Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

Kade Bher had achieved something that, under ordinary circumstances, would have been considered a minor administrative miracle.

He had absolutely nothing important to do.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not even the day after tomorrow.

His school had entered a short scheduled break, the lessons and assignments that normally occupied inconvenient portions of his week had either been completed or postponed, and the small collection of other responsibilities that liked to materialize whenever he attempted to relax had finally been dealt with.

There were no early lectures waiting for him.

No appointments.

No obligatory meetings.

No errands that required a train journey, three forms of identification, and an increasingly difficult conversation with a receptionist.

He had several days to himself.

Several.

Kade regarded this as an achievement worthy of national recognition.

Naturally, he intended to squander every minute.

The clock on his desk read 10:47 AM.

Outside, the weather was pleasant enough to offend him. Sunlight slipped through the curtains and settled across the floorboards, illuminating the neatly arranged shoes beside the entrance and the faint layer of dust that had accumulated around a bookshelf he had been meaning to clean.

His room was small but comfortable.

A compact desk occupied one wall. A bed stood opposite it, its blanket folded back rather than made with any particular enthusiasm. A collection of textbooks and notebooks had been stacked beside the desk with sufficient care to prevent them from falling over, though not enough to suggest genuine organizational discipline.

There was a mug of tea.

There were snacks.

There was a charging cable he had nearly tripped over twice.

And there was a VR headset resting inside its protective case.

Kade stood in front of the desk, looking at the last item.

”Right.”

He picked it up.

The headset was lighter than it looked, its curved outer shell smooth beneath his fingers. A faint indicator glowed near the charging port, confirming that the device had completed its overnight preparation.

Beside it lay the slim instruction booklet he had actually bothered to read.

Mostly.

There had been several pages of warnings concerning operating conditions, safety checks, and the importance of following proper shutdown procedures.

He had skimmed those with the confidence of someone who believed that most household appliances should be designed around the reasonable expectation that their owners would occasionally behave like idiots.

Then he had read them again.

Because expensive equipment deserved at least one serious attempt at not breaking it.

He adjusted the headset’s straps and looked toward the mirror mounted beside his wardrobe.

An eighteen-year-old with windswept brown hair and steel-blue eyes looked back.

At five feet three inches, Kade was not particularly tall.

He had stopped being offended about that some time ago, mostly because being offended did not appear to influence his height.

His hair, however, remained determined to make itself everyone’s problem.

He pushed the front of it aside.

It fell back into place.

He tried again.

The result was marginally worse.

”Excellent.”

He abandoned the effort.

The headset did not care what his hair looked like.

Neither would anyone inside the game, assuming the character creator functioned as advertised.

He checked his phone.

A message from a classmate had arrived nine minutes earlier.

You doing anything over break?

Kade considered his answer.

Then typed:

Absolutely not.

A reply arrived almost immediately.

Want to go out tomorrow?

Kade stared at the screen.

He had barely begun enjoying his freedom, and somebody was already attempting to compromise it.

He typed:

I’m attending an important conference.

What conference?

International naval affairs.

...What?

Kade smiled.

Then sent:

Classified.

He muted the conversation.

His conscience remained undisturbed.

He placed the phone facedown beside the keyboard, took a final sip of tea, and lowered himself onto the bed.

The headset settled over his eyes.

A soft tone sounded.

DEVICE CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.

A voice spoke from the headset’s integrated audio system.

”Welcome. Please remain comfortably positioned while your immersion settings are verified.”

Kade adjusted the back of his head against the pillow.

”Comfortable enough.”

The voice continued with the cheerful indifference of a system that had no intention of acknowledging his commentary.

”Visual calibration complete.”

A series of faint lights moved across his field of vision.

”Audio calibration complete.”

A low note sounded from his left.

Another sounded from his right.

”Haptic safety parameters verified.”

The darkness brightened.

A pale-blue circular emblem formed in front of him.

For several seconds, Kade watched it turn.

Then the familiar loading interface dissolved.

And the room disappeared.

 The first thing Kade noticed was the sound.

Not music.

Not an introductory announcement.

Wind.

It passed around him from left to right, carrying the distant cries of seabirds and the low, almost rhythmic murmur of waves.

He opened his eyes.

He was standing on a wooden platform suspended above an enormous ocean.

There was no visible coastline.

The horizon extended in every direction beneath an impossibly blue sky, interrupted only by drifting clouds whose shadows moved across the water.

A few gulls circled overhead.

One cried.

Another answered.

Kade looked down.

His shoes rested on weathered wooden boards.

He crouched and touched the platform.

The surface responded beneath his fingers with the convincing texture of old timber.

”Huh.”

He stood.

A breeze tugged at his shirt.

He could smell salt.

That was impressive.

He had tried VR before, but nothing quite like this. Older equipment had been entertaining enough, particularly when paired with good audio, but this was considerably more convincing.

The horizon did not look like an image projected onto the inside of a headset.

It looked far away.

The water moved with an intricacy that made his eyes struggle to identify any repetition.

A gull passed overhead.

Kade watched it.

Then he looked around.

”All right. Show-off.”

A soft chime sounded.

A translucent menu appeared before him.

WELCOME TO THE ADMIRALTY UNION.

Beneath the title, a stylized compass rose slowly turned over an image of the alternate Earth.

A voice spoke.

”Before beginning your service, please select the operational role through which you wish to participate in the Rebound Era.”

The menu opened.

A series of character portraits appeared.

Keelborn.

Naval command personnel.

Technical specialists.

Logistics supervisors.

Repair personnel.

Several additional categories occupied the lower portions of the display.

Kade examined them.

The Keelborn section displayed images of women wearing naval rigging, accompanied by illustrations of the historical warship classes on which their characters could be based.

He selected the category.

A warning appeared.

ROLE ELIGIBILITY: NOT AVAILABLE FOR CURRENT CHARACTER CONFIGURATION.

Kade looked at it.

Then at the character setup information.

Then back at the warning.

”Fair enough.”

The game had never hidden its unusual division of player roles. Most participants would enter through the female Keelborn character system, while male players were directed toward command, technical, supervisory, and other specialized positions.

He had known that when purchasing access.

He simply hadn’t decided what he wanted to do.

Kade closed the Keelborn menu.

A new series of options expanded.

REPAIR TECHNICIAN.

A small notification appeared beneath the name.

AVAILABLE POSITIONS: LIMITED.

He opened the description.

It discussed technical inspections, maintenance coordination, drydock supervision, equipment authorization, repair schedules, and collaboration with specialized Repair Keelborn.

Kade read for a moment.

Then considered the prospect of spending several virtual days arguing with warships about why their damaged machinery could not be fixed by hitting it harder.

He had nothing against maintenance.

He simply suspected it would become somebody else’s problem whenever a player returned from battle with half her equipment missing.

”Tempting.”

He closed the description.

LOGISTICS SUPERVISOR.

This role offered oversight of supply chains, transport priorities, fuel and ammunition allocation, industrial distribution, and coordination between military facilities.

Kade read the description.

Then imagined the arguments.

He was willing to bet that every player operating a large battleship would believe her ammunition requirements were of exceptional importance.

He was also willing to bet that none of them would enjoy being told otherwise.

He sighed.

”Sounds like a wonderful way to make enemies.”

The next category was Admiral.

He selected it.

A notice appeared.

NO CURRENTLY AVAILABLE STARTING ASSIGNMENTS.

Kade blinked.

”Oh.”

He tried another regional selection.

The same notice appeared.

Then another.

Unavailable.

Another.

Unavailable.

He leaned back slightly.

Apparently the early applicants had been extraordinarily enthusiastic about becoming Admirals.

He couldn’t blame them.

A prestigious title, considerable authority, and access to large formations of warships sounded appealing.

But the vacancies were gone.

A smaller category remained.

COMMANDER.

Kade selected it.

The description expanded.

Commanders were responsible for the coordination and operation of assigned naval forces, including deployment planning, sortie authorization, patrol routes, local base administration, and cooperation with supporting Keelborn and military personnel.

The position depended on assignment availability.

Unlike certain higher-ranking positions, Commander appointments were tied to individual operational areas and naval facilities.

Kade studied the description.

”All right.”

He scrolled farther.

The list of available Commander seats was not empty.

Barely.

Most were marked as filled.

Others required qualifications or previous service that a new player obviously didn’t possess.

A handful remained open.

Kade looked through them.

One involved administrative support at an inland military depot.

Another concerned convoy scheduling at a small auxiliary station.

A third was associated with a remote listening post whose description contained so many references to weather-related maintenance that he began to suspect the position had been created specifically to punish someone.

Then he found the option to select a naval base.

He opened it.

A map of the world unfolded around him.

