Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

The first indication that Horizon Atoll was becoming a respectable naval station was that its Commander now had enough paperwork to bury a moderately sized destroyer.

Kade Bher considered this a mixed blessing.

On one hand, the presence of so many reports meant people were finally doing things worth reporting. Equipment was being repaired. Personnel were training. Supply shipments were arriving, however reluctantly, and the station’s administrative offices had begun producing records detailed enough for the quartermaster to know exactly how many industrial bearings they possessed without threatening three separate warehouse clerks.

On the other hand, the paperwork had apparently developed the ability to reproduce.

He was fairly certain there had been only four folders on his desk when he’d gone to breakfast.

There were now seven.

Kade sat behind the desk, his recovered blue coffee cup placed at a safe distance from the documents, and regarded the additional folders with the quiet suspicion of a man who had discovered an enemy advance while looking away.

”Chief.”

Mara Fenwick didn’t look up from the small table beside the window.

”Yes, Commander?”

”Do reports breed?”

Her pen stopped.

For a moment, she appeared to be considering whether she’d heard him correctly.

Then she looked up.

”Reports?”

”These.”

He gestured toward the desk.

”I leave for breakfast. I return. There are more.”

”That’s generally what happens when people submit their work.”

”Disconcerting.”

She smiled.

”Would you prefer they stopped?”

Kade considered that.

Beyond the office windows, a truck rattled along the waterfront road carrying electrical cable toward the industrial district. A group of dockworkers was helping the driver guide it around a patched section of pavement. One of the men had climbed onto the rear platform and was arguing with somebody about the proper way to secure the load.

The argument was loud.

Detailed.

And, judging by the gestures, very passionate.

Kade watched for a moment.

Then looked back at Mara.

”No. I suspect we’d find out something terrible had happened when the lights went out.”

”Very likely.”

”Then we’ll suffer.”

”Admirable attitude.”

”Please don’t put that in my evaluation.”

”I’ll consider it.”

He smiled faintly and opened the top folder.

The morning’s first substantive report concerned the station’s Keelborn training program.

That alone would have made it important.

Instead, Kade found himself staring at the document’s title.

HORIZON ATOLL NAVAL STATION

KEELBORN RIGGING TRANSITION ASSESSMENT

PRIMARY ASSISTED FRAME, MARK I — INTERMEDIATE CONFIGURATION ELIGIBILITY

Below the heading was a list of names.

Not an enormous list.

Six candidates had been recommended for preliminary assessment.

Four had completed the requisite shore-based evaluations.

Three had passed the latest controlled-water handling examinations.

Only two were currently approved to begin conversion work.

Kade read the document twice.

Then turned toward Mara.

”Well.”

She looked up.

”Good news?”

”Potentially.”

”That’s becoming a familiar answer.”

”I’d be delighted to use a different one if the universe would cooperate.”

He turned the report so she could see it.

”Two girls.”

Mara leaned forward.

Her eyes moved over the page.

Then she smiled.

”Oh, that’s good.”

”It is.”

”Very good.”

Kade looked down again.

One month earlier, almost every newly assigned Keelborn at Horizon had needed some degree of physical assistance to operate her rigging safely.

That hadn’t been particularly surprising once the initial confusion settled.

The girls who had entered the naval VRMMORPG as ordinary players had chosen classes, ship identities, weapon configurations, uniforms, and character appearances with varying degrees of enthusiasm and absolutely no expectation that they’d need to operate the equipment using their actual bodies.

Some had spent hours studying historical naval design.

Others had selected whatever looked impressive.

A few had made decisions based primarily on the appearance of their avatars.

Riko had, by her own admission, been motivated by the possibility of eventually mounting an absurd number of twenty-inch naval guns.

Kade still wasn’t entirely convinced she understood how much material a single one of those barrels would require.

He intended to let the engineers explain.

Preferably from a safe distance.

The Crisis had made all those choices physical.

The Keelborn retained their classes and the functions associated with them, but their new bodies did not automatically know how to move with tons of physically fitted naval machinery.

Knowledge of a game’s control scheme did not translate neatly into muscular coordination, equilibrium, and the sensation of seawater passing beneath one’s feet.

Nor did enthusiasm compensate for inertia.

The Admiralty Union already possessed specialized instructional equipment for newly commissioned Keelborn.

At Horizon, the personnel had begun calling it the Mk. I.

The designation was convenient, although technically it referred to a family of primary assisted training configurations rather than one universal machine.

The first versions issued to inexperienced destroyers had enclosed much of the wearer’s lower body in heavy stabilization supports. They carried broad buoyancy assemblies near the legs, mechanically assisted balance frames, conservative propulsion governors, and enough emergency cutoffs to make the equipment more forgiving than the sleek combat rigging worn by experienced Keelborn.

For cruisers, those components were larger.

For battleships, considerably larger.

A newly awakened Yamato-class Keelborn wearing her Mk. I training configuration could look less like the elegant warship girl she’d imagined during character creation and more like somebody had decided to attach a floating industrial workshop to a young woman.

Riko had objected.

Repeatedly.

At considerable volume.

The engineers had assured her that the equipment was temporary.

She had asked whether temporary could mean tomorrow.

They had told her no.

She had asked whether it could mean the day after tomorrow.

They had told her no again.

Eventually, Hana had threatened to install a bell that rang every time Riko complained about the stabilizers.

Riko had become remarkably quiet for almost twenty minutes.

Kade regarded the training report.

The Mk. I systems were not intended to make inexperienced Keelborn helpless. They were intended to keep them from hurting themselves while learning how their ship-class machinery responded.

The stabilizers corrected balance before a developing stumble became a fall.

The buoyancy supports provided reserve flotation during low-speed drills.

Propulsion limiters reduced the likelihood of an inexperienced girl accelerating beyond her ability to control her equipment.

And the weapon systems remained restricted during basic handling exercises.

The arrangement was sensible.

It was also cumbersome.

The girls couldn’t maneuver like the Keelborn in the promotional footage.

They couldn’t skate freely across the water with the confidence of Aster or the other Beta Testers.

They couldn’t reliably make the small, fluid corrections that experienced girls performed without conscious thought.

They were learning to operate their machinery while that machinery did its best to prevent them from making catastrophic mistakes.

Graduating from it was therefore a meaningful achievement.

But not an achievement that occurred because someone had completed an arbitrary number of exercises.

The equipment had to be modified.

The wearer needed to demonstrate control.

The reduced-assistance configuration had to be tested.

And the station needed enough functioning components, qualified technicians, and safe water to perform the transition.

Kade turned the next page.

The first approved candidate was a destroyer girl named Emi.

He remembered her.

She’d spent part of the first week in the infirmary asking Irena Holt questions about food, pain, and whether the people around her remembered growing up.

He also remembered that she’d been so frightened of falling during her first waterborne exercise that she’d kept gripping the Mk. I’s support handles long after the instructors had told her she could relax.

Now she’d passed her independent balance assessment.

Her emergency-stop results were acceptable.

Her communications performance had improved.

And she’d demonstrated enough control during reduced-assistance trials for the training staff to recommend a limited conversion to intermediate rigging.

Kade felt a small smile appear.

”Emi.”

Mara glanced over.

”Hm?”

”She’s doing well.”

The chief nodded.

”Irena mentioned it yesterday.”

”Did she?”

”Apparently she’s been stopping by the infirmary to tell them how the training is going.”

Kade smiled.

”Good.”

”She brought the nurses pastries last week.”

”Better.”

”And apologized for asking so many strange questions when she first arrived.”

Kade looked toward the report.

Mara continued, ”Irena told her she’d be disappointed if Emi stopped asking questions.”

He laughed quietly.

”Sounds like Irena.”

”Yes.”

He read the second name.

A light cruiser Keelborn who had spent the first two weeks struggling with uneven propulsion response and had only recently begun maintaining formation without continuous intervention from the training system.

Kade recognized her from the morning briefings, though they hadn’t spoken at length.

Both girls had received favorable recommendations from their instructors.

Neither had been approved for unrestricted combat operations.

He was pleased to see that distinction written plainly.

He turned the page again.

The next heading concerned progression beyond the intermediate configuration.

Only preliminary criteria had been established for Horizon’s newest trainees.

The proper class rigging remained a later goal.

Kade leaned back.

”Good.”

Mara raised an eyebrow.

”Good?”

”They’re not rushing it.”

”Would you expect them to?”

”Some people would.”

Her expression became thoughtful.

She had seen the pressure placed on younger Keelborn throughout the AU’s history.

Units commissioned too early.

Training shortened because the fleet needed replacements.

Commanders arguing that a girl who could float and fire her guns was therefore fit to sortie.

Those decisions occasionally produced quick results.

They also produced names on casualty lists.

Mara looked toward the window.

”No,” she said quietly. ”Let’s not rush them.”

Kade nodded.

Then turned another page.

The final section contained a request from the maintenance department.

ADDITIONAL INTERMEDIATE RIGGING COMPONENTS REQUIRED.

He read it.

His smile faded.

There it was.

The part of every good report that reminded him Horizon Atoll remained Horizon Atoll.

Five sets of stabilizer-release fittings.

Four replacement propulsion-control assemblies.

A collection of load-rated mounting brackets.

