The following morning my training began in earnest. At eight o'clock sharp I walked into the room indicated by Elena to be the martial-arts studio. I'd never taken any sort of self-defense course before, and I was nervous, but the instructor—an Israeli woman named Davnah—quickly put me at ease.

"In two weeks we won't be able to do much more than develop your situational awareness," she explained. "But even a little training is better than none. Dangerous situations unfold in seconds, not minutes. If you can block a single blow, or notice someone approaching you in a threatening way, you may gain enough time to cry out for help or reach for a weapon. Of course, if someone means you real harm, you probably won't do more than slow them down. And we don't know anything about the physical capabilities of the Vardeshi. All we know is that their size and proportions are roughly equal to ours."

"I'll bet they're stronger than they look," I muttered.

Davnah put me through twenty minutes of conditioning and then modeled some basic punches and kicks on a punching bag. I imitated her moves as best I could. Next she demonstrated, with slow and exaggerated gestures, how to escape from an assailant who grabbed one around the neck from behind. This was more challenging still. My movements were too cautious, and my hands kept slipping, or my intended blows missed their targets.

After a few minutes, Davnah excused herself and stepped out into the hallway. When she came back in, she was followed by two burly young men in workout attire. "All right," she said. "Let's try again. Blindfolded, this time."

Something about the blindfold and the presence of masculine attackers transformed the exercise. My heart was racing, and I was sweating, and the men—while not unnecessarily rough—weren't overly gentle either. I knew I'd have bruises tomorrow. I didn't care. The shock of strange male hands closing around my throat heightened my concentration. I began to react more aggressively to the attacks. Eventually I succeeded in breaking their grip, although not consistently. When Davnah finally removed my blindfold, I read the satisfaction in her face.

From self-defense I moved on to medical training. It was from the instructor, a young doctor named Anton whose blond good looks rivaled those of Saresh, that I learned the first concrete facts about the ship that was to be my home for the next year.

"The Vardeshi have provided us with some basic information about the environment of their home planet," Anton told me. "Their shipboard environment is engineered to match that of their home as accurately as possible. Luckily for us, their planet is a remarkably close match with Earth. But there are a few things you need to be prepared for. Their sun is a little brighter and bluer than ours, so you're going to have to gauge your comfort level with their shipboard lights. You can dim the lights in your cabin, but you may need to keep a pair of sunglasses on hand for when you're moving around the ship.

"Also, their gravity is two percent higher, so your workouts are always going to feel like you're sweating off a couple pounds of holiday weight. The oxygen is a trace lower, but it's within the range of what's safe for humans. Over the long term, even such a slight difference may become a concern, so we'll be sending you with a couple of different devices to manage your oxygen intake. One is a battery-powered oxygenator to install in your cabin. That will pump a little extra O2 into your air so that your levels can regulate while you sleep. The other is a pocket-size handheld dispenser. It looks just like a standard asthma inhaler. You'll carry it around with you at all times and take a puff anytime you feel light-headed. We'll send you with a couple dozen of those. Each one is good for about a month." He had both pieces of tech with him, and he demonstrated their use.

"So far we're looking at pretty minor changes to the conditions your body expects. Adjusting to the length of the Vardeshi day will be a bit more difficult. The Vardeshi clock has twenty-seven hours, each one just a little shorter than an Earth hour, so it works out to essentially a twenty-six-hour day. You're going to have to work to adapt, and your body is going to fight you. My advice is to treat it like jet lag: get on their schedule the minute you go aboard, and don't let yourself sleep at odd hours until you're pretty well acclimated. That being said, you should aim for an early bedtime in general. I'd like to see you getting nine or ten hours of sleep a night. You're going to feel tired in ways you can't even imagine yet. Remember, your body will be working overtime to adjust to all of these changes, on top of all the conscious work you'll be doing in assimilating to an alien culture. As of now, every fourth day on your calendar is marked as a rest day—work is off-limits. You'll gauge whether that's enough or too much time as you go through the year.