Colored markers appeared over major ports and defensive installations.

The Meridian Federation’s installations glowed across the Americas and Pacific.

The Yamato Hegemony occupied strategic sites throughout East Asia.

The Crown Commonwealth maintained important positions along established trade routes.

Other factions possessed their own fortresses, regional commands, industrial centers, and contested military territories.

Kade zoomed toward the Pacific.

There were hundreds of facilities.

Most looked excellent.

Some possessed multiple drydocks, modern industrial districts, enormous coastal guns, and secure access to established supply networks.

He selected one.

ASSIGNMENT UNAVAILABLE.

Another.

ASSIGNMENT UNAVAILABLE.

Another.

ASSIGNMENT UNAVAILABLE.

Kade stared at the map.

”Right.”

He selected a major Meridian fortress.

Unavailable.

A well-equipped island airbase.

Unavailable.

An enormous naval installation with three established shipyards.

Unavailable.

A protected headquarters near a vital shipping corridor.

Unavailable.

Kade lowered his hand.

”So everyone got here early.”

He had expected popular starting locations to fill.

He had not expected them to fill with the efficiency of a concert-ticket website.

A notification offered to show only available assignments.

He accepted.

The map changed.

Nearly every desirable marker disappeared.

Kade watched the remaining options.

There were a few isolated stations.

An inland administrative site.

A cold-weather supply outpost.

One remote island with a description that mentioned seasonal flooding, a problem he considered deeply unappealing for a naval base.

And, almost in the center of the Pacific, a small marker that had somehow survived the rush.

He selected it.

A name appeared.

HORIZON ATOLL.

Kade tilted his head.

”That’s a good name.”

Then the facility description opened.

He read the first paragraph.

His expression changed.

He read the second.

Then the third.

By the time he reached the condition report, he was beginning to understand why the assignment remained available.

”Oh.”

The floating display expanded into a three-dimensional representation of an enormous coral atoll.

Its shape loosely resembled Wake Island, but the designers had enlarged and transformed the geography.

A wide lagoon occupied the center, surrounded by a broken ring of islands, shallow reefs, narrow channels, and artificial causeways.

A military installation occupied the largest landmass.

Or rather, the remains of one did.

Several piers extended into the lagoon.

One was visibly collapsed.

Another had been reinforced with temporary steelwork.

A third stood beside a warehouse complex whose roofs were missing in several places.

A long runway crossed the main island, but its far end was cracked and partially buried beneath windblown sand.

Coastal artillery emplacements occupied the outer ring.

Many appeared abandoned.

The central drydock complex was enormous.

It also looked as though someone had started demolishing it, changed their mind, and then forgotten to tell the construction crews.

Kade rotated the model.

A warning appeared.

INSTALLATION CONDITION: SEVERELY DEGRADED.

Another.

PRIMARY DRYDOCK: INACTIVE.

Another.

POWER DISTRIBUTION: PARTIAL.

HARBOR DEFENSE GRID: INCOMPLETE.

SUPPLY CAPACITY: RESTRICTED.

LONG-TERM STATION REACTIVATION REQUIRED.

He stared.

Then slowly moved the map around.

There was a pleasant beach.

Several palm trees.

A ruined observation tower.

A hangar that appeared to have lost an argument with a tropical storm.

And an entire section of seawall that had collapsed into the lagoon.

Kade looked at the installation name again.

Horizon Atoll.

Very impressive.

Very poetic.

An excellent name for a location that appeared to require approximately half the world’s construction equipment.

He scrolled down.

A short historical summary appeared.

The atoll had served as a strategically useful Pacific outpost during the early decades of the Blackwake conflict. Subsequent defensive priorities had shifted toward larger fortress complexes, leaving the island underfunded and increasingly neglected.

Repeated storms, material shortages, enemy raids, and the reassignment of technical personnel had reduced its operational capacity.

Its formal status remained active.

Its practical usefulness was another question.

Kade read the last line.

Current naval activity is maintained by a reduced garrison and limited auxiliary support. Restoration potential remains significant.

He looked back at the ruined drydock.

”Restoration potential.”

That was one way of describing it.

He opened the regional assignment history.

A surprisingly long list appeared.

Most entries contained the same broad conclusion.

Withdrawn.

Reassigned.

Transferred.

Abandoned.

A few Commander applicants had selected Horizon Atoll during the early registration period.

None had remained attached to the position.

Kade scratched his cheek.

”Well, that’s reassuring.”

He rotated the model once more.

The lagoon was enormous.

The entrance channels looked defensible.

The old drydock, despite its condition, was large enough to suggest that the facility had once accommodated serious capital-ship maintenance.

The island was remote, but not so remote that it lacked all connection to regional shipping.

There were ruined fuel depots.

Old workshops.

Unused storage buildings.

Half-buried rail lines.

And a great deal of open ground.

In good condition, it might have been an excellent naval installation.

It simply wasn’t in good condition.

Kade studied the map for another minute.

Then smiled faintly.

”Well.”

He opened the assignment details.

”Nobody else wants you.”

He looked toward the shining ocean beneath the selection interface.

”Congratulations. That makes two of us who aren’t doing anything useful today.”

He pressed the confirmation button.

The system asked whether he wished to accept command of Horizon Atoll.

A final warning advised him that the facility’s starting conditions were significantly below those of more developed installations.

Kade considered declining.

Then looked at the unavailable markers scattered across the Pacific.

He could always continue hunting for a better assignment.

Perhaps someone would surrender a desirable naval base.

Perhaps an Admiral would resign.

Perhaps the ocean itself would send him a handwritten invitation.

He suspected none of those outcomes were particularly likely.

Kade pressed CONFIRM.

A bell sounded.

COMMANDER ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED.

WELCOME TO HORIZON ATOLL.

The ocean beneath the platform brightened.

The wooden boards dissolved into motes of pale light.

Wind rushed around him.

The selection interface disappeared.

And the world changed.

Kade’s first impression of Horizon Atoll was that somebody had forgotten to warn the seagulls.

They sounded delighted.

He was less certain.

The transition deposited him inside a small administrative office whose windows overlooked a bright tropical harbor. Sunlight poured through the glass, illuminating a battered desk, two metal filing cabinets, a wall-mounted communications unit, and a ceiling fan that rotated with all the enthusiasm of a tired employee approaching retirement.

The fan made a faint clicking noise every third revolution.

Kade looked up.

Click.

Click.

Click.

”That’s going to become annoying.”

A woman behind the desk lowered her newspaper.

She appeared to be in her late forties, with weathered skin, close-cropped brown hair, and the broad shoulders of someone accustomed to lifting things that other people preferred to describe as a two-person job.

Her uniform was clean but faded.

A small Admiralty Union insignia rested above her breast pocket.

She examined Kade over the top of her reading glasses.

”Commander?”

Kade looked around.

There was nobody else in the office.

”Apparently.”

The woman folded the newspaper.

”Name?”

”Kade Bher.”

She looked at the documents on her desk.

Found the appropriate page.

Then looked at him again.

”You’re young.”

Kade glanced at his own hands.

”Tragic condition. I’ve been dealing with it all my life.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change.

”Age?”

”Eighteen.”

”Old enough for the assignment, then.”

”That’s what the paperwork claims.”

She picked up a pen.

”Chief Petty Officer Mara Fenwick. Acting station administrator, supply coordinator, harbor scheduler, personnel clerk, and, when the plumbing breaks, whoever happens to be holding a wrench.”

Kade considered that.

”Busy woman.”

”You have no idea.”

She signed the document.

Then pushed it toward him.

”Welcome to Horizon Atoll, Commander.”

Kade accepted the paper.

”Thank you.”

”Try not to break anything.”

He looked around the office.

One filing cabinet leaned slightly to the left.

A patch of ceiling plaster had been repaired with a noticeably different color.

The communications panel bore a handwritten label reading DO NOT TURN OFF, underlined twice.

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Little late for that warning, isn’t it?”

Chief Fenwick looked toward the ceiling.

The fan clicked.

She sighed.

”Fair.”

Kade examined the room more carefully.

The interface had disappeared almost completely, leaving only a small cluster of translucent indicators at the edge of his vision. His new uniform consisted of a dark-blue naval jacket, matching trousers, sturdy shoes, and a command insignia attached above the breast pocket.

He hadn’t spent much time customizing it.

The default options had been sensible enough.

He had accepted his own name, kept an appearance close to his natural one, and declined the game’s suggestion that he consider a more imposing hairstyle.

He had been particularly unimpressed by the option to add three inches to his avatar’s height.

Not because he objected to being taller.

He simply disliked the idea that a piece of software considered his current height a problem requiring correction.