Electrical connectors.

Protective housings.

Two class-specific control units that were unavailable in the station’s existing inventory.

And enough technician-hours to delay three other maintenance projects if all conversions proceeded simultaneously.

Kade studied the numbers.

Then sighed.

”Naturally.”

Mara didn’t need to ask.

She recognized the expression.

”Parts?”

”Parts.”

”How many?”

”Enough to make Corwin unhappy.”

”Then you’d better speak to him before approving anything.”

”Already planning to.”

He set the report aside.

His recovered coffee cup sat beside the telephone.

Still there.

Still warm.

He took a sip.

Then opened the next folder.

The heading was marked in red.

REGIONAL SECURITY ADVISORY — ROGUE COMMAND ELEMENTS.

The morning became considerably less pleasant.

 The first report had arrived from a naval station several hundred nautical miles west of a major AU supply corridor.

The second came from a convoy that had been ordered to alter course after receiving conflicting instructions from two different commanders.

The third concerned a damaged Keelborn who had arrived at a civilian harbor without her assigned escort.

Her story was incomplete.

Her injuries were not.

Kade read the documents without speaking.

The office was quiet except for the ceiling fan and the occasional distant sound of cargo vehicles moving along the harbor road.

Mara continued sorting the station’s ordinary reports at the adjacent table.

She didn’t interrupt him.

She’d been present when the security package arrived, and she’d already read the summary.

Now she watched Kade’s expression.

He turned a page.

Then another.

His mouth settled into a thin line.

The reports came from different locations, involved different units, and varied considerably in reliability.

Some were merely allegations.

A missing shipment.

A disputed docking authorization.

A commander refusing to release a Keelborn from an emergency attachment.

Other incidents were more concrete.

A patrol had been fired upon by vessels displaying friendly identification signals.

A small station had reported the unauthorized removal of ammunition and fuel after an armed visit from another naval force.

A transport Keelborn had been intercepted by a group claiming superior operational authority; the people who witnessed the encounter disagreed about whether she had departed voluntarily.

And in one report, a surviving destroyer had identified the attackers as Keelborn from a former player formation.

Kade stopped reading.

He returned to the previous page.

Then examined the witness statement again.

A young woman had described the attack.

Not in polished military language.

Not with the detached precision of an intelligence officer.

Her testimony was uneven, and whoever had transcribed it had preserved several corrections and unfinished sentences.

She had recognized the opposing formation’s insignia.

She had expected them to be friendly.

When the unknown commander ordered her group to surrender its fuel and ammunition, her leader had refused.

The first shot had landed near their position.

The second had struck one of the escorts.

The survivors had fled.

One girl remained missing.

The witness had not seen whether her Pendant was recovered.

Kade placed the report on the desk.

For a while, he simply looked at it.

Then Mara spoke.

”Commander?”

He raised his eyes.

”Do we know whether the missing girl is dead?”

Mara shook her head.

”No confirmation.”

”Pendant?”

”Also unconfirmed.”

”Surviving witnesses?”

”Two. Both receiving treatment.”

He nodded.

”What about the attacking force?”

”Regional Command has issued an identification request, but the reported insignia doesn’t conclusively establish who was responsible.”

”Right.”

He looked down again.

The temptation to assign blame immediately was strong.

The descriptions were ugly.

The conduct, if accurately reported, was indefensible.

But he wasn’t going to convert an accusation into a fact simply because he disliked the behavior described.

”Keep it on the unresolved list,” he said.

Mara nodded.

”Already marked.”

”And ask Intelligence to forward any corroborating reports.”

”Yes, Commander.”

Kade moved to the next document.

This one concerned administrative abuses rather than open attacks.

A newly appointed male commander had apparently decided that the emergency-continuity provisions allowed him to deny his Keelborn ordinary rest periods and personal movement without specific operational justification.

The complaint had been submitted by several members of his command.

The initial response from the local authority was to request additional documentation.

One of the girls had then been threatened with disciplinary action for filing an unauthorized grievance.

Kade read the response twice.

Then slowly set it down.

Mara watched him.

”That one has been referred for investigation.”

”Has it?”

”Yes.”

”By whom?”

”Regional personnel oversight.”

He nodded.

”And the officer?”

”Still serving, according to the latest record.”

Kade looked toward the ceiling fan.

It continued turning with profound indifference.

He considered several possible observations.

Most were unsuitable for an official workplace.

He settled for:

”Wonderful.”

Mara sighed.

”I thought you’d say that.”

He looked back at her.

”How old is he?”

She checked.

”Thirty-one.”

Kade’s eyebrows rose.

”Old enough to know better.”

”One would hope.”

He returned to the report.

The AU’s legal treatment of Keelborn had not changed because the Crisis had occurred.

That was one of the more uncomfortable realities of the past month.

The institution already possessed a complicated framework governing embodied naval assets, their Pendants, their maintenance, their operational custody, and the responsibilities of the officers assigned to them.

Keelborn had always been people in this world.

They possessed memories, preferences, loyalties, and relationships.

But they were also military creations bound to historical warship configurations and extraordinary weapons.

The law treated them differently from ordinary human citizens.

Sometimes much differently.

Now thousands of former players had become Keelborn too.

They were real young women in their own bodies, suddenly occupying the same restricted legal category as the native Keelborn who had served the AU for decades.

Some adapted.

Some protested.

Some hoped the situation would eventually resolve itself.

And some male players who had secured command or administrative positions found that the existing laws gave them opportunities they had never possessed in their previous lives.

Kade disliked that last group intensely.

He disliked them even more when they used game terminology to excuse their behavior.

A report attached to the file described one officer referring to the Keelborn under his command as his units and telling a subordinate that the girls had been assigned to his account.

Kade stared at the phrase.

His expression cooled.

Mara noticed.

”Commander?”

He tapped the report.

”Account.”

She frowned.

”What about it?”

”His account.”

Mara looked confused.

”The officer’s pay account?”

Kade almost smiled.

Almost.

”No.”

”Then what?”

He considered how much to explain.

After a month, he’d grown accustomed to the difference between the words used by former players and the meanings understood by the station’s older personnel.

Mara knew that newcomers called themselves players.

She’d heard the term often enough.

She knew that respawn was an expression some of them used when discussing Keelborn restoration.

She’d even begun describing the Mk. I to intermediate transition as leveling up, partly because it made the younger trainees smile and partly because she’d discovered that unfamiliar slang could be a surprisingly effective teaching tool.

But the actual assumptions behind those words remained foreign to her.

And Kade had begun finding those assumptions less and less useful himself.

He looked toward the report.

”He thinks being assigned command means the girls belong to him.”

Mara’s expression hardened.

”That isn’t what the regulations say.”

”No.”

”Operational custody has specific limits.”

”I know.”

”And even when the rules are restrictive, that does not give an officer permission to invent his own.”

Kade nodded.

”Exactly.”

She looked toward the file again.

Then sighed.

”Some people should never be given authority.”

Kade considered the statement.

He remembered the first week after the Crisis, when he’d heard several newly appointed officers boasting about their naval assignments as though they’d won an argument over a particularly expensive collection of toys.

He remembered the frantic messages from players asking about changing factions, claiming new bases, or obtaining higher-ranked Keelborn.

And he remembered how quickly those conversations had changed once it became clear that vessels needed fuel, ammunition, food, maintenance, and people willing to risk their lives.

Some had adapted.

Others had grown angry.

A few had apparently decided that other people’s supplies would be easier to obtain than their own.

Kade closed the report.

”Keep the complaint summaries coming.”

Mara nodded.

”Of course.”

”And flag anything involving our personnel, supply routes, or nearby stations.”

”Already instructed Communications.”

He looked toward the folder.

”Good.”

For a moment, his eyes rested on the witness statement concerning the missing destroyer.

He thought of Camille Duret.

The five Pendants she had carried out of that disastrous battle.

The way she’d refused to abandon her friends, even when the only things she could bring home were the small objects preserving their souls.

That was what a Pendant was for.

A chance.

Not a guarantee.

Not a convenient way to make killing harmless.

And certainly not a prize.

He turned the page.

The next report was worse.

The next document had no official incident number.

That was the first thing Kade noticed.

The second was the absence of a named reporting officer.

Instead, the message had been relayed through a civilian maritime assistance network and forwarded to several AU stations as an unverified warning.

The language was blunt.

Vessels believed to be under the command of former players had reportedly begun attacking damaged Keelborn formations after Blackwake engagements. According to one account, the attackers did not always attempt to seize the surviving vessels or their cargo.

They searched for Ship Pendants.

Kade read the statement once.

Then again.

His fingers became very still.

There was a difference between attacking a convoy for fuel and attacking a wounded person for the means of preserving another person’s soul.

Neither was acceptable.

But the second suggested something he found particularly repulsive.

He checked the attached material.

The report was thin.

One anonymous account described a group entering an abandoned repair anchorage and collecting Pendants from damaged Keelborn wreckage.

Another described a commander boasting that he possessed several rare Pendants from high-value naval classes.

A third alleged that a destroyed cruiser girl’s Pendant had been demanded as compensation for ammunition consumed during a failed operation.

None of the accounts had been independently verified.

There were no reliable photographs.