"You'll need to pay close attention to how you're feeling at all times. I'm sending you with a full medical kit and a first aid manual, as well as a database of common human ailments and cures. We've been informed that there will be a Vardeshi physician aboard your ship. I've included copies of everything for her as well. If you start to feel sick, act immediately. Don't ignore anything—not even something that seems minor, like a cough or a sore throat. Get the meds you need, hole up in your quarters, and rest. The Vardeshi will tell you the same thing. They're worried about exposure to their people, but I'm worried about you. Your first duty is to keep yourself alive. There are no hospitals and no human doctors out there. You're on your own."

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that impression."

"That being said, we'll be monitoring you as closely as we can from here. Before you launch, I'll be injecting you with a couple of subcutaneous transmitters—one here," and he turned my hand over to indicate the underside of my wrist, "and one somewhere more discreet. Don't tell anyone about that one."

"Why do I need two—oh. In case they dig the first one out?"

"Yes," he said matter-of-factly. "The transmitters will continuously record your vital signs and transmit them to Earth on the back of any messages you send us. If I start to see trends that worry me—inadequate sleep, weight loss, elevated stress hormones—we'll work together to identify the problem and find a solution.

"Now let's talk about preexisting conditions. I have the results from your arrival tests; I just need to confirm them with you." He skimmed through documents on his tablet. "You're in excellent health, which makes my job a lot easier. I see that you're a runner. You'll want to keep up your routine using whatever exercise equipment they maintain aboard their ship. It looks like you're allergic to dust and mold—which shouldn't be a problem on a spaceship—and you wear corrective lenses. I'll send you with plenty of extras. You're currently taking a hormonal contraceptive . . . I'd like to switch you to the continuous version. Make your life a little easier—menstruation is one logistical problem you won't need.

"Speaking of the reproductive cycle, I'm under orders to inform you that you're absolutely forbidden to engage in sexual contact of any kind with the Vardeshi. We don't know enough about their biology yet to understand the risks. If that changes, we'll be sure to notify you."

"You must know someone's going to try it anyway," I said.

"I'm counting on it," he said dryly. "That's how we'll know if it's safe."

After my session with Anton ended, I went to lunch. No sooner had I settled myself at my usual table than the quiet of the dining hall was shattered by the arrival of a dozen or so newcomers, all laughing and joking among themselves. They ranged in age from twenties to forties, more or less evenly divided between men and women. Several had a military look about them. I made eye contact with one of the women and smiled awkwardly. To my surprise, she grabbed the arm of the man next to her and pointed straight at me.

"I bet that's her," she said in a crisp British accent. She turned to the rest of the group and said loudly, "Guys! That's her!" And the whole crowd descended upon my table.

The woman who had spoken shook my hand energetically. "Hi, stranger. I'm Kylie. You're Avery, right?"

"Right," I said warily.

"I thought so. You're going to Vardesh Prime. Bitch." I must have looked alarmed, because she laughed and said, "Only joking. But I am jealous. We all are." She made an expansive gesture that took in the others. "We're the rejects."

"Oh." Comprehension dawned. "The other candidates. But you're all still on the List, right? You're still going. Just not to Vardesh Prime."

"Right." She grinned. "Apparently we're the best humanity has to offer. God help the Vardeshi. They have no idea what they're in for."

It quickly became clear to me that Kylie, and the others she introduced offhandedly as they sat down, were members of an incredibly elite cohort. The introductions were a litany of Special Ops veterans, Fulbright Scholars, Peace Corps volunteers, black belts in this or that martial art, and so on. Kylie herself spoke three languages and had qualified for the previous Winter Olympics in the biathlon. As I listened, I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt. Had Dr. Sawyer made a mistake? Worse, had he abused his power? Surely it was hubris for him to imagine that he, alone of everyone on Earth, had the right to control access to Vardeshi. The ethical thing to do would have been . . . what? To pass on TrueFluent Vardeshi to the Council as soon as it was complete? To upload the software into the cloud, giving everyone on the planet equal and unfettered access to it? But if he'd done that, I wouldn't be sitting here. I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter if I had a second-tier pedigree compared to these people. I had worked as hard as any of them. I had earned my seat at this table.