Besides, he had already spent eighteen years learning how to reach things from inconveniently positioned shelves.

It would be a shame to waste the experience.

Chief Fenwick opened a drawer.

Removed a folder.

Dropped it onto the desk.

The sound was alarmingly heavy.

Kade looked at it.

Then at her.

”What’s that?”

”Your station report.”

He stared.

”All of it?”

”Current edition.”

”How many editions?”

”Depends how often things break.”

”Right.”

He opened the folder.

The first page was an organizational summary.

The second described the base’s remaining operational facilities.

The third concerned personnel.

The fourth began listing maintenance deficiencies.

That section continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Kade flipped through several pages.

Then stopped.

”Chief.”

”Commander?”

”Is anything here functioning?”

She considered the question.

”The coffee machine works.”

He looked up.

”Seriously?”

”Most mornings.”

”Encouraging.”

”The eastern harbor lights work.”

”Good.”

”One of the radio towers works.”

”One?”

”The other two are decorative.”

He glanced at the window.

”Decorative radio towers.”

”They add character.”

Kade looked down at the report.

”What’s the catch?”

”The working one leaks when it rains.”

”Naturally.”

”And the desalination equipment has been making a noise.”

”What sort of noise?”

She thought for a moment.

”An expensive one.”

Kade slowly closed the folder.

”Chief Fenwick.”

”Sir?”

”Is this a naval base or an elaborate practical joke?”

The woman looked at him.

Then smiled for the first time.

”Depends how long you stay.”

Kade returned the smile.

”Wonderful.”

She rose.

”Would you like the tour?”

He considered the folder.

Then the windows.

Then the brilliant blue lagoon beyond them.

”Yes.”

Chief Fenwick retrieved a ring of keys from a hook beside the door.

They were attached to a cord so worn that Kade wondered whether it had been inherited from the first inhabitants of the island.

She caught him looking.

”Don’t ask.”

”I wasn’t going to.”

”You were.”

”I was considering it.”

”Don’t.”

”Understood.”

She opened the door.

A wave of warm, salty air entered the office.

Beyond it lay Horizon Atoll.

And the view was considerably better than the paperwork.

 The administrative building stood on a low rise overlooking the island’s inner harbor.

From its front steps, Kade could see the enormous lagoon stretching beneath the sun.

The water was turquoise near shore, deepening into brilliant blue toward the central anchorage. Coral formations shone beneath the shallows, and white surf broke along the outer reefs where the Pacific met the atoll’s protective ring.

Palm trees swayed along the roads.

Old concrete fortifications rose from patches of scrubland.

Rail tracks crossed the harbor district, connecting warehouses, workshops, and several abandoned loading platforms.

The main island extended farther than Kade had expected.

Wake Island’s familiar triangular shape was still recognizable in the broad geography, but the game had greatly enlarged the landmasses and surrounding reef system.

The result was something between a remote Pacific outpost and an island fortress that had fallen on exceptionally difficult times.

To the east stood the runway.

Long.

Flat.

Impressive from a distance.

Much less impressive when the camera moved close enough to reveal the weeds growing through its cracked surface.

To the west stretched the primary naval facilities.

Several piers were intact.

Several were not.

An enormous drydock occupied the largest section of the harbor, its walls rising high above a basin partially filled with murky water.

Behind it stood the skeleton of a gantry crane.

One leg was surrounded by scaffolding.

Another was braced with temporary supports.

The crane’s main bridge carried a faded warning painted in white letters.

LOAD CAPACITY RESTRICTED.

Kade studied it.

”That’s the primary drydock?”

Chief Fenwick nodded.

”Used to be.”

”What’s it now?”

”A monument to deferred maintenance.”

He looked toward the basin.

”Can it be restored?”

”Yes.”

”How difficult?”

She gave him a long look.

”Commander, how much do you know about repairing naval infrastructure?”

”Not enough to answer that question confidently.”

”Good.”

”Good?”

”Means you’ll listen when somebody explains it.”

Kade smiled.

”I can do that.”

They descended the steps.

A narrow road led toward the waterfront.

Several small utility vehicles were parked beside a warehouse, their paint faded beneath years of sun and salt. A group of dockworkers carried equipment across a loading platform while a mechanic argued with a crane operator about the positioning of a suspended steel beam.

The buildings were not empty.

That was the first thing Kade noticed.

Horizon Atoll was neglected, but it wasn’t dead.

People worked here.

Small boats moved between piers.

A truck carrying construction material rattled past them.

Two uniformed sailors sat in the shade outside a supply office, eating lunch from metal containers.

They rose when Chief Fenwick approached.

”Chief.”

”Afternoon.”

One of them noticed Kade.

His eyes moved to the command insignia.

”Commander?”

Kade nodded.

”Apparently.”

The sailor hesitated.

Then saluted.

Kade returned the gesture.

The sailor looked faintly relieved.

Chief Fenwick continued walking.

Kade followed.

After several steps, he asked:

”How long have they been without a Commander?”

”Depends whether you count the temporary appointments.”

”Should I?”

”Not if you want to stay cheerful.”

”That bad?”

”The last one remained for approximately three hours.”

Kade glanced at her.

”What happened?”

”He asked whether we could move the drydock to a more convenient location.”

Kade stopped walking.

Chief Fenwick continued for another step before noticing.

She turned.

He stared.

”Move it.”

”Yes.”

”The drydock.”

”Correct.”

”To a more convenient location.”

”That’s what he said.”

Kade looked toward the enormous concrete structure.

Then back at her.

”Did he also ask whether the ocean could be relocated?”

”No.”

”Missed opportunity.”

Chief Fenwick snorted.

”He left after I explained the construction requirements.”

”Understandable. Reality can be very inconsiderate.”

They continued toward the waterfront.

As they passed a row of warehouses, the sounds of machinery grew louder.

A maintenance vehicle rolled by carrying several enormous steel plates.

A small group of women wearing naval uniforms stood beside a repair platform, discussing something with a technician.

One had rigging folded around her shoulders.

Another carried a clipboard.

A third was sitting on an ammunition crate eating what appeared to be a bowl of noodles.

Kade watched them.

”Players?”

Chief Fenwick glanced over.

”Keelborn personnel. Some have only recently reported to the station.”

That was an interesting distinction.

From the game’s perspective, of course, she was speaking naturally.

To Chief Fenwick, they were Keelborn.

Not players who had chosen Keelborn avatars.

Kade glanced toward the group again.

”How many?”

”More than last week.”

”Helpful.”

”Most are operating independently while the station’s command structure is restored.”

”Meaning?”

”Meaning they’ve been organizing their own berthing, maintenance, and patrol schedules because nobody else was doing it properly.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”Good for them.”

Chief Fenwick looked at him.

”Some commanders dislike that.”

”Why?”

”They prefer assignments to be arranged through the proper chain of command.”

Kade considered the harbor.

Then the damaged workshops.

Then the personnel who were apparently keeping the island functioning with less assistance than they needed.

”Well, the proper chain of command seems to have been on vacation.”

Chief Fenwick smiled.

”That’s one interpretation.”

”It’s a generous one.”

They reached the end of the road.

A large sign stood beside the harbor entrance.

Its original paint had faded almost completely.

Someone had repaired the lettering recently, though the new white stood out sharply against the weathered blue background.

HORIZON ATOLL NAVAL STATION

ADMIRALTY UNION — PACIFIC DEFENSE SECTOR

Beneath it, a smaller hand-painted sign had been attached.

PLEASE REPORT BROKEN EQUIPMENT BEFORE IT BECOMES MORE BROKEN.

Kade read it.

Then looked at Chief Fenwick.

”Official policy?”

”Very.”

”Who wrote it?”

”Maintenance department.”

”Wise people.”

”Usually.”

A distant metallic crash echoed through the harbor.

Several voices shouted.

Then someone yelled:

”IT WASN’T ME!”

Chief Fenwick closed her eyes.

Kade slowly turned toward the sound.

A thin plume of white steam rose behind a warehouse.

He considered the situation.

Then smiled.

”Usually?”

Chief Fenwick sighed.

”Welcome to Horizon Atoll.”

 Riko Minase had been inside the game for almost forty minutes, and she was already having a disagreement with history.

A very serious disagreement.

One involving battleships, naval architecture, and what she considered an unreasonable number of intermediate construction requirements.

She stood in the middle of a spacious character equipment hall, surrounded by towering diagrams of the Yamato-class battleship.

Her chosen avatar was considerably taller than her real-world self, with long dark hair, a white-and-navy uniform, and a ceremonial hair ornament shaped like a small gold chrysanthemum.

She had spent twenty minutes adjusting the uniform alone.

Most of that time had involved deciding whether the sleeves looked sufficiently dramatic.