No complete list of victims.

No recovered inventory.

Only frightened testimony, secondhand messages, and rumors moving through increasingly unreliable communications networks.

Kade did not allow himself to treat them as proven events.

But he didn’t dismiss them either.

He looked toward Mara.

”Have we heard anything directly from a recovery facility?”

She frowned.

”About these reports?”

”Yes.”

”Not yet.”

”Anything from the repair ships?”

”Nothing substantiating a collector group.”

He nodded.

”All right.”

Mara studied him.

”You’re concerned.”

”Yes.”

She waited.

Kade looked back at the statement.

”People are dying. Their Pendants are all some of them have left.”

Mara’s expression softened.

He continued, ”If somebody is collecting those because he thinks they belong in a trophy cabinet...”

He stopped.

His jaw tightened.

The sentence didn’t need finishing.

Mara looked down at the report.

She had dealt with Pendant recovery procedures long before Kade arrived.

She knew what they meant to Keelborn families, comrades, and repair personnel.

A recovered Pendant could mean that someone believed lost forever might one day return.

A missing Pendant could haunt an entire ship’s company.

And a destroyed Pendant—

Mara closed her eyes briefly.

She had seen what happened to survivors who knew the difference.

”We’ll need to verify the reports,” she said.

Kade nodded.

”Yes.”

”And if they’re true...”

He looked up.

”Then whoever is responsible needs to be stopped.”

She met his eyes.

There was no theatrical anger in his voice.

No declaration that he intended to sail out and punish every rumored criminal in the Pacific.

Only a quiet certainty.

Mara found that considerably more reassuring than shouting would have been.

Kade glanced toward another folder.

”What are our own recovery procedures?”

She blinked.

”Commander?”

”For damaged Keelborn. Pendants recovered during patrols. Items brought into the repair facilities. What happens after they’re handed over?”

Mara began explaining the existing process.

The procedures were established, but they had been written for a station that seldom handled major Keelborn casualties.

A recovered Pendant was supposed to be examined for damage, identified through its associated records where possible, placed in protective custody, and transferred to an authorized specialist restoration facility.

The station maintained secure storage.

Repair personnel were responsible for determining what preliminary care was appropriate.

Medical staff maintained the relevant casualty records.

And the administrative department documented custody whenever a Pendant changed hands.

Kade listened.

Then asked who controlled access to the storage room.

Mara told him.

Who verified release orders?

She told him that too.

What happened if a damaged Keelborn arrived carrying the Pendant of someone assigned to another fleet?

The chief explained the emergency-recovery provisions.

Kade asked whether those procedures covered former players whose identification records had changed during the Crisis.

Mara hesitated.

”Not completely.”

He nodded.

”That’s what I thought.”

They spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the process.

Not because Kade expected an attack on the station’s Pendant storage room.

Not because he believed every rumor.

Because it was exactly the sort of small administrative weakness that could become a disaster when nobody was paying attention.

He wanted names recorded correctly.

He wanted medical and repair specialists involved.

He wanted recovered Pendants protected from damage and unauthorized removal.

And he wanted disputes over custody referred through appropriate authority rather than settled by whichever officer happened to shout the loudest.

Mara took notes.

At one point, she looked toward him.

”You realize we’ll need Corwin involved.”

”Yes.”

”And Irena.”

”Absolutely.”

”And Hana.”

”Especially Hana.”

She nodded.

”Then I’ll arrange a review.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Thank you.”

Mara looked toward the report again.

”Commander.”

”Hm?”

”Do you believe these rumors?”

He considered the question carefully.

”No.”

She blinked.

Then he continued.

”Not yet.”

He placed the document beside the other security advisories.

”But I believe somebody should find out whether they’re true.”

Mara nodded slowly.

”Understood.”

Kade returned to his coffee.

It had cooled.

He drank it anyway.

The Pacific had become a strange place.

Not because Blackwake warships roamed its waters. Those had existed long before the Crisis.

Not because Keelborn could be killed or restored. The AU had operated around that terrible reality for decades.

What was changing was the number of people entering the world with assumptions about what those things meant.

Some thought a Pendant was another form of equipment.

Some thought possession conferred ownership.

Some seemed convinced a dead Keelborn could be restored as easily as returning a damaged ship to service after a routine repair.

And a few apparently believed that taking another player’s resources was an acceptable way to advance.

Kade looked toward the station map.

The colored markers represented ships, facilities, and personnel assignments.

Useful information.

Necessary information.

But every marker concealed something the map couldn’t show.

A person.

Sometimes hundreds of them.

He closed the folder.

Then reached for the next report.

This one was from the training department.

Its cover sheet bore a handwritten note from Hana.

PLEASE READ THE PARTS REQUIREMENTS BEFORE APPROVING ANY ADDITIONAL CONVERSIONS.

Beneath it, in smaller writing:

Riko is not allowed to negotiate directly with the machine shop.

Kade stared.

Then laughed.

Quietly.

Helplessly.

For the first time that morning, the paperwork had shown him a kindness.

He looked toward Mara.

”Chief.”

She glanced over.

”Yes?”

”Why is Riko banned from negotiating with the machine shop?”

Mara looked toward the note.

A smile appeared.

”Apparently she tried to convince Dain that removing two of her training stabilizers would make her more maneuverable.”

Kade considered that.

”It would.”

”She proposed removing them without completing the required conversion.”

His smile disappeared.

”Ah.”

”Dain told her absolutely not.”

”Good man.”

”She then argued that her battleship classification made her capable of compensating.”

Kade closed his eyes.

”Of course she did.”

”Dain asked her whether she’d like to explain that theory to the harbor wall.”

Kade began laughing again.

Mara smiled.

”Apparently that ended the discussion.”

”Did it?”

”For the moment.”

He sighed.

”Progress comes in many forms.”

The chief nodded solemnly.

”Indeed.”

Kade rose from his desk.

He had reports to read.

But some reports were better understood by looking at the actual equipment.

Especially when Riko was involved.

He collected the training file, checked that his coffee cup was safely placed beside the telephone, and headed for the maintenance district.

This time, he left a note on the desk.

DO NOT MOVE MY CUP.

Mara watched him write it.

Then looked toward the ceiling.

She had spent eleven years working at Horizon Atoll.

She had handled storms, shortages, repairs, and more difficult commanding officers than she cared to remember.

Somehow, she suspected that safeguarding one ceramic mug might become her most challenging responsibility yet.

 The repair yard smelled of machine oil, hot metal, saltwater, and somebody’s breakfast.

The last smell came from a paper bag resting on a workbench.

Dain Okoro stood beside it, examining a mechanical support assembly with the expression of a man who had been personally insulted by its design.

Hana was nearby, kneeling beside a disassembled stabilization unit.

Tali held a measuring instrument against the frame.

A young electrician stood behind them with a notebook.

And Riko Minase was watching from the opposite side of a safety barrier, looking deeply dissatisfied with the entire proceedings.

”I still think it would work.”

Dain didn’t look up.

”No.”

Riko folded her arms.

”But—”

”No.”

”What if—”

”No.”

”You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

Dain examined the coupling.

”Was it going to involve removing a stabilizer?”

Riko hesitated.

”...Possibly.”

”No.”

Hana covered her mouth.

Tali’s shoulders moved slightly.

Kade approached quietly.

He stopped beside the safety barrier.

”Good morning.”

Riko turned.

Her eyes widened.

”Commander!”

Dain looked up.

Then sighed.

”Morning, sir.”

Hana smiled.

”Kade!”

Tali gave a small nod.

”Commander.”

Kade regarded the scene.

Then looked toward Riko.

”Negotiating?”

She straightened.

”Not anymore.”

”Excellent.”

Dain muttered something beneath his breath.

Kade suspected it was a prayer of gratitude.

He looked toward the disassembled frame.

”Is that one of the intermediate conversions?”

Hana nodded.

”Yes. We’re checking the components before installation.”

Kade stepped closer.

”Mind walking me through it?”

Dain’s expression brightened.

That was one of the things Kade had learned about the engineer.

Dain loved explaining machinery to people willing to listen.

He hated explaining it to people who had already decided they knew better.

The distinction had become increasingly important during the past month.

”Of course.”

He placed the component on the bench.

The assembly resembled part of an industrial support harness, although its design was more specialized than anything used for ordinary human equipment.

A curved mounting bracket joined two smaller actuator housings.

Heavy connections linked it to a buoyancy-support fitting.

Electrical and hydraulic lines ran through protected channels.

Dain pointed toward the main frame.

”This belongs to one of our primary assisted training configurations. Mark I, as the girls call them.”

Kade nodded.

”The nickname’s becoming official.”

”Apparently.”

Dain looked mildly disapproving.

”I checked the procurement records. The original designation is longer.”

”Of course it is.”

”Much longer.”

”Naturally.”

Hana laughed.

Dain continued.

”The primary frame distributes weight, provides additional balance correction, and limits how rapidly the wearer can change propulsion output. It’s designed to prevent a novice from overwhelming herself.”

Kade examined the mechanism.

”And the intermediate version?”

”We remove part of the outer stabilization structure, change the assistance settings, and refit the support connections to the wearer’s class-specific equipment.”

Tali indicated a smaller component on the workbench.