Right on cue, Kylie said, "So what about you, Avery?"

"Yeah," said the man sitting next to her, an American whose name might have been Scott. "Your turn to brag."

"Oh." I hesitated. "Well, I'm not an Olympian or—"

Kylie snorted. "As if that matters. You speak Vardeshi. I want to hear that story, and I'll bet everyone else does too."

"We just came from our first TrueFluent session," said Scott.

"Really?" I said eagerly. "How was it?"

He shook his head. "Pretty fucking brutal, to be honest."

I felt an unwarranted rush of pride. "Yeah. I know."

"So tell us about it," Kylie urged. I demurred, hoping she would lose interest. She didn't. Reluctantly I started talking. At the sound of my voice, the smatterings of conversation here and there around the table ceased. In a few quick sentences, I sketched out my language background—several people nodded when I mentioned Mandarin—and the saga of the previous year.

When I was finished, an Indian woman whose name I hadn't caught said, "Six hours a day?"

"Nine on weekends," I said. "And all day during the summer. But that was just me. I'm sure there are others who could do it in half that time."

"Not based on what we saw this morning," said Scott.

Kylie was studying me thoughtfully. "What was it Sawyer said he liked about you?"

I smiled. "My humility."

"Maybe he was right," she said. "Maybe the rest of us are just too bloody arrogant."

"Speak for yourself, Braswell," someone called from down the table.

Kylie winked at me. "I usually do."

Arrogant or not, the group respected expertise when they saw it. I spent the rest of the meal fielding questions about Vardeshi. When Elena appeared at my elbow, explaining that it was time for my next training session, I found that I'd lost track of time entirely. Cutting off my explanation to the Indian woman—Rajani—in mid-sentence, I rose to leave, hurriedly piling dishes onto my tray.

"Bye, stranger," said Kylie. The peculiar farewell was echoed by several others.

"What does that mean?" I asked Elena as we walked.

"It's what they're calling themselves," Elena explained. "The Hundred Strangers."

"Odd. It seems like that would make more sense as a nickname for the Vardeshi."

"Maybe they thought we had enough of those already."

Truthfully, we did. Humanity had had twenty-five years to invent our own appellations for the Vardeshi, and we had embraced the challenge. I could think of a dozen names offhand, all of them descriptive, not all of them kind. Pixies, for their small stature and the short hairstyles they seemed to favor, was one of the better ones. Likewise, Ice Angels, for their coolly ethereal beauty. Vipers was less complimentary. And there were names as well for humans who were inappropriately fixated on the Vardeshi. The most common was Vaku, a twist on otaku that retained the scornful tone of the original Japanese word. My interest in Vardrama had been more than a passing fancy, but I'd never strayed into Vaku territory. I wondered if there were any Vaku on the List. And whether there existed an equivalent category of human-obsessed Vardeshi. Somehow I doubted it. Not with the whole conquer the darkness within business. It seemed more likely that they regarded us as a community-service project which, while vaguely unpleasant, offered mild philanthropic rewards. A planet-sized soup kitchen, perhaps.

Elena had led me to a wing of the Center I hadn't visited before. We walked into a room the size of a small gymnasium, stocked with what looked like the equivalent of an entire outdoor-gear store. Shoulder-high racks crammed with equipment for every conceivable survival scenario were arranged in neat rows. The place appeared to be deserted, but when Elena called "Max?" a man's head popped up into view behind one of the racks. His face was lean and weathered, and his brown hair was frosted at the temples. He waved a friendly hello as Elena introduced us. "Max is our equipment specialist. He'll be putting together your food and other supplies."