She had eventually settled on an arrangement that was elegant, imposing, and, according to Hana, spectacularly impractical for somebody intending to work around moving machinery.

Riko had ignored that criticism.

The machinery was supposed to respect her.

Unfortunately, the character progression display was proving less cooperative.

She stared at the holographic model.

Then slowly lowered her hands.

”No.”

A calm system voice answered.

”Please clarify your request.”

”No.”

”The requested modernization path remains available.”

”I know it’s available!”

”Would you like to review the requirements?”

”I have been reviewing the requirements for fifteen minutes!”

A soft chime sounded.

”Would you like to review them again?”

Riko stared.

Somewhere nearby, Yuna started laughing.

Riko turned.

”Don’t.”

Yuna stood beside a carrier equipment display, wearing her newly customized Illustrious-class avatar.

She had chosen pale lavender hair, a dark-blue carrier uniform, and a modest ribbon at her collar. Her avatar was taller than her real-world body, though not nearly as dramatically as Riko’s.

She appeared delighted with the result.

Her glasses were gone, replaced by a character customization option that gave her exceptionally sharp violet eyes.

She was also thoroughly enjoying Riko’s suffering.

”I’m not doing anything.”

”You’re smiling.”

”Am I?”

”Yuna.”

”I’m happy.”

”At my expense.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

”Only a little.”

Riko pointed at the battleship progression display.

”Look at this!”

Yuna approached.

The diagram expanded.

At the beginning of the pathway stood the Yamato-class.

From there, a series of modernization projects led toward increasingly extensive alterations.

Only after completing the necessary upgrades and reconstruction prerequisites could the player pursue a rebuild into the A-150 design.

Further refits followed.

Then came another requirement.

An extraordinarily rare reconstruction authorization.

And beyond it, an advanced final configuration.

Riko pointed dramatically.

”That!”

Yuna leaned closer.

A model of the ultimate battleship rotated above the display.

Its silhouette was extraordinary.

Four twin main-gun turrets occupied the arrangement.

Each carried twenty-inch naval guns.

The equipment was surrounded by immense armor structures, reinforced machinery, and systems whose descriptions continued beyond the visible portion of the hologram.

Yuna stared.

”Oh.”

Riko folded her arms.

”Exactly.”

”That’s enormous.”

”Exactly.”

”Four twin turrets?”

”Yes!”

”With twenty-inch guns?”

”Yes!”

Yuna looked at the design.

Then at Riko.

”Do you really need that?”

Riko’s expression became one of profound personal betrayal.

”Yuna.”

”What?”

”That’s not the question.”

”What is the question?”

”Why would anyone not need that?”

Yuna considered the matter.

”Maintenance costs?”

Riko waved dismissively.

”Details.”

”Fuel?”

”Details.”

”Ammunition?”

”Details.”

”Docking restrictions?”

”Extremely boring details.”

Yuna smiled.

”Then I suppose you’ll be busy.”

Riko looked back at the screen.

The final configuration remained locked.

A series of requirements stretched between her current Yamato-class foundation and the desired A-150 rebuild.

She read them again.

”Refits. More refits. Rebuild into the first A-150 configuration. More modernization. Additional reconstruction work.”

She scrolled.

Then stopped.

”And then a rare rebuild token.”

Yuna nodded.

”From missions.”

”A rare drop from missions.”

”Yes.”

Riko stared at the hologram.

The enormous final battleship rotated serenely.

It seemed completely unconcerned by her suffering.

”This game hates me.”

”Perhaps it wants you to earn it.”

Riko turned.

”That’s worse.”

Yuna laughed.

A familiar voice came from behind them.

”She’s been doing this for twenty minutes.”

Both turned.

Hana stood in the entrance to the equipment hall, wearing the avatar she had selected for her Akashi-class Repair Shipgirl.

She had given herself short copper-colored hair, bright green eyes, a practical engineering uniform, and a collection of pockets that Riko immediately suspected would become an excuse to carry an unreasonable number of tools.

A small pair of decorative cat-ear-like accessories sat atop her head.

Riko stared.

Hana stared back.

”What?”

”The ears.”

”What about them?”

”You have ears.”

”Yes.”

”Cat ears.”

”They’re accessories.”

Riko slowly smiled.

Hana narrowed her eyes.

”Don’t.”

Riko raised both hands.

”I haven’t said anything.”

”You’re about to.”

”I would never.”

”Riko.”

”Do they move?”

Yuna covered her mouth.

Hana looked profoundly tired.

”They’re cosmetic.”

”Can you wiggle them?”

”No.”

”Have you tried?”

”Riko.”

”Do they come with a tail?”

Hana pointed toward the door.

”Out.”

Riko grinned.

Yuna was laughing now.

Hana crossed her arms.

”I leave you two alone for thirty minutes and come back to find Riko arguing with a holographic battleship.”

”The battleship started it.”

”Of course.”

”It has unreasonable expectations.”

”Such as?”

”Effort.”

Hana stared.

Yuna laughed harder.

Riko gestured at the progression display.

”Look at that final design.”

Hana stepped closer.

She examined the arrangement.

Her expression changed.

Not toward awe.

Toward calculation.

Riko recognized the look immediately.

”Oh, no.”

Hana zoomed in.

”Four twin twenty-inch mounts.”

”Yes.”

”Very heavy upper structures.”

”Yes.”

”Enormous recoil loads.”

”Yes.”

”You’re going to need extensive drydock support.”

Riko closed her eyes.

”Please don’t.”

”And the ammunition-handling equipment...”

”Hana.”

”The maintenance schedule alone...”

”Hana!”

The repair girl turned.

”What?”

Riko pointed toward the battleship.

”Can you appreciate the majesty for five seconds before you start inventing invoices?”

Hana examined the model again.

A smile slowly appeared.

”It is magnificent.”

Riko brightened.

”Thank you!”

”Absolutely monstrous.”

”Yes!”

”Completely unreasonable.”

”Yes!”

”And if you ever actually build it, I’ll insist on being the one who maintains it.”

Riko blinked.

Then smiled.

”Deal.”

Hana offered her hand.

Riko shook it.

Yuna watched them.

”Should I be concerned that you’ve just entered a binding agreement?”

Hana considered that.

”Probably.”

Riko grinned.

”Excellent.”

A notification sounded above the hall entrance.

HORIZON ATOLL — NEW COMMANDER ASSIGNMENT REGISTERED.

The three women looked up.

For a moment, none of them moved.

Then Yuna tilted her head.

”Oh.”

Hana’s eyes narrowed.

”That’s new.”

Riko turned toward the notification.

”Commander?”

Yuna opened the personnel list.

A new entry had appeared beneath the naval station’s command appointments.

COMMANDER KADE BHER.

Riko read the name.

Then looked at her friends.

”Huh.”

Hana folded her arms.

”Apparently somebody finally took the job.”

Yuna smiled.

”That’s good.”

Riko looked at the ruined dockyard visible beyond the equipment hall’s windows.

Then back at the notification.

”Poor man.”

Hana nodded solemnly.

”He’s going to have a very interesting afternoon.”

And somewhere across the harbor, completely unaware that his arrival had just become the subject of considerable discussion, Kade Bher was examining a cracked concrete seawall and wondering whether the words naval base carried any legal obligation to provide actual naval facilities.

The first player Kade encountered at the waterfront was arguing with a shipping container.

More specifically, she was arguing with the crane operator responsible for moving it.

The distinction did not appear especially important to either participant.

”Left!”

The container shifted.

”No, your other left!”

The operator stopped the crane.

”That’s my right!”

”From your perspective!”

”Whose perspective am I supposed to use?”

”Mine!”

”You’re standing on the opposite side of the yard!”

The girl threw both hands into the air.

”Then rotate the whole thing!”

The crane operator looked deeply unhappy.

Kade stood beside Chief Fenwick and watched the argument develop.

The girl wore a dark-red naval uniform with black gloves and a short white coat. Her hair was pale blonde, almost silver, and her expression suggested that she had spent the last fifteen minutes learning increasingly creative ways to describe the shortcomings of heavy machinery.

Behind her rested the partially assembled rigging of a battleship.

The shape was older than the equipment Kade remembered from the game’s advertisements.

Two enormous twin-gun turrets sat on a steel transport cradle. Their armor was thick, their arrangement uncompromisingly traditional, and the entire assembly possessed the heavy, practical appearance of something designed before naval architects had discovered the questionable joys of increasingly complicated electronics.

Chief Fenwick raised her voice.

”Adelheid!”

The girl turned.

”Oh. Chief.”

”What’s the problem?”

”The crane operator keeps moving my equipment into the wrong position.”

The operator leaned out of his cab.