”The intermediate control unit permits more direct response. It still has protective limits, but the automatic correction is substantially reduced.”

Kade looked toward her.

”So mistakes become more noticeable.”

”Yes.”

”And potentially more dangerous.”

”Also yes.”

Dain nodded.

”Which is why we don’t simply take the training frame apart because somebody thinks she’ll be faster without it.”

Riko looked away.

Kade pretended not to notice.

Hana picked up another fitting.

”The intermediate configuration also removes some of the extra flotation support. Not all of it. Just enough to let the wearer begin using the balance and propulsion characteristics of her actual naval rigging.”

Kade studied the assembly.

The difference mattered.

Proper Keelborn rigging wasn’t a giant suit enclosing the wearer.

It was class-specific naval equipment, physically attached through fitted supports and operating alongside the girl’s own movements.

The equipment might include gun mounts, torpedo launchers, aircraft-handling machinery, armor elements, propulsion assemblies, or cargo gear depending on the class.

Experienced Keelborn could move across the water with extraordinary speed and control.

They appeared to skate.

Their feet skimmed and shifted over the sea’s surface while the integrated propulsion systems provided the force required to move their naval equipment.

The motion was fluid.

Sometimes astonishingly graceful.

Kade had watched Aster do it.

He’d watched Calla.

Elsa.

Nadya.

Even Senko, before her damaged cargo support was fully repaired, had demonstrated the careful handling of her transport rigging once the engineers cleared her for limited movement.

None of them needed enormous external flotation frames to remain upright.

Their experience allowed them to coordinate the equipment with their own bodies.

The Mk. I was different.

Its bulky assistance systems compensated for skills the new girls hadn’t developed yet.

Removing those systems wasn’t merely an upgrade.

It changed the entire experience of moving.

Kade looked toward the components.

”How much work?”

Dain considered the question.

”Depends on the class and the condition of the existing equipment.”

”Emi?”

”Straightforward by our standards.”

”How straightforward?”

”Several hours for the mechanical conversion, additional time for calibration, and more for the supervised examinations. Assuming nothing needs correcting.”

Kade nodded.

”And the cruiser?”

Dain sighed.

”More complicated.”

”Naturally.”

”Different load distribution. We need to inspect two mounting points before approving the conversion.”

Hana nodded.

”And we’re missing one of the preferred replacement control units.”

Kade looked toward her.

”Alternative?”

”We have a compatible unit in storage, but it needs refurbishment and bench testing before anyone should use it.”

”Then test it.”

Dain smiled.

”Exactly.”

Riko raised one hand.

Everyone turned.

She looked toward the Yamato-class training frame resting near the other end of the workshop.

”What about mine?”

Dain closed his eyes.

Hana made a small sound.

Tali looked down at her instrument.

This content has been unlawfully taken from NovelPhoenix; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Kade considered the battleship equipment.

It was enormous.

Even partially disassembled, the primary assisted frame occupied a considerable portion of the workshop.

Its outer buoyancy assemblies were wide and cumbersome, fitted alongside the heavy naval equipment that would eventually form Riko’s proper Yamato-class configuration.

The main gun turrets were impressive even when secured.

The support machinery was not.

It looked exactly like what it was.

A system designed to keep an inexperienced battleship girl from doing something regrettable while she learned to operate machinery far beyond anything an ordinary human body could manage.

Riko watched him expectantly.

Kade folded his arms.

”What about it?”

She gestured toward the frame.

”When do I get rid of those?”

Dain opened his eyes.

”Miss Riko.”

She winced.

”Yes?”

”When you pass the appropriate assessment.”

”I know.”

”And when we’ve inspected the equipment.”

”I know.”

”And when we have the necessary components.”

”I know!”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Then it sounds like you’ve already received an answer.”

Riko stared.

Then sighed.

”You’re all against me.”

Hana laughed.

Kade smiled.

”Not against you.”

Riko looked toward him.

He nodded toward the frame.

”Against you getting hurt.”

Her expression softened slightly.

He continued.

”And against you demolishing the western pier.”

Riko’s expression became offended again.

”I wouldn’t!”

Aster’s voice suddenly sounded from the workshop entrance.

”That’s what I said about the bollard!”

Everyone turned.

The Fletcher-class girl stood in the doorway with her red ribbon tied neatly in her hair.

Unlike the trainees, Aster wore proper class rigging when she sailed. She had removed it for the workshop visit, leaving the compact equipment in its maintenance cradle outside.

She was carrying a clipboard and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Riko pointed at her.

”YOU!”

Aster grinned.

”Me!”

Kade glanced between them.

”Am I interrupting something?”

Dain sighed.

”A recurring argument.”

”Ah.”

Aster approached the barrier.

Then looked toward Riko’s training frame.

”Still trying to get rid of the float supports?”

Riko narrowed her eyes.

”Perhaps.”

Aster nodded solemnly.

”Wonderful. I’ll bring a camera.”

Riko stared.

”Why?”

”For the splash.”

Hana burst out laughing.

Even Dain smiled.

Riko covered her face.

Kade looked toward Aster.

”You’re here for the intermediate assessments?”

She nodded.

”Emi’s fitting is nearly ready. Calla asked me to check the training course before the water evaluation.”

”Good.”

Aster smiled.

Then her expression became more serious.

”We’ve checked the area twice.”

Kade nodded.

”I saw the clearance report.”

”Harbor Security gave us another survey this morning.”

”Good.”

”And no suspicious objects.”

He raised an eyebrow.

”Excellent development.”

Aster sighed.

”Please don’t.”

Kade smiled faintly.

He remembered how she’d looked after the mine explosion.

The bruising.

The wet uniform.

The way she’d tried to joke while her hands were still shaking.

She hadn’t forgotten.

He could see that.

But she’d gone back to teaching.

And she was careful now.

More careful than before.

That mattered.

He nodded toward the workshop.

”Then let’s see what our future intermediate-rigging girls can do.”

Aster smiled.

”Gladly.”

Riko raised one hand.

”What about me?”

Kade looked toward her.

”Keep studying.”

She sighed.

”And no removing stabilizers.”

Her shoulders slumped.

Dain nodded with immense satisfaction.

”Thank you, Commander.”

Kade smiled.

”You’re welcome.”

He turned toward the door.

Then stopped.

Looked back at Riko.

And added:

”For what it’s worth, your last maneuvering report was considerably better.”

She blinked.

”Really?”

He nodded.

”Really.”

Her expression brightened.

Then she smiled.

A genuine, pleased smile.

”Thanks.”

Kade returned it.

”Keep going.”

Riko nodded.

This time, when he left the workshop, she didn’t resume arguing about the stabilizers.

At least not immediately.

Dain considered that a significant achievement.

Possibly the most significant one of the morning.

The intermediate-rigging evaluation had attracted a small audience.

Not an enormous one.

Horizon Atoll’s personnel had jobs to do, and most weren’t inclined to abandon them simply because a destroyer girl was about to try moving across the water without training floats.

But several people had found reasons to be nearby.

Aster had arrived as an instructor.

Calla was supervising the water exercise.

June was assisting with communications.

Hana and Dain had accompanied the engineering staff to monitor the converted equipment.

Irena Holt had assigned a medic to the safety launch.

And Riko had announced that she was there to provide moral support.

Yuna had asked what that involved.

Riko had replied that she intended to shout encouragement.

Everyone had immediately requested that she refrain from doing so during the actual exercise.

She had looked wounded.

Kade considered this an encouraging example of the station’s developing safety culture.

The assessment area occupied a sheltered section of the northern training lagoon, well inside the waters that Harbor Security had surveyed after Aster’s mine incident.

Fresh marker buoys defined the course.

A safety launch waited beyond the eastern boundary.

Two technicians stood beside a portable control station, checking the telemetry from the modified rigging.

The water was relatively calm, with a gentle swell moving through the inlet.

Conditions were good.

Not perfectly flat.

That was intentional.

A Keelborn who could only remain upright on water as smooth as a swimming pool was not ready for unrestricted movement.

Kade stood beneath the observation awning with Chief Fenwick.

Aster was beside the communications table, explaining the course to Emi.

The young destroyer wore the first intermediate configuration she’d ever used.

The difference from her Mk. I training gear was immediately apparent.

Her Benson-class naval equipment remained recognizable: compact gun mounts, torpedo-related fittings, propulsion units, and the angular shapes of destroyer machinery arranged around her body through fitted supports.

But much of the training frame had been removed.

The wide flotation pods were gone.

The bulky lower stabilizers had been reduced.

The remaining mechanical supports sat closer to her body, leaving her legs and ordinary naval uniform much more visible.

There were still assistance mechanisms.

Still safety restrictions.

Still protective settings in the controls.

This was not the unrestricted rigging Aster wore.

But Emi looked much more like the destroyer girl she’d expected to become when she first selected her class.

And much less like somebody learning to walk while wearing a floating maintenance scaffold.

She kept looking down.

Then at her hands.

Then down again.

Aster noticed.

”Emi.”

The young woman looked up.

”Yes?”

”You’re doing it again.”

Emi blinked.

”Doing what?”

”Staring at your legs.”

She flushed.

”Sorry.”

Aster smiled.

