, my door is always open.”

“Holt talked, didn’t he,” Natalya bit back. She took a swig from her flask. “And look what happened to him.”

—

Park came to Wick’s door just as her inlays gave the green-gold flash to indicate the time. Nine o’clock at night, by the ship’s clock. Lockdown hours. She stood outside of the bunk, feeling guilty, as if she was doing something illicit when everyone else was going to bed. Answering his call, sneaking to his room. Like a mistress—or a child about to receive a stern talking-to from a parent. What did he need to check up on her about?