”Because she keeps telling me left when she means right!”

Adelheid pointed toward the cradle.

”I’m facing the equipment!”

”And I’m facing you!”

Kade considered the situation.

Then stepped forward.

”Has anyone considered using the actual directions marked on the yard?”

Both looked at him.

He pointed toward the painted numbers along the loading platform.

”Those. The ones someone spent time putting on the ground.”

Adelheid followed his gesture.

The crane operator looked down.

A short silence followed.

Then Adelheid crossed her arms.

”That’s annoyingly sensible.”

Kade smiled.

”Thank you.”

”It wasn’t praise.”

”I’ve decided to accept it.”

Chief Fenwick made a small sound that might have been a laugh.

The crane operator leaned out farther.

”Container to Bay Four, then?”

Adelheid nodded.

”Bay Four.”

”Excellent!”

The crane began moving again.

Kade watched the container glide toward the correct position.

Then he looked at the blonde battleship girl.

”Problem solved.”

She examined his uniform.

Her expression changed.

”You’re the new Commander.”

”Apparently.”

Adelheid looked him up and down.

Then raised an eyebrow.

”You’re short.”

Kade glanced at himself.

”Thank goodness you told me.”

She blinked.

He continued.

”I’ve been wondering why all the doorknobs seem unusually high.”

Chief Fenwick turned away.

Her shoulders shook.

Adelheid stared at Kade for another moment.

Then laughed.

”All right. Fair enough.”

She offered her hand.

”Adelheid. Bayern-class.”

Kade shook it.

”Kade Bher.”

”Welcome to the worst naval base in the Pacific.”

”That’s the official designation?”

”Not yet.”

”Ambitious.”

She grinned.

”Give us time.”

Her handshake was firm.

Kade noticed the small tag floating beside her name when he focused on it.

PLAYER CHARACTER — KEELBORN

BAYERN-CLASS BATTLESHIP

That settled the question of whether she was another player.

Adelheid followed his glance.

”First day?”

”First hour.”

”Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

”Chief Fenwick has been explaining.”

Adelheid looked at the woman.

”Did she mention the shower block?”

Kade slowly turned.

”The what?”

Chief Fenwick sighed.

”Adelheid.”

”Did she?”

”The showers function.”

”Sometimes.”

”They function.”

”When?”

”Adelheid.”

The battleship girl grinned.

Kade raised one hand.

”Actually, I have a question.”

Chief Fenwick regarded him suspiciously.

”Yes?”

”Does the coffee machine work more reliably than the showers?”

There was a pause.

Then Adelheid burst out laughing.

Chief Fenwick stared at him.

Finally, she sighed.

”Commander, I am beginning to suspect you’ll fit in here.”

Kade looked toward the battered harbor.

”That sounds vaguely threatening.”

”It should.”

They continued along the pier.

Behind them, Adelheid shouted another direction to the crane operator.

This time, she used the numbered loading bays.

Kade decided not to comment on the improvement.

It was important to allow people their small victories.

Especially people carrying historical battleship guns.

 The farther they walked, the more unusual Horizon Atoll became.

At first glance, the base appeared nearly deserted.

From a distance, its damaged piers and neglected buildings created the impression of a station waiting to be abandoned.

But every few minutes, Kade encountered another pocket of activity.

A group of Fletcher-class destroyer girls were examining a disused patrol boat beside the eastern wharf.

One had climbed onto the roof of its bridge to inspect a damaged antenna.

Another stood below, holding a toolbox.

A third sat on a bollard with her legs swinging over the water, reading a maintenance instruction manual upside down.

Kade noticed the manual.

”Comfortable?”

The girl looked up.

”Very.”

”Enjoying the book?”

”Absolutely.”

”Interesting way to read it.”

She glanced down.

Then turned the manual around.

”Oh.”

Kade nodded.

”Improvement.”

She grinned.

”Thanks.”

Another destroyer called from the boat.

”Did you finish finding the electrical diagram?”

The girl with the manual looked toward her.

”Almost!”

”You’ve been almost finished for twenty minutes!”

”I’m thorough!”

Kade moved on.

Farther along the waterfront, two Allen M. Sumner-class girls were comparing the arrangements of their anti-aircraft mounts while an Akizuki-class destroyer explained why dedicated defensive fire was a matter of considerable personal pride.

A Kitakaze-class girl stood nearby, examining a different configuration of gun mounts.

The discussion appeared serious.

At least until one of the Sumners suggested that the best defense against enemy aircraft was to make enough noise that the pilots became discouraged.

The Akizuki girl looked appalled.

”That is not how anti-aircraft fire works.”

”Are you sure?”

”Yes!”

”Have you tried it?”

The Kitakaze girl closed her eyes.

”Please stop helping.”

A little farther ahead, a pair of Takao-class heavy cruisers were attempting to organize ammunition deliveries around a damaged section of track.

Their equipment was larger and more complicated than the destroyers’ rigs, with heavier armor structures and substantial gun mounts resting on maintenance supports.

They had apparently decided that the easiest way to solve the problem was to move the ammunition carts themselves.

A dockworker stood nearby, watching them with considerable anxiety.

”Please use the loading equipment.”

One cruiser smiled.

”We’ve got it.”

”That’s what the last group said.”

”What happened?”

The worker pointed toward the water.

A small cargo trolley protruded from the lagoon.

The cruiser looked at it.

Then at her companion.

Then back at the worker.

”...We can use the loading equipment.”

”Thank you.”

Kade smiled faintly.

Horizon Atoll, he decided, possessed a remarkable talent for making even routine operations entertaining.

They passed a South Dakota-class battleship girl standing beside a temporary maintenance platform.

She wore a dark uniform with gold trim and had the posture of someone who considered every engineering problem an obstacle to be overcome through persistence.

A technician was examining her fire-control equipment.

”Try the elevation mechanism again.”

The battleship girl complied.

One of her gun mounts lifted.

Then stopped.

The technician frowned.

”Again.”

The mount lowered.

Then rose halfway.

A warning tone sounded.

The battleship girl’s expression became murderous.

”I swear, if this thing complains one more time...”

The technician raised a finger.

”Do not threaten the equipment.”

”It started it.”

Kade kept walking.

Behind them, the warning tone sounded again.

The battleship girl shouted something unprintable.

Chief Fenwick didn’t even turn around.

”She’s been doing that all morning.”

”Trying to fix it?”

”Threatening it.”

”Has it worked?”

”Not yet.”

”Shame.”

The western pier held another group.

These girls looked older in design, though not necessarily in their human appearances.

Their equipment belonged to an earlier era of battleship development.

Broad turrets.

Heavy secondary batteries.

Comparatively simple fire-control arrangements.

The most prominent girl wore a modest dark-blue uniform and had short black hair tied back with a white ribbon.

She stood beside equipment marked as belonging to the Virginia class.

Kade looked at the designation.

Then at the gun arrangement.

”Pre-dreadnought?”

The girl turned.

Her expression brightened.

”Yes!”

Chief Fenwick looked faintly impressed.

Kade glanced toward the equipment.

”Didn’t expect to see one.”

The girl smiled.

”Most people don’t.”

”Why pick it?”

She considered the question.

Then shrugged.

”Because everybody wants the enormous modern battleships.”

”Fair.”

”And because I like the older designs.”

”Also fair.”

She gestured toward the rigging.

”People keep telling me I’ll be outclassed.”

”Will you?”

”Probably.”

Kade tilted his head.

The girl laughed.

”At least against a Yamato-class. I’m not delusional.”

”Good quality.”

”But there’s a lot more to naval warfare than comparing the largest guns.”

Kade nodded.

”That’s true.”

She looked pleased.

”Exactly!”

Chief Fenwick glanced toward the command building.

”Commander, this is Marina. She’s been helping catalog the old coastal batteries.”

Marina nodded.

”They’re fascinating.”

Kade looked toward the outer reef.

Several concrete emplacements were visible among the palm trees.

”Functional?”

”Some.”

”How many?”

Marina hesitated.

”Depends how strictly you define functional.”

Kade sighed.

”That’s becoming a theme.”

She grinned.

”Welcome to Horizon.”

Apparently everyone here considered that an adequate explanation.

Kade was beginning to agree.

 By the time they reached the central maintenance district, the sun had climbed higher.

The docks smelled of seawater, hot metal, old paint, and engine oil.

A narrow railway crossed the road ahead, its rails disappearing into a warehouse where someone had recently begun replacing damaged sleepers.

The warehouse doors were open.

Inside, several workers were shifting crates onto a loading platform.

Beyond them stood an enormous naval rigging assembly supported by temporary scaffolding.

Kade slowed.

The machinery was unmistakably Japanese in design.