”Don’t apologize. Just remember they’re still attached.”

Emi laughed nervously.

”I know.”

”And the equipment’s still there.”

”I know.”

”And you’re not going to sink the instant you step into the water.”

Emi considered that.

Then looked toward the training launch.

”...Probably.”

Aster raised an eyebrow.

”Emi.”

”Sorry!”

The Fletcher-class girl sighed.

Then softened her expression.

”Hey.”

Emi looked up.

Aster rested a hand on her shoulder.

”You’ve done the drills. You’ve passed the reduced-assistance checks. Hana and the engineers inspected the equipment. Calla wouldn’t have approved this if she thought you weren’t ready.”

Emi swallowed.

”I know.”

”So what are you worried about?”

The young destroyer hesitated.

Her gaze moved toward the water.

Then she answered quietly.

”That I’ll forget how.”

Aster blinked.

”How?”

”How to move.”

For a moment, the older Beta Tester said nothing.

Emi looked embarrassed.

She continued.

”The training frame always corrects me. Even when I’m doing something wrong, it catches me before I fall. I know what the controls do, and I know where I’m supposed to put my weight, but...”

She glanced down again.

”What if all this time I’ve just been letting the machinery do it?”

Aster considered the question.

It was a good question.

A surprisingly good one.

And far more useful than the complaints she’d heard from several trainees who wanted to discard their Mk. I equipment simply because it looked awkward.

She glanced toward the water.

Then back at Emi.

”Some of the time, you have.”

Emi’s face fell.

Aster raised one finger.

”But not all of the time.”

The girl looked up.

”The assistance system helped you learn without getting hurt. That’s its job. It didn’t take the assessments for you.”

Emi listened.

Aster continued.

”You learned how to coordinate your propulsion. You learned how to stop. You learned what to do when you lose balance.”

She smiled.

”Now you get to find out how much of that you can do without the training frame correcting everything.”

Emi looked toward the sea.

Then slowly nodded.

”Okay.”

Aster’s grin returned.

”Good.”

She stepped aside.

”And if you fall, the safety team gets to earn their wages.”

Emi laughed.

From the observation awning, Kade watched the exchange.

Mara smiled beside him.

”Aster’s becoming a good instructor.”

He nodded.

”She is.”

”She’s still rather mischievous.”

”Unfortunate personality defect.”

Mara laughed.

Kade looked toward the water.

He’d heard enough training instructors in enough circumstances to know that reassurance could be useful or dangerous depending on how it was delivered.

Telling a frightened trainee that nothing could go wrong was dangerous.

Telling her what to do if something went wrong was useful.

Aster had done the second.

He approved.

Emi approached the waterline.

Her fitted propulsion assemblies gave a quiet mechanical hum as the technicians completed the final checks.

She stepped into the shallow water.

The surface moved around her boots.

The equipment adjusted.

Not with the heavy, obvious corrections of the Mk. I.

More subtly.

More responsively.

Emi stiffened.

Aster raised one hand.

”Relax your knees.”

Emi obeyed.

”Good.”

The young destroyer shifted her weight.

A small movement.

Barely noticeable from the observation platform.

But the equipment responded immediately.

Emi’s eyes widened.

”Oh.”

Aster smiled.

”There it is.”

Emi shifted again.

The water rippled.

She remained upright.

She took another careful step.

Her feet began sliding over the surface with the assistance of the propulsion assemblies.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

But she was moving.

Without the enormous training floats.

Without the broad stabilization frame.

Emi looked down.

Then up.

Her mouth opened.

”...Oh.”

From beside the observation table, Riko leaned forward.

”She’s doing it.”

Yuna smiled.

”Yes.”

Riko looked toward Kade.

”Commander!”

He raised an eyebrow.

”Yes?”

”She’s doing it!”

”I can see that.”

Riko beamed.

”Look!”

Kade smiled faintly.

”I am looking.”

Aster raised her radio.

”Emi, continue to the first marker at minimum approved speed. Maintain your heading.”

Emi’s voice came through the observation speaker.

”Understood.”

The young destroyer moved forward.

Her steps were short.

Careful.

But the motion was no longer the awkward shuffling she’d used in the Mk. I.

Her body moved with the rigging rather than being carried by it.

She was learning to trust the relationship between her balance and the machinery’s response.

Kade watched closely.

The difference was striking.

Experienced Keelborn seemed almost effortless when moving across the water.

Aster could accelerate, turn, and stop with the confidence of somebody who had spent weeks learning the limits of her equipment during the beta.

Calla moved with the economical precision of a practiced anti-aircraft cruiser.

Elsa handled the heavy machinery of her Admiral Hipper-class rigging with the assured movements of somebody who understood exactly how much force each adjustment required.

Nadya’s old Sevastopol-class equipment looked cumbersome beside newer designs, yet she’d learned to make its weight and limitations work for her.

Emi was nowhere near that level.

But she was beginning.

And beginning mattered.

She reached the first marker.

Slowed.

Then turned.

The motion was uneven.

Her right foot shifted too far outward.

The propulsion response changed.

Her shoulders twisted.

The rigging followed.

For one terrible moment, she nearly lost her balance.

Riko inhaled sharply.

Yuna stiffened.

Kade didn’t move.

On the water, Emi lowered her center of gravity.

She remembered the drill.

Reduced power.

Corrected her weight.

Allowed the machinery to settle.

The wobble diminished.

She completed the turn.

Aster’s voice burst through the speaker.

”Good recovery!”

Emi looked toward the observation platform.

Her expression was astonished.

Then she smiled.

A huge, delighted smile.

”I did it!”

Aster laughed over the radio.

”Yes, you did!”

Riko raised both arms.

”YES!”

Several people turned.

She lowered them.

”...Sorry.”

Mara smiled.

Kade looked toward her.

”Subtle.”

”Very.”

The chief laughed.

Emi continued the course.

Her speed remained low.

The turns were imperfect.

She needed repeated corrections, and her stopping distance was less predictable than it had been in the training frame.

But she completed the evaluation without falling.

When she returned to the shore, her legs were trembling.

Not entirely from exertion.

Aster met her at the platform.

”Well?”

Emi stared at her.

Then down at her own equipment.

Then back.

”I...”

She stopped.

Her eyes began filling with tears.

Aster’s expression softened.

”Hey.”

Emi laughed weakly.

”I’m sorry.”

”Don’t.”

”I just...”

She looked toward the water.

For a moment, she couldn’t finish.

Then she whispered:

”I thought I’d never be able to do that.”

Aster smiled.

”You just did.”

Emi nodded.

Then laughed again, wiping at her eyes.

”I did.”

Aster reached forward.

Emi hugged her.

The compact Fletcher-class equipment had enough clearance for the gesture, though Aster still had to lean around one of Emi’s support fittings.

She laughed.

”Careful. You’re going to get both of us wet.”

Emi hugged her tighter.

”I don’t care.”

Aster smiled.

”Fair.”

Behind them, the engineering team began reviewing the telemetry.

Dain checked the propulsion-response data.

Hana examined the alignment report.

Tali compared the balance readings against the limits approved for the intermediate configuration.

Nobody declared the girl fully qualified for combat.

That would have been absurd.

She had completed one assessment.

A very important one.

But only one.

There were more exercises ahead.

More evaluations.

More time on the water.

Still, the result was promising.

When Kade approached, Emi straightened immediately.

”Commander!”

He smiled.

”Emi.”

She looked delighted.

”I passed!”

He nodded.

”Your first assessment.”

”Yes!”

”Congratulations.”

Her smile widened.

”Thank you!”

He looked toward the equipment.

”How did it feel?”

She considered that.

Then laughed.

”Terrifying.”

Aster grinned.

”Honest answer.”

Emi nodded enthusiastically.

”And amazing.”

Kade smiled.

”Also an honest answer.”

She looked toward the water again.

Then at her rigging.

”I could actually feel it responding when I moved.”

He nodded.

”Good.”

”It was like...”

She searched for the words.

”Like it was finally listening to me.”

Kade considered that.

Then looked toward Aster.

The Beta Tester smiled faintly.

He returned his attention to Emi.

”Then keep listening to it too.”

Emi blinked.

Kade nodded toward the machinery.

”You’ve learned enough to understand what it’s telling you. Don’t stop paying attention just because you’re getting better.”

She considered that.

Then nodded.

”Okay.”

He smiled.

”Good work.”

Her shoulders straightened.

For a moment, she looked a little taller.

Not physically.

But the way she carried herself had changed.

Kade noticed.

So did Irena’s medic, who smiled from beside the safety launch.

And when Emi walked back toward the changing area, she didn’t keep staring down at her legs.

She looked ahead.

That, Kade thought, might be the most encouraging part of the entire assessment.

 The second candidate’s evaluation was less elegant.

Not disastrous.

Not dangerous.

Simply less elegant.

Mina, a twenty-two-year-old Leander-class light cruiser girl, had spent the previous month struggling with the differences between her real-world body and the naval equipment originally fitted to her character.

Her Mk. I configuration had been adjusted repeatedly.

The engineers had changed the harness proportions.

Repositioned a support fitting.

Recalibrated the automatic balancing system.