Max further explained that he was an ex-Marine who currently specialized in outfitting backpackers for extreme climates. "The Vardeshi haven't placed any weight restrictions on your equipment," he said. "But I figure the simpler your gear is, the less stressful it will be to use it. You'll be cooking all your own food. The Vardeshi are understandably concerned about the risk of explosion posed by alcohol stoves, so I'll be sending you with empty fuel canisters, which will be filled with one of their fuels once you're on board. Lower combustion risk, apparently. I don't know any details, but they tried it in one of our stoves and it worked just fine. We know they carry water on their ships and that their galley has some kind of freezer compartment, but we don't know anything else about their culinary tools. I want you prepared to be totally self-sufficient for a year at minimum. Dry or frozen food only. No hydroponics—it's too complicated to set up on short notice. Anton will be providing your vitamins. We'll start by going over all the supplies you'll need. Then we'll work on your menu. I'll pack everything by hand myself before you launch."

Gear and menu prep was by far the most enjoyable session of that first full day. The small amount of backpacking I'd done in college proved to be just enough to make the procedures and materials familiar. I knew how to filter my water (probably an unnecessary precaution, but mandated nonetheless), cook over a small portable stove, and wash up efficiently with minimal waste. As we assembled and disassembled the various components of my "space kitchen," as he called it, Max saw how comfortably I handled the gear, and he was openly relieved.

"You'll be able to cook without thinking about it. That's a huge advantage. You're going into an environment that's totally unfamiliar. You don't need any additional stress tied to your food consumption, especially since you'll be handling all of it alone." He explained that to minimize the risk of cross-contamination, I would be doing my own food preparation and cleaning. A section of the galley would be set aside for my private use.

I frowned. "Wait, does that mean I'm not allowed to eat with them?"

He sighed. "Eating is such an essential part of culture—for us, anyway. Everyone is hoping that eating in proximity won't be a problem. You're going to start off in the mess with them and see how it goes. EpiPen in hand, naturally. Doctors from both planets will be working as fast as they can to identify foods that are safe for both races, if any exist. We'll be sending you regular updates. Until then, no sharing. You eat your food, they eat theirs. And at the slightest sign of an airborne allergic response—on either side—you're eating alone in your quarters. That's why all the gear has to be portable."

"If it's that bad, will the mission still go forward?"

Max shrugged. "Impossible to say right now. We're trying to cover all the bases. Unfortunately, there are bound to be things we won't think of, and we won't know what those are until . . ."

"Right," I said. "Until it's too late. Think hard, okay? For my sake?"

"I am," he said seriously. "We all are. There's a small army of people working day and night to think of every possible problem and find a solution. And the Vardeshi are doing exactly the same thing—and their tech is a whole lot better than ours."

I had a thirty-minute break before Covert Signaling. I asked Elena if we could go to the dining hall for a latte. "You're tired," she said when we had been sitting in silence with our coffees for a few minutes.

"A little," I admitted. "Long day."

"I think you'll like your next session. You're a linguist, and covert signaling is all about communicating. Just not with words."

The caffeine helped a little, but it required conscious effort to clear my mind and refocus my attention as Elena led me to yet another bright white room. This one was small, and empty save for a table and two chairs. In one of them a young man was sitting. He was so fair in complexion as to be nearly colorless. I wondered if he ever went outside. I could read nothing at all in his expression. I glanced back at the door. "I'm sorry—am I in the wrong room?"

"Avery Alcott?" His voice was level and soft.

"That's right."

"My name is Tristan. I'm your designated contact."

"I . . . don't know what that means."

He blinked. "When you send transmissions home to Earth, I'll process them for hidden messages, which I'll decode and pass on to the Council."

"Oh." I paused. "What kind of hidden messages?"

"That you're safe. That you're in danger. That you trust someone, or don't trust them. You may find yourself in a place where the things you most need to say can't be said openly. You're here to learn other ways of saying them."

I thought about that. "If I were in real danger, wouldn't they cut off my transmissions?"