The primary turrets were enormous.

The armor structures looked heavy enough to justify their own railway.

And the girl standing beneath them was arguing with a repair specialist whose copper-colored hair and green eyes looked suspiciously familiar.

”That wasn’t my question,” the taller girl insisted.

The repair specialist folded her arms.

”It was the answer.”

”I asked whether you could help me modernize it.”

”And I said yes.”

”Then why did you say no?”

”Because you asked whether I could do it today.”

The taller girl hesitated.

”Ah.”

”Exactly.”

”Right.”

”Have you checked the actual modernization requirements?”

”Yes.”

”All of them?”

”...Mostly.”

The repair specialist sighed.

A second woman stood nearby, wearing a dark-blue carrier uniform. Her pale-lavender hair fell over one shoulder, and she was examining a clipboard with the faint smile of someone enjoying a conversation that did not require her immediate participation.

Chief Fenwick raised one hand.

”Good afternoon.”

All three turned.

The repair specialist looked at Kade.

Then at his insignia.

”Oh.”

The tall battleship girl blinked.

”Wait.”

The carrier smiled.

”Commander Bher?”

Kade glanced at Chief Fenwick.

”Apparently I have a reputation already.”

The chief gave him a dry look.

”Your assignment was announced.”

”That explains it.”

The repair specialist approached first.

”Hana.”

She offered her hand.

Kade shook it.

”Kade.”

”Akashi-class Repair Keelborn.”

He nodded toward her equipment.

”That explains the pockets.”

Hana looked down.

Then smiled.

”You noticed.”

”Hard not to. You look like you could rebuild a refrigerator without leaving the room.”

”Only a refrigerator?”

”Depends how many spare parts you’re carrying.”

She laughed.

”I think we’ll get along.”

The carrier approached next.

”I’m Yuna. Illustrious-class.”

Kade shook her hand.

”Nice to meet you.”

”Likewise.”

Then the tall battleship girl stepped forward.

She looked down at him.

Kade looked up.

There was a brief silence.

Her eyebrows rose.

”You’re the Commander?”

Kade examined the insignia on his uniform.

”That’s what they tell me.”

She blinked.

Then smiled.

”I’m Riko.”

”Hello, Riko.”

”Yamato-class.”

He looked toward the enormous equipment behind her.

”That part was easier to guess.”

She grinned.

”Impressive, isn’t it?”

”Subtle.”

”Thank you.”

”Not necessarily a compliment.”

”I’ve chosen to accept it.”

Kade smiled.

Hana sighed.

”Oh, no.”

Yuna began laughing.

Riko looked toward her friends.

”What?”

Hana studied Kade.

Then Riko.

Then the two of them together.

”Oh, this is going to be terrible.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”For whom?”

”Everyone around you.”

Riko looked offended.

”I’m delightful.”

Kade considered her enormous battleship equipment.

Then looked at Hana.

”Do you believe her?”

”Absolutely not.”

”Excellent. Honest workplace.”

Yuna laughed harder.

Riko crossed her arms.

”Excuse me!”

Chief Fenwick watched the exchange with a small, satisfied smile.

It was the expression of someone who had spent a long time watching Commanders arrive, inspect the ruined base, and disappear again.

This one was at least speaking to the people who lived and worked here.

And he hadn’t tried to move the drydock yet.

That counted for something.

Hana gestured toward the rigging behind Riko.

”We were inspecting the initial Yamato configuration.”

Kade looked at the machinery.

”Something wrong?”

”Not exactly.”

Riko groaned.

”Something’s wrong with the progression.”

Yuna smiled.

”She’s upset because her final rebuild isn’t immediately available.”

Kade glanced between them.

”Final rebuild?”

Riko’s expression brightened.

”Oh, you need to see this.”

She opened her equipment progression display.

A large holographic diagram appeared between them.

The Yamato-class stood at the beginning of a long modernization pathway.

Further along, after several stages of refitting, appeared the A-150 design.

Beyond that came more refits.

Then a requirement for an exceptionally rare rebuild authorization obtainable through missions.

And finally, at the end of the entire pathway, the immense four-twin-turret twenty-inch-gun configuration she had been admiring earlier.

Kade looked at it.

Then at the requirements.

Then back at the final design.

He was quiet for several seconds.

Riko waited.

Hana watched him with interest.

Yuna appeared to be suppressing a smile.

Finally, Kade spoke.

”That’s a lot of gun.”

Riko beamed.

”Right?”

”An irresponsible amount.”

”Exactly!”

He leaned closer.

”Four twin twenty-inch mounts?”

”Yes!”

”That’s eight barrels.”

”Yes!”

He looked at Hana.

”How much trouble is that going to be?”

Hana’s expression became thoughtful.

”A tremendous amount.”

Kade nodded.

”Thought so.”

Riko waved one hand.

”Ignore her. She’s attracted to maintenance schedules.”

Hana looked offended.

”I am not.”

Yuna smiled.

”You spent thirty minutes admiring a loading crane.”

”It was a very good crane.”

Kade glanced toward the enormous broken gantry visible beyond the warehouse.

”Then you’ll love our primary drydock.”

Hana followed his gaze.

Her smile disappeared.

”Oh.”

Kade nodded.

”Exactly.”

Riko laughed.

Yuna looked toward the waterfront.

”Have you seen the whole base yet?”

”Not quite.”

”What’s it like?”

Kade considered the question.

Then looked around the warehouse.

”Imagine somebody inherited an enormous naval installation.”

Yuna nodded.

”Yes?”

”Then imagine they decided the best maintenance strategy was to ignore it until the building started making suggestions.”

Hana laughed.

Riko looked delighted.

”So it’s bad.”

”It’s ambitious.”

”That’s worse.”

”It’s a charitable description.”

Yuna smiled.

”We knew it would be difficult.”

Kade looked at her.

”You chose this place knowing the condition?”

”Yes.”

”Really?”

Hana nodded.

”The three of us wanted somewhere we could build up together.”

Riko folded her arms.

”All the really nice bases were claimed.”

”That too,” Yuna admitted.

”But mostly,” Hana continued, ”we liked the idea of restoring something.”

Kade glanced toward the old drydock.

Then the warehouse.

Then the half-repaired railway outside.

”Well.”

He considered the enormous amount of work waiting beyond the door.

”You’ve certainly found something.”

Riko grinned.

”See? He understands.”

Hana smiled.

”I think he’s being sarcastic.”

Kade looked at her.

”Me?”

”Yes.”

”Never.”

Yuna laughed.

And the old maintenance warehouse, which had spent most of the morning echoing with machinery and complaints, acquired the sound of four people discovering that their particular varieties of nonsense might be surprisingly compatible.

 They might have continued talking for considerably longer if a new voice hadn’t echoed through the open warehouse doors.

”EXCUSE ME!”

Everyone turned.

A girl in a red-ribboned naval uniform stood at the entrance.

Her dark auburn hair was tied back in a familiar style, and a compact arrangement of destroyer rigging surrounded her shoulders and hips.

She carried a dented toolbox.

One cheek bore a streak of grease.

Her expression was annoyed.

”WHO MOVED MY WRENCH?”

Riko froze.

Yuna blinked.

Hana slowly turned.

Then all three looked at one another.

Riko raised a hand.

”Wait.”

The girl continued.

”I’m serious! I left it on the repair bench, and now it’s gone!”

A second voice answered from somewhere outside.

”Did you check your pocket?”

The girl looked down.

She patted one pocket.

Then another.

Her expression became complicated.

”That’s not the point!”

”You found it, didn’t you?”

”No!”

She reached into her pocket.

Pulled out a wrench.

Stared at it.

Then slowly lowered her hand.

The distant voice answered through the radio.

”You found it.”

The girl closed her eyes.

”...Possibly.”

”Aster.”

”Stop judging me!”

Riko made a strangled sound.

The girl turned.

For the first time, she noticed the people standing inside the warehouse.

Her eyes moved from Hana to Yuna.

Then to Riko.

Then to Chief Fenwick.

Then finally to Kade.

Her expression changed.

”Oh.”

Riko pointed.

”No way.”

The girl blinked.

”What?”

”You’re Aster!”

There was a pause.

Then the destroyer smiled.

”Last time I checked.”

Yuna stepped forward.

”From the trailer?”

Aster looked delighted.

”Oh, you’ve seen it?”

Riko stared.

”Everyone’s seen it!”

Hana looked between Aster and the equipment.

”Wait. You’re the player who created her?”

Aster nodded.

”Yep.”

”And voiced her?”

”Also yep.”

Riko opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Then looked at Hana.

”That’s her.”

Hana nodded.

”I can see that.”

”No, I mean that’s actually her!”

Aster laughed.