And eventually discovered that one persistent handling problem had been caused by a mounting bracket that was technically within specification but poorly suited to the way Mina naturally shifted her weight.

Replacing that bracket had improved matters immediately.

Unfortunately, it had also forced her to relearn several habits she’d developed while compensating for the old one.

Now she stood at the waterline in an intermediate configuration, looking toward the course with the expression of somebody preparing to negotiate a difficult personal relationship.

Aster approached.

”Ready?”

Mina considered the question.

Then looked toward her rigging.

”No.”

Aster nodded.

”Good.”

Mina blinked.

”Good?”

”Honest.”

”That’s not reassuring.”

”Would you prefer I lie?”

Mina considered that.

Then sighed.

”No.”

Aster smiled.

”Excellent.”

Mina looked toward Emi, who was sitting beneath the awning with a warm drink and an expression of exhausted happiness.

”She made it look easy.”

Aster laughed.

”She absolutely did not.”

Emi looked up.

”Hey!”

”It’s a compliment!”

”How?”

”Because you did it anyway!”

Emi considered that.

Then smiled.

”...Okay.”

Mina sighed.

Aster stepped closer.

”Look. Nobody expects you to be perfect.”

”I know.”

”And if the equipment doesn’t respond properly, stop the exercise.”

”I know.”

”And if you’re uncomfortable—”

”I know, Aster.”

The Fletcher-class girl raised her hands.

”All right.”

Mina looked toward the sea.

Then took a breath.

”Let’s do it.”

Her first movement was good.

Her second was better.

By the third, she’d begun relaxing.

The rigging moved with her.

The water broke around her boots.

She crossed the first section of the course at a controlled speed.

Then began the turn.

The heavier cruiser equipment responded differently from Emi’s destroyer rigging.

Mina adjusted.

Too much.

Her balance shifted.

The machinery corrected part of the movement, but the intermediate configuration no longer concealed mistakes as generously as her Mk. I had.

The turn widened.

She missed the intended track.

Then recovered.

Aster watched from the water.

”Good. Don’t rush!”

Mina nodded.

She continued.

The second turn was better.

The third was not.

By the fourth, frustration had begun creeping into her movements.

Kade recognized it immediately.

She was trying to compensate for mistakes before the equipment had finished responding to her previous correction.

The result was increasingly uneven handling.

He looked toward Dain.

The engineer was studying the telemetry.

Then toward Calla.

The Atlanta-class instructor frowned slightly.

She raised her radio.

”Mina, reduce speed and hold your current heading.”

Mina obeyed.

”Understood.”

Calla continued.

”You’re making corrections too quickly. Give the equipment time to respond.”

There was a pause.

Then:

”Sorry.”

”Nothing to apologize for. Slow down.”

Mina took a breath.

Her movements became less hurried.

She completed another section.

Then stopped.

Aster approached.

”You okay?”

Mina nodded.

But her expression was unhappy.

She glanced toward the shore.

Then toward Emi.

”I was worse than her.”

Aster considered that.

Then looked toward the course.

”At some things.”

Mina blinked.

Aster continued.

”Better at others.”

The cruiser girl frowned.

”What?”

”Your straight-line control was better. Your first acceleration was better. Your stopping response was fine.”

Mina looked surprised.

Aster smiled.

”Your turns need work.”

Mina sighed.

”Obviously.”

”Then we’ll work on them.”

The girl looked toward the water.

Then nodded.

”...Okay.”

Calla approached from the other side.

The Atlanta-class Beta Tester moved easily across the lagoon, her proper rigging leaving a narrow, controlled wake.

She stopped beside Mina.

”Your handling improves when you give yourself time.”

Mina looked toward her.

Calla continued.

”The training system has been compensating for you for weeks. You’re used to expecting the correction before you finish making it.”

Mina nodded slowly.

”Yes.”

”That habit will take time to change.”

”How much?”

Calla considered the question.

”Depends on you.”

Mina sighed.

”Of course.”

The Beta Tester smiled faintly.

”But you can change it.”

Mina looked toward her.

Then nodded.

Calla glanced toward Aster.

”Let’s repeat the final section at reduced speed.”

Aster grinned.

”Gladly.”

Mina stared at both of them.

”Again?”

Aster smiled.

”Again.”

The cruiser girl looked toward the sky.

Then sighed.

”Fine.”

And she did it again.

Not because someone promised an immediate promotion.

Not because completing the course would grant her a convenient burst of experience.

Because she needed to learn.

And this time, she completed the final turn without losing her heading.

When the instructors ended the exercise, Mina was sweating.

Her legs ached.

Her equipment needed another inspection.

But she’d improved.

Calla approved continued intermediate training with restrictions.

The engineers recorded the handling observations.

And Mina returned to shore carrying the kind of exhausted satisfaction that came from doing something difficult slightly better than before.

Kade watched her.

Then glanced toward the training records.

Two candidates.

Two different results.

Neither ready for frontline combat.

Both progressing.

He considered that.

Then smiled.

The reports had been right.

For once, that was a pleasant surprise.

 The expression leveling up had developed a peculiar new meaning among Horizon Atoll’s older personnel.

Dain Okoro used it when a trainee graduated from the primary frame.

Corwin Hale used it when the supply department finally received replacement machinery that had been requested years earlier.

Eliza Ward occasionally used it when a sailor learned to carry his own breakfast tray back to the kitchen.

Chief Fenwick had started using it when Keelborn trainees completed particularly difficult instruction.

The first time she did so, Aster had laughed so hard that the chief threatened to assign her additional cleaning duties.

Aster had immediately stopped.

Mostly.

Kade had watched the vocabulary change over the month.

At first, the former players had spoken in terms that made sense to them.

Spawn points.

Quests.

Gear progression.

Levels.

Respawns.

NPCs.

The people who had lived in this world before the Crisis generally interpreted those expressions as slang.

Strange slang.

Sometimes incomprehensible slang.

But slang nonetheless.

The older station personnel learned enough to follow conversations, especially when the newcomers seemed frightened or confused.

There was a generosity in that.

Kade appreciated it.

He remembered one morning when a supply clerk had told a distressed Keelborn that her quest was to collect her medical clearance before reporting to training.

The girl had laughed.

Then stopped shaking long enough to do exactly that.

The clerk hadn’t known what a quest board was.

He simply knew the word helped.

But lately, Kade had noticed the reverse happening.

The girls were beginning to use the station’s terminology instead.

They talked about maintenance periods rather than cooldowns.

About qualifications rather than levels.

About transfers instead of party changes.

About casualties instead of deaths that would supposedly reset themselves.

Some still used the old words.

Aster did, especially when joking with Riko.

Piper and Tamsin occasionally referred to training exercises as missions.

And a few sailors aboard Breakwater remained determined to describe their patrol achievements using the vocabulary of the naval game they’d expected to play.

But the language was changing.

Not because Kade had ordered it.

He hadn’t.

Because ordinary life had begun replacing the assumptions they’d brought with them.

It was difficult to keep calling a warehouse clerk an NPC after he’d spent three weeks helping you find replacement parts, arguing about delivery schedules, and telling you about the daughter he hoped to visit during the next rotation.

It was difficult to think of an engineer as background scenery after she’d stayed awake for sixteen hours helping repair your damaged rigging.

And it was considerably harder to treat a Ship Pendant as an extra life after hearing the sound a Keelborn made when she learned her friend’s Pendant had been destroyed.

Kade stood outside the training facility, watching the workers begin dismantling the temporary safety barriers.

Mara approached beside him.

”Successful morning.”

He nodded.

”Mostly.”

She smiled.

”Both girls improved.”

”Yes.”

”And nobody hit a mine.”

Kade glanced toward her.

The chief looked entirely innocent.

He narrowed his eyes.

”You’re spending too much time around Aster.”

Mara laughed.

”Possibly.”

He looked toward the equipment being returned to storage.

The intermediate configurations were valuable.

Not in the way a battleship’s main guns were valuable.

In a quieter way.

They represented a bridge between dependence and skill.

One that cost materials, time, patience, and expertise.

The station could not rush every girl through it.

Not without consequences.

Mara glanced toward Emi, who was proudly explaining the morning’s exercise to an older dockworker.

The man listened with great seriousness.

Then asked whether she’d received her level-up certificate.

Emi burst out laughing.

Kade smiled.

Mara noticed.

”See?”

He nodded.

”I see.”

She looked toward him.

”Does that term actually mean something different?”

He considered the question.

Then glanced toward the training area.

”Something less important than what she did today.”

Mara looked at him for a moment.

Then smiled.

”Good answer.”

Kade thought so too.

And that was one of the reasons he had begun using it less.

The argument about attacking a Blackwake supply base began at eleven forty-six.

That was the time recorded on the operations room’s wall clock when Lieutenant Owen Strake placed a folder on the conference table and announced that Horizon Atoll had an opportunity.

Kade had learned to distrust that word.

Opportunity.

It appeared in reports with remarkable frequency.

An opportunity to improve regional influence.

An opportunity to secure additional facilities.

An opportunity to conduct an offensive action.

An opportunity to demonstrate operational readiness.

Some opportunities were real.

Others were simply dangerous ideas wearing clean uniforms.

Kade looked at the folder.

Then at Strake.

”All right.”

The lieutenant straightened.