”Still me.”

Yuna smiled.

”I loved the trailer.”

”Thanks!”

”Especially the dockyard scenes.”

Aster groaned.

”Oh, no.”

Riko grinned.

”Especially the bollard.”

Aster stopped smiling.

There was a terrible silence.

Then she slowly lowered the toolbox.

”...Which one?”

Hana turned toward her.

”Which one?”

Aster looked away.

Riko gasped.

”THERE WERE MULTIPLE?”

Chief Fenwick closed her eyes.

Kade stared at Aster.

Then at the toolbox.

Then at the harbor.

Finally, he said:

”I’ve been here less than an hour, and somebody’s already confessing to repeated collisions with stationary objects.”

Aster looked offended.

”I didn’t confess!”

”You asked which one.”

”That proves nothing.”

”Admirable defense.”

”Thank you.”

”Not a compliment.”

”I’ve chosen to accept it.”

Hana made a helpless sound.

Yuna covered her mouth.

Riko was laughing so hard she had to lean against a steel support.

Aster watched them.

Then her expression softened into an enormous grin.

”All right, fine. You’ve got me.”

She approached.

”Aster. Fletcher-class destroyer.”

Kade shook her hand.

”Kade.”

Aster examined his insignia.

”Oh! You’re our new Commander.”

”Apparently.”

”Nice!”

She looked toward Chief Fenwick.

”Did you tell him about the western pier?”

The chief sighed.

”Not yet.”

Kade slowly turned.

”The what?”

Aster nodded solemnly.

”Western pier.”

”What happened to it?”

”Nothing.”

Kade stared.

Aster stared back.

He looked at the others.

Riko was still laughing.

Hana suddenly became very interested in a nearby maintenance diagram.

Yuna looked away.

Chief Fenwick closed her eyes.

Kade considered the situation.

Then looked back at Aster.

”Was there a bollard involved?”

Aster threw both hands into the air.

”WHY DOES EVERYONE ASSUME THAT?”

The warehouse erupted.

And, for perhaps the first time in several years, Horizon Atoll sounded considerably less like an abandoned naval installation and considerably more like a place where people actually wanted to be.

Aster had a perfectly reasonable explanation for the bollard incidents.

At least, that was her position.

Unfortunately, nobody else agreed.

”It was beta gameplay,” she insisted.

The group had relocated to an outdoor table beside the maintenance warehouse, where a tired electric fan had been placed beneath a striped canvas awning. The harbor breeze was pleasant enough that the fan wasn’t particularly necessary, but someone had plugged it in anyway.

Aster sat backward on a chair with her arms folded over its backrest.

Riko sat across from her.

Hana had acquired a notebook.

Yuna had acquired tea.

Kade had acquired the realization that an awful lot of his first afternoon was being spent investigating minor maritime collisions.

Chief Fenwick stood beside the table, reviewing a maintenance notice.

Aster continued.

”When they invited a few of us to participate in the promotional recording, they wanted actual footage from the beta sessions. They didn’t want us just standing around pretending to be shipgirls.”

Riko leaned forward.

”So that really happened?”

”Which part?”

”The wrench!”

”Yes.”

”The wrong turn at the harbor!”

”Yes.”

”The tugboat!”

Aster hesitated.

”...Unfortunately.”

Riko slapped the table.

”I KNEW IT!”

Aster pointed at her.

”That tugboat was badly positioned.”

Kade looked up.

”How does one badly position a tugboat?”

Aster considered the question.

Then frowned.

”You’re not helping.”

”I wasn’t trying.”

Hana laughed.

Yuna leaned toward Aster.

”And you designed your character yourself?”

Aster nodded.

”Completely. Face, hair, name, uniform, all of it. I was in the early creator group, so I got access to some of the editing features before the public build.”

”She’s adorable,” Yuna said.

Aster brightened.

”Thank you!”

Riko grinned.

”And you did the voice?”

”Yep.”

”All of it?”

”Every ridiculous line.”

”Even the one about the roof?”

Aster covered her face.

”Especially that one.”

Hana’s pencil paused above the notebook.

”So the dialogue was improvised?”

”Most of it. They had a general idea of what scenes they wanted, but the beta group had been playing together for weeks. We’d already developed little habits and jokes, so when the recording started, everyone just kept behaving normally.”

She smiled.

”The girl who played my mechanic had actually spent half an hour trying to get me to finish an equipment inspection. I kept distracting her because I wanted to test the new propulsion settings.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Did you finish the inspection?”

Aster looked away.

”...Eventually.”

”Before or after the tugboat?”

”That’s a loaded question.”

”It’s a chronological one.”

Riko laughed.

Aster sighed.

”After.”

Kade nodded.

”Good to know.”

Yuna looked thoughtful.

”Then the rescue sequence...”

Aster’s expression softened.

”Oh. Marielle?”

Yuna nodded.

”Was that from the beta too?”

”Yes. It was one of the coordinated missions they recorded. We had a real battle scenario running, though obviously nobody was actually hurt. The rigging damage, the recovery effort, and the reconstruction mechanics were all working systems.”

She paused.

”The underwater part was more complicated to capture, but the rescue was something we actually played through.”

Riko leaned closer.

”And the dialogue?”

Aster smiled faintly.

”Some of it was spontaneous.”

For the first time since arriving at the table, she looked slightly embarrassed.

”Marielle’s player had been having a rough day outside the game. Nothing catastrophic. Just one of those days when everything seems to go wrong.”

Yuna listened.

”She was really quiet during the mission,” Aster continued. ”When her character got disabled, she told us to leave her there and finish the objective.”

Hana lowered her pencil.

Aster looked down at her hands.

”I didn’t want to.”

There was a small silence.

Then she smiled again.

”So I went after her. The others followed. The promotional team liked the result, and they kept most of it.”

Yuna nodded slowly.

”That’s lovely.”

Aster shrugged.

”She’s a good friend.”

Riko looked toward her.

”Is she here?”

”Not yet. Different starting assignment.”

”Oh.”

”But we’re still in contact.”

”Good.”

Aster smiled.

”Yeah.”

The conversation might have remained unexpectedly sentimental if Kade hadn’t looked toward the far end of the harbor.

A distant metallic clang rang across the water.

Then another.

He looked back at Aster.

”So.”

She immediately became suspicious.

”So?”

”About the western pier.”

Aster groaned.

”Commander.”

”Just asking.”

”It’s fine.”

”That’s reassuring.”

”It really is.”

Chief Fenwick lowered her paperwork.

”The western pier isn’t fine.”

Aster stared at her.

”Chief!”

The woman continued.

”The outer walkway needs inspection, the mooring fixtures require replacement, and the protective railings on the northern extension have been damaged.”

Kade nodded.

”Ah.”

Aster pointed toward her.

”That last one wasn’t me!”

Chief Fenwick looked at her.

”I didn’t say it was.”

”But you were thinking it!”

”I was thinking that you should stop taking responsibility for damage nobody has attributed to you.”

Aster opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Riko bent over the table laughing.

Hana’s shoulders shook.

Yuna tried unsuccessfully to preserve an expression of sympathy.

Kade regarded the destroyer girl.

”Interesting legal strategy.”

Aster glared at him.

”I’m beginning to regret meeting you.”

”That makes two of us.”

Riko laughed harder.

Chief Fenwick checked the time.

Then closed her folder.

”Commander, as entertaining as this is, there are still a few matters requiring your attention.”

Kade looked toward her.

”Actual matters?”

”Actual matters.”

”Wonderful. I was starting to worry the assignment consisted entirely of investigating Aster.”

Aster raised both hands.

”WHY AM I THE INVESTIGATION?”

Hana patted her shoulder.

”There, there.”

”You’re not helping!”

”I wasn’t trying.”

Kade smiled.

Yuna hid another laugh.

Then Chief Fenwick placed the station report on the table.

The thump silenced everyone.

”All right.”

She opened the folder.

”Let’s discuss what we’ve actually got.”

 The report was worse when read alongside people who understood what it meant.

Kade had suspected as much.

An equipment inventory could make almost anything sound manageable if it used sufficiently dull language.

Power distribution deficiencies.

Partial water-processing interruptions.

Structural deterioration.

Deferred maintenance.

Those phrases acquired substantially more significance when accompanied by photographs of a rusting power substation, a pipe whose insulation had disintegrated, and a drydock whose main pumping equipment hadn’t passed inspection in years.

Chief Fenwick placed the report in the center of the table.

”The station remains operational in the narrowest possible interpretation of the word. We have a functioning command office, limited communications, several usable berths, a small amount of power generation, basic water processing, and enough remaining storage facilities to support the current garrison.”

Kade nodded.

”So we’re not entirely helpless.”