He was twenty-three, a former player assigned to Horizon’s operations staff, and one of the younger officers who had adapted more quickly than most to the station’s military routines.

He wasn’t incompetent.

He wasn’t reckless in the sense of ignoring every warning.

In fact, he had spent the previous month working long hours on coastal charts, supply calculations, and patrol scheduling.

Kade appreciated the effort.

He simply wished Strake would stop using the expression high-value loot opportunity in formal reports.

The lieutenant had been corrected twice.

Once by Chief Fenwick.

Once by Corwin Hale.

He’d apologized both times.

Now he had apparently found a different term.

”Commander, we’ve received additional information concerning a possible Blackwake logistical installation east of the Burnt Narrows.”

Kade glanced at the map.

The Burnt Narrows was a broken chain of reefs and small islands beyond the more frequently patrolled approaches to Horizon.

Before the Blackwake resurgence in the region, the area had supported a modest civilian shipping and repair station.

Most of its fixed facilities had been abandoned.

The AU possessed incomplete surveys of the reefs, old navigation charts, and scattered reports from fishing crews that continued operating in the outer waters when conditions allowed.

Blackwake contacts had become more frequent there over the previous several weeks.

Not frequent enough to identify a permanent major fleet concentration.

Enough to cause concern.

Kade looked toward Strake.

”What kind of information?”

The lieutenant opened the folder.

”Two fishing vessels reported heavy smoke near the old coaling pier. A regional patrol observed unidentified cargo movement in the same area. And a merchant captain says he saw Blackwake escort vessels moving toward the reef after dark.”

Kade considered that.

”Dates?”

Strake provided them.

The observations had been made over nine days.

Different vessels.

Different weather.

Different visibility.

Enough consistency to justify examination.

Not enough to establish exactly what was there.

”What did the patrol identify?”

”At least two surface contacts. Possibly destroyer-sized. One larger stationary object near the old harbor entrance.”

”Confirmed Blackwake?”

”The patrol classified the moving contacts as probable Blackwake.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Probable.”

”Yes, sir.”

”And the stationary object?”

”Unidentified.”

He nodded.

”Continue.”

Strake turned another page.

”The old station had fuel storage, machine shops, and a small industrial pier. If the Blackwake are using it as a forward support point, there’s a chance some of the original materials remain. There may also be captured supplies from regional shipping.”

Kade looked toward the chart.

The possibility wasn’t absurd.

Blackwake formations required their own forms of logistical support, however grotesque their methods might be.

Some used conventional-looking hulls and machinery.

Others incorporated organic structures, strange material arrangements, or equipment that defied ordinary naval engineering.

They raided shipping.

Occupied abandoned facilities.

And collected materials.

The existence of a Blackwake supply installation did not guarantee that anything inside it would be usable by human or Keelborn forces.

But the possibility of recoverable machinery and industrial stock wasn’t unreasonable.

Kade looked toward the lieutenant.

”What are you proposing?”

Strake hesitated.

Then answered.

”A limited strike.”

The room became quieter.

Chief Fenwick looked up from her notes.

Corwin Hale stopped writing.

Captain Mercer, seated near the window, slowly lowered his coffee cup.

Calla and Elsa exchanged a glance.

Nadya folded her arms.

Hana looked toward Senko.

The transport girl sat beside her with a notebook open on the table.

She had spent most of the morning listening to the supply discussions.

Now her expression changed.

Kade remained seated.

”A strike.”

Strake nodded.

”Yes, Commander.”

”Against a possible logistical installation.”

”Yes.”

”With uncertain defenses.”

”Yes.”

”And unknown stores.”

The lieutenant paused.

Then nodded.

”Yes.”

Kade leaned back.

”All right. Tell me why.”

Strake took a breath.

Then began.

He didn’t make a theatrical speech.

He showed them the figures.

That was to his credit.

Horizon Atoll’s structural steel reserves were below the quantities required for the next stage of drydock repair.

Several critical pump components remained on order.

The station’s industrial lubricants were adequate for routine maintenance but not for a sustained expansion of workshop activity.

Certain electrical distribution components were becoming difficult to obtain through approved AU channels.

And Breakwater’s fuel situation continued limiting the duration of patrol operations.

The base could keep operating.

It could continue training.

It could complete smaller repairs.

But the next major stage of restoration required materials that regional logistics had repeatedly delayed or reassigned elsewhere.

Strake looked toward Kade.

”We’re making progress, sir. But we’re running out of things we can do with what we already have.”

Corwin shifted in his chair.

He looked unhappy.

Not because Strake was wrong.

Because the lieutenant was describing a problem he’d spent much of his career trying to solve.

Strake continued.

”The Blackwake are using abandoned infrastructure all over the region. If this is a supply depot, there may be usable industrial materials stored there.”

Kade nodded.

”Possibly.”

”Steel. Machinery. Fuel. Spare components.”

”Possibly.”

The lieutenant hesitated.

Then added, ”And if we destroy the installation, we reduce the enemy’s ability to operate near the approaches.”

Calla raised one eyebrow.

”Assuming it is an installation.”

Strake turned.

”Yes.”

”And assuming it supports local operations.”

”Yes.”

Elsa leaned forward.

”And assuming we can destroy it without losing the ships we send.”

Strake looked toward her.

”Of course.”

The Admiral Hipper-class girl considered him.

She didn’t appear angry.

Only skeptical.

”Those are rather substantial assumptions.”

Strake nodded.

”I understand.”

Kade watched the exchange.

This was better than he’d feared.

The lieutenant was motivated.

Possibly impatient.

But he had done some work.

And he wasn’t pretending the mission had no risks.

That deserved consideration.

Kade looked toward the folder.

”What’s the proposed force?”

Strake turned to the next page.

”An escort group led by Elsa and Calla, with additional destroyer support. Nadya could provide heavy fire if required. Senko would enter after the area was secured and recover the supplies.”

There was a long silence.

Then Senko raised one hand.

Strake looked toward her.

”Yes?”

She smiled politely.

”How long would the area be secured?”

He hesitated.

”We’d establish control over the installation.”

”For how long?”

”Long enough to load what we could.”

Senko nodded.

”And how much cargo?”

Strake glanced toward the folder.

”That depends on what we find.”

”How much time do you think it would take?”

He frowned slightly.

”Several hours, perhaps.”

Senko looked toward her notebook.

Then back at him.

”Several hours to load how many tons?”

Strake stopped.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Senko continued in the same pleasant tone.

”Because if we’re recovering industrial equipment, the loading method matters. We might need cranes. We might need to secure damaged machinery. We might need to cut equipment free from its foundations.”

She turned a page.

”And if the pier is unusable, my own cargo-handling gear won’t solve everything. I’d have to approach close enough to lift the material safely, and that depends on water depth, weather, the condition of the structure, and whether anyone has actually cleared the area.”

Strake looked toward the map.

Senko continued.

”I’m not saying we can’t do it.”

Her smile softened.

”But I can’t tell you how much we can recover until somebody tells me what we’re recovering and how we’re supposed to get it aboard.”

Corwin nodded.

”Exactly.”

The lieutenant looked toward him.

The older quartermaster leaned forward.

”And once you’ve loaded the materials, who is responsible for inspecting them?”

Strake hesitated.

Corwin continued.

”Who decides whether they’re safe to bring into our workshops? Who records the recovered stock? Who determines whether a fuel sample is suitable for our machinery?”

He gestured toward the map.

”What if the fuel is contaminated?”

Strake opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Corwin nodded.

”Exactly.”

Hana raised one hand.

Kade glanced toward her.

”Hana?”

She looked at Strake.

”Blackwake equipment isn’t automatically compatible with ours.”

The lieutenant nodded.

”I know.”

”Some of it might be ordinary machinery they’ve captured.”

”Yes.”

”But some of it might not.”

”Right.”

”And even if something looks normal, we need to inspect it before using it.”

Kade nodded.

”Agreed.”

Hana looked toward the folder.

”If we bring back a contaminated pump assembly and put it into the water-processing network without checking it properly, we could create a much bigger problem than the one we’re trying to solve.”

Dain, seated beside her, made a low sound of agreement.

”Quite.”

Strake looked down.

The initial enthusiasm was beginning to give way to the practical difficulties.

Kade allowed the discussion to continue.

It was important.

If he simply dismissed the proposal, the younger officers might conclude that he was unwilling to take necessary risks.

If he approved it without examining the details, people could die.

Neither outcome appealed to him.

He looked toward Mercer.

”Captain?”

The battleship commander raised his eyes.

”Sir?”

”Your thoughts.”

Mercer considered the chart.

Then sighed.

”I think it’s a potentially valuable target.”

Strake looked relieved.

Mercer continued.

”And I think the proposed operation is incomplete.”

The relief disappeared.

Kade nodded.

”Explain.”

Mercer leaned forward.

”First, we don’t know what’s actually there. Second, we don’t know what defenses it has. Third, we don’t know whether the approach is navigable for a vessel that needs a proper channel.”

He glanced toward Senko.

”Especially a transport carrying cargo gear.”

Senko nodded.

”Thank you.”

Mercer looked toward the map.

”Fourth, we’d have to keep the enemy away long enough to load whatever we find.”