”No.”

”Good.”

”We are, however, badly underprepared for sustained naval operations.”

”Less good.”

”The principal drydock cannot accept capital ships.”

Riko made a wounded sound.

Hana looked toward her.

”Don’t.”

”I didn’t say anything.”

”You were about to.”

”I was going to express concern.”

”You were going to mourn your battleship.”

Riko considered the accusation.

”...Both.”

Kade looked at the report.

”What about the smaller facilities?”

Hana answered.

”The auxiliary maintenance platforms are usable. I checked two earlier. They’re old, but we can service smaller rigging assemblies and perform limited repairs.”

Chief Fenwick nodded.

”That’s correct.”

”And the machine shop?”

Hana’s expression brightened.

”That actually isn’t terrible.”

Riko looked at her.

”Your standards have become frightening.”

”I’m serious. The equipment is worn, but a lot of it is still salvageable. Some machines just need cleaning, lubrication, replacement belts, and calibration.”

Kade glanced toward the warehouse.

”How much of that can we do ourselves?”

Hana considered the question.

”Some immediately. Some once we have materials. The heavier repairs will need more people and proper lifting equipment.”

Chief Fenwick looked pleased.

”That agrees with our local engineers.”

Hana smiled.

”Good.”

Kade turned the page.

”Power?”

Chief Fenwick pointed toward a diagram.

”The main distribution system is unreliable. We have a small generator network keeping essential areas running, but the larger industrial facilities can’t operate at full capacity.”

”Why?”

”Several reasons.”

She tapped the map.

”Damaged cabling, corroded switchgear, equipment removed for use elsewhere, and insufficient reserve generation.”

Kade studied the diagram.

”Can we fix the distribution before we build more power?”

”Some sections.”

”Then that sounds useful.”

Hana nodded.

”Very.”

Yuna examined the map.

”What about aviation?”

Chief Fenwick looked toward her.

”The runway is not ready for regular operations. The northern hangar is usable for storage and limited maintenance, but the primary apron needs substantial work.”

Yuna sighed.

”That’ll take a while.”

”Yes.”

”Could I operate my carrier equipment from the harbor?”

”Provided the appropriate facilities are certified and you remain within your equipment’s operational limitations.”

Yuna nodded.

”Then I can start with that.”

Riko looked at her.

”See? Problem solved.”

Yuna smiled.

”Partially.”

”That’s more than I have.”

”You have enormous guns.”

”And nowhere to maintain them!”

Hana raised a finger.

”That’s what we’re discussing.”

Riko sighed.

”I know.”

Kade turned another page.

”Harbor defenses.”

Chief Fenwick’s expression became less cheerful.

”That’s an ongoing concern.”

The map displayed the outer ring of Horizon Atoll.

Several old artillery emplacements stood along the reef.

Some were partially functional.

Others had been stripped for parts.

A handful of observation posts remained occupied by the reduced garrison.

There were radar installations, but coverage was inconsistent.

The main sea approaches could be monitored.

The more distant channels were less reliably covered.

Kade looked toward Marina, who had joined the meeting after Chief Fenwick asked her to bring an updated survey of the old batteries.

”You’ve been checking the coastal guns?”

Marina nodded.

”Yes.”

”How bad?”

”Some are better than they look.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”That’s encouraging.”

”Some are worse.”

”Less encouraging.”

She smiled apologetically.

”The older emplacements are structurally sound in places, but the machinery needs attention. A few could probably return to service without complete reconstruction.”

Hana looked interested.

”Which ones?”

Marina pointed toward the western reef.

”These.”

The map highlighted two gun positions.

”Both still have serviceable foundations. Their ammunition storage needs inspection, and the elevation machinery is in poor condition, but the main structures are intact.”

Kade nodded.

”Then we don’t have to start from nothing.”

”Exactly.”

Marina smiled.

It was clear she liked the old fortifications.

Not merely because they were useful.

She appreciated their history.

Kade could understand that.

He looked back at Chief Fenwick.

”Anything urgent?”

The chief hesitated.

”Several things.”

”Pick one.”

She considered the question.

Then pointed toward a narrow channel through the western reef.

”The outer navigation beacon.”

Kade followed her finger.

A small tower stood on a rocky outcrop beside the channel entrance.

Its designation appeared on the map.

WESTERN APPROACH — BEACON THREE.

”What’s wrong with it?”

”Power failure.”

”How long?”

”Long enough that incoming vessels avoid the channel after sunset.”

Kade looked toward the lagoon.

”Is that bad?”

”Very. The eastern channel works, but it is narrower and less convenient for heavy supply traffic. The western approach was originally designed to accommodate larger vessels.”

Hana leaned forward.

”What’s wrong with the power supply?”

Chief Fenwick consulted the report.

”Unknown. It has been inspected, but repairs were postponed.”

”Why?”

”Personnel shortage.”

Hana nodded.

”That I believe.”

Yuna examined the map.

”If we restore the beacon, supply ships could use the western approach?”

”Subject to channel survey and harbor clearance, yes.”

Kade considered that.

The station needed power.

Water.

Repair facilities.

Defensive equipment.

Ammunition.

Food.

Construction materials.

And approximately everything else an operational naval base might reasonably expect to possess.

But none of those could be restored in a single afternoon.

A working navigation beacon, however, sounded like the sort of problem that might have a recognizable beginning and end.

He looked at Chief Fenwick.

”Can we inspect it?”

”Certainly.”

”Today?”

”Yes.”

He nodded.

”Then let’s start there.”

Riko blinked.

”The beacon?”

”Yes.”

”Not the drydock?”

Kade looked at her.

”Can we repair the drydock today?”

Hana answered before Riko could.

”No.”

”Can we inspect the beacon?”

”Probably.”

”Then I like the beacon.”

Riko considered that.

Then sighed.

”You’re being annoyingly reasonable.”

”Thank you.”

”Again, not praise.”

”I remain optimistic.”

Yuna smiled.

Chief Fenwick closed the folder.

”Very well. I’ll authorize the inspection party.”

Hana raised her hand.

”I’d like to go.”

”Of course,” Kade said.

Aster leaned forward.

”Me too.”

Kade looked toward her.

Aster looked back.

He considered the harbor.

Then the damaged piers.

Then the history of collisions that had somehow become her most recognizable personality trait.

”Are there bollards near the beacon?”

Aster’s eyes narrowed.

”Commander.”

”Important safety question.”

”There aren’t any.”

”Excellent.”

”Can I go?”

Kade looked at Chief Fenwick.

She shrugged.

”Aster’s propulsion systems are operational.”

”Then yes.”

Aster grinned.

”Fantastic!”

Yuna raised a hand.

”I can help with navigation.”

Marina nodded.

”And I have copies of the old channel charts.”

Riko looked between them.

”Can I come?”

Hana hesitated.

”Riko.”

”What?”

”You’re a Yamato-class battleship.”

”Yes.”

”It’s a navigation beacon.”

”I know.”

”On a small rocky outcrop.”

”Yes.”

”What exactly are you going to do?”

Riko considered the question.

Then answered with profound dignity.

”Provide moral support.”

Kade nodded.

”Critical military function.”

Riko pointed at him.

”See? He understands.”

Hana closed her eyes.

Yuna laughed.

Chief Fenwick looked toward the enormous Yamato rigging visible through the warehouse doors.

”Commander, the western approach has shallow reef sections. She cannot take her full equipment through the maintenance channel.”

Riko’s smile disappeared.

Kade looked at her.

”There’s your problem.”

”I could leave the rigging.”

”Then you’re welcome to come.”

Riko brightened.

”Really?”

”Of course.”

Hana looked toward Kade.

”You understand that you’ve just encouraged her.”

”Yes.”

”Deliberately?”

”Mostly.”

Yuna laughed.

Riko grinned.

Aster slapped the table.

”Best Commander we’ve had!”

Chief Fenwick looked at her.

”He’s been here for less than an hour.”

Aster considered that.

Then nodded.

”Strong start.”

 The inspection party departed shortly after midday.

Their transportation was not glamorous.

Kade had briefly imagined something involving a fast patrol boat, perhaps with a respectable naval radio and enough room for everybody to sit comfortably.

Instead, Chief Fenwick assigned them a battered harbor utility launch.

It was painted a faded shade of gray.

Its deck was scratched.

Its cabin contained several mismatched seats.

And a handwritten sign above the instrument panel read:

IF IT MAKES THAT NOISE AGAIN, TELL MAINTENANCE.

Kade stared at it.

Hana leaned around him.

”Oh.”

Aster grinned.

”That’s Boat Six!”

Kade slowly turned.

”You know it?”

”Of course.”

”Should I be concerned?”

”Not at all.”