”Yes,” Kade said.

”And fifth, we’d have to get everybody home.”

He paused.

”That last part is frequently overlooked.”

The room remained quiet.

Mercer continued.

”An attack isn’t finished when you win the first fight.”

Kade watched him.

The captain’s expression was serious.

He’d learned that lesson during Breakwater’s first real battle.

The battleship had destroyed the Blackwake heavy cruiser threatening Senko’s convoy.

But afterward, the convoy had still needed to reach Horizon Atoll.

Its ships were damaged.

Its ammunition was depleted.

Its fuel was running low.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, an unidentified Blackwake carrier force remained at large.

A victory that left everyone stranded would not have been much of a victory.

Mercer looked toward Strake.

”If we take the installation and find useful supplies, that’s good.”

The lieutenant nodded.

”But if we expend half our ammunition, damage two cruisers, and lose a transport trying to bring home a few crates of steel, we’ve made the station weaker.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Quite.”

Strake looked down at the proposal.

Then asked the question Kade had been waiting for.

”Then what would make the operation worthwhile?”

The Commander considered him.

A young officer.

Twenty-three years old.

Trying to solve a genuine problem.

And, like most of the former players around him, possessing less practical experience than the authority written on his personnel documents might suggest.

Kade could have told him simply to learn patience.

That would have been easy.

It would also have been unhelpful.

He leaned forward.

”Evidence.”

Strake looked up.

”Sir?”

”Evidence that the installation exists. Evidence about its defenses. Evidence about what supplies might be there.”

He pointed toward the map.

”Then we need a plan to recover those supplies without spending more than they’re worth.”

The lieutenant nodded slowly.

Kade continued.

”After that, we need to decide whether we’re ready to carry it out.”

The room remained quiet.

Then Nadya spoke.

”Well.”

Everyone turned.

The Sevastopol-class girl sat with her arms folded, studying the chart.

Her expression was thoughtful.

”I’d still like to hit it.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Of course you would.”

She smiled faintly.

”But not blind.”

Elsa nodded.

”Agreed.”

Calla looked toward the maps.

”And not with half-trained destroyers.”

Riko, who had been listening from beside Yuna, straightened.

”Hey.”

Calla turned.

The Atlanta-class girl didn’t look unkind.

”Riko, you know how much you’ve improved.”

The Yamato-class girl hesitated.

Then nodded.

”Yes.”

”And you know how much you still need to learn.”

Riko looked down.

For a moment, she appeared ready to argue.

Then she sighed.

”...Yes.”

Calla nodded.

”Good.”

Riko glanced toward Kade.

He returned the look.

She gave a small, embarrassed smile.

He smiled back.

It wasn’t easy to admit that the equipment attached to your body could be far more powerful than your ability to use it.

Riko was learning.

And that, in Kade’s opinion, was worth more than pretending otherwise.

 The discussion continued long after Strake’s initial presentation.

It was no longer a simple argument about whether Horizon should attack a Blackwake installation.

It had become a practical examination of what the station could accomplish if the reports proved accurate.

Kade moved from his chair to the large wall map.

He placed the Burnt Narrows reports beside the chart and asked the assembled officers to identify what they actually knew.

Not what they hoped.

Not what they remembered from the game.

Not what a guide written before the Crisis might have claimed.

What they knew.

Calla began with the available enemy-contact reports.

Two probable destroyer-sized vessels had been observed near the reef during one patrol.

A larger unidentified object appeared near the abandoned harbor.

There were intermittent signs of industrial activity.

Nothing established the presence of a major Blackwake formation.

Nothing excluded one.

”Any air contacts?” Kade asked.

Calla checked the report.

”None confirmed over the installation.”

”That doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”

”No.”

Elsa stepped closer.

”There’s another issue.”

Kade looked toward her.

”Go ahead.”

She indicated the western approach to the reef.

”The water depth.”

Strake examined the chart.

Elsa continued.

”The original channel was narrow even before the station was abandoned. If part of it has collapsed or filled with wreckage, a transport could have difficulty entering.”

Senko nodded.

”And the Blackwake may have modified it.”

”Exactly.”

Kade looked toward the old survey markings.

The charts weren’t current enough for a safe approach.

He considered the possibility of using Keelborn instead of a full-sized transport vessel.

Their equipment could navigate waters that would be difficult for Breakwater.

But that didn’t eliminate the hazards.

A large Keelborn’s rigging still occupied space.

Her weapons and support structures still had physical clearances.

Submerged debris, mines, and irregular seabed conditions could still injure her.

And the heavy industrial machinery they hoped to recover would not politely divide itself into pieces suitable for individual transport.

Kade looked toward Senko.

”How much can you load offshore?”

She considered the question.

”Depends on the equipment and sea conditions. Some cargo can be transferred to my modules from smaller craft, but it would be slower.”

”How much slower?”

”Potentially much slower.”

He nodded.

”And exposed.”

”Yes.”

Corwin looked toward Strake.

”If we’re loading offshore, we also need cargo-handling boats. Those need crews, fuel, and equipment of their own.”

The lieutenant nodded.

He was taking notes now.

A great many notes.

Kade watched him.

Good.

The proposal was beginning to grow up.

Dain stepped toward the map.

”I’d like to discuss the condition of the materials.”

Kade gestured.

”Please.”

The engineer pointed toward the old industrial station.

”Even if there are stored machine parts, we don’t know what condition they’re in. Salt exposure, flooding, corrosion, and Blackwake contamination could make much of it useless.”

Strake frowned.

”Could we strip machinery for raw metal?”

”Possibly. But that’s work.”

Dain looked toward him.

”Cutting apart an old pump doesn’t make it immediately useful steel. We’d still need to sort, transport, clean, and process the material.”

Hana nodded.

”And some assemblies contain parts we’d want to preserve rather than cut up.”

Kade looked toward her.

”Meaning?”

”Bearings. Couplings. Pressure-rated fittings. Valves. Things we can’t easily replace.”

She gestured toward the map.

”If the machinery is conventional and intact, taking it apart carelessly could destroy the very components we need.”

Strake looked toward Senko.

The transport girl smiled sympathetically.

”Which means we’d have to know what we were loading.”

”Right,” he said.

Kade nodded.

”Good.”

He looked toward Piper, who had joined the meeting with Mira to provide information about the station’s available ground personnel.

”Piper.”

She straightened.

”Commander?”

”If we had to inspect a warehouse ashore, what could your group provide?”

Piper considered the question.

”Security. Basic site inspection. Movement through the buildings, if the area was cleared.”

Kade nodded.

”Assault capability?”

She hesitated.

Then answered.

”Not without more preparation.”

Mira nodded beside her.

The native SIA Doll had listened carefully throughout the discussion.

She understood the difference between a security team and an assault force.

The difference was not merely a matter of whether the people involved carried guns.

Kade looked toward her.

”Mira?”

She stepped closer.

”Our current detachment is organized primarily for station security and support. We can protect inspection teams and establish controlled areas, but an opposed landing against an unknown Blackwake position would require additional personnel and equipment.”

”How much?”

”That depends on the opposition.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Another good answer.”

Mira continued.

”There’s also the matter of extracting the wounded.”

The room became quiet again.

She gestured toward the map.

”If a team enters the installation and encounters resistance, we need a way to withdraw. We also need a medical evacuation plan that doesn’t depend on Senko remaining exposed beside a possibly damaged pier.”

Irena Holt, seated near the end of the table, nodded.

”Exactly.”

Kade looked toward her.

The medic’s expression was stern.

”How many casualties are we planning for?”

Strake hesitated.

Irena continued.

”I’m not asking how many we want. I’m asking how many the medical department needs to be prepared to receive.”

He looked down.

”We haven’t estimated that yet.”

”Then you haven’t finished planning.”

There was no anger in her voice.

Only professional certainty.

Kade considered that.

Then nodded.

”Agreed.”

Irena looked toward the chart.

”Keelborn casualties require specialized care. Human casualties require ordinary trauma treatment, surgery, blood supplies, and transport. SIA Dolls have their own technical and medical support requirements.”

She looked toward Piper and Mira.

”And none of those systems is interchangeable just because everybody is wearing a military uniform.”

Mira nodded.

”Correct.”

Irena folded her arms.

”If you want to send people into an enemy-held installation, I want to know who is retrieving them when things go wrong.”

Nobody argued.

Kade looked toward Strake.

The lieutenant appeared considerably less enthusiastic than he had forty minutes earlier.

But he was still listening.

Still writing.

Still considering the operation.

That, Kade thought, was worth encouraging.

”Lieutenant.”

Strake looked up.

”Sir?”

”Do you still think the target deserves investigation?”

The young man hesitated.

Then nodded.

”Yes.”

”Why?”

”Because the supplies could matter. And because an enemy support position that close to regional shipping could become a problem even if we don’t recover anything.”

Kade considered that.

”Good.”

Strake blinked.

Kade continued.

”Now tell me whether you still think we’re ready to attack it.”

There was a long silence.

The lieutenant looked toward the chart.

The damaged harbor.

The uncertain defenses.

The missing depth surveys.

The unknown cargo.

The insufficient recovery equipment.

The medical requirements.

The fuel calculations.

Then he sighed.