Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

On the thirty-first morning after the Crisis, Commander Kade Bher discovered that someone had stolen his coffee cup.

This was unacceptable.

Not because the cup was particularly valuable.

It wasn’t.

It was a dark-blue ceramic mug with a chipped rim, a slightly uneven handle, and a faded white illustration of a naval anchor on one side. He had acquired it from the mess hall during his first week at Horizon Atoll, when the kitchen staff had grown tired of watching him drink coffee from disposable cups.

It held a respectable amount of coffee.

It didn’t leak.

The handle was comfortable.

And, most importantly, it was his.

Now it was gone.

Kade stood behind his desk in the command building, staring at the empty space beside a stack of maintenance reports.

He looked beneath the reports.

Nothing.

Behind the telephone.

Nothing.

Beside the radio.

A pencil.

Two paper clips.

A packet of biscuits that had apparently been there long enough to qualify as a historical artifact.

No cup.

Kade straightened.

Considered the situation.

Then looked toward the ceiling.

”All right.”

The ceiling fan continued turning.

”Which one of you did it?”

Nobody answered.

He glanced toward the open office door.

A pair of administrative clerks passed along the corridor, discussing a shipment of replacement industrial cables.

Neither appeared to be carrying a stolen coffee cup.

Kade considered stopping them for questioning.

He decided against it.

For now.

He looked toward his desk again.

The missing cup had occupied the same position for nearly three weeks.

Beside the telephone.

To the right of the maintenance reports.

Approximately fifteen centimeters from the edge, where Chief Fenwick had repeatedly warned him not to leave it because an unfortunate accident involving hot coffee and official documents would be difficult to explain to Regional Command.

It was a perfectly reasonable warning.

Which was why Kade had moved the reports instead.

Now the cup was missing.

He folded his arms.

”Interesting.”

A familiar voice came from the doorway.

”Commander?”

Kade turned.

Chief Petty Officer Mara Fenwick stood outside the office carrying a clipboard and a steaming cup of coffee.

He looked at the cup.

Then at her.

Then at the cup again.

Mara noticed.

Her eyebrows rose.

”...Something wrong?”

Kade pointed.

”Is that mine?”

She looked down.

”No.”

”Certain?”

”Quite.”

He studied the cup.

White porcelain.

Blue rim.

An old station insignia printed beneath the handle.

Not his.

He sighed.

”Unfortunate.”

Mara stared.

Then glanced toward the desk.

The empty space.

The suspiciously organized paperwork.

The Commander standing behind it with the expression of someone investigating a serious breach of military security.

Her mouth twitched.

”Oh.”

Kade narrowed his eyes.

”Chief.”

”Yes, Commander?”

”Have you seen my coffee cup?”

She took a sip.

”Which one?”

”My cup.”

”That narrows it down considerably.”

”The blue one.”

”With the anchor?”

”Yes.”

Mara considered the question.

Then looked toward the corridor.

”I don’t believe I’ve seen it this morning.”

Kade stared.

She smiled pleasantly.

”Is this an emergency?”

He considered that.

Then nodded.

”Potentially.”

”Should I alert Harbor Security?”

”Not yet.”

”Military Police?”

”Let’s not escalate prematurely.”

”Regional Command?”

Kade slowly closed his eyes.

Mara laughed.

”Sorry.”

”No, you’re not.”

”Not particularly.”

He looked toward her cup again.

She noticed.

Then moved it behind her clipboard.

Kade sighed.

”Cruel woman.”

”Drink something at breakfast, Commander.”

”I was planning to.”

”Excellent.”

”When I find my cup.”

Mara shook her head.

”You’re going to be impossible about this, aren’t you?”

”Professionally.”

She smiled.

Then held out the clipboard.

”Before you begin interrogating the kitchen staff, I have the morning reports.”

Kade examined the papers.

Fuel reserves.

Maintenance priorities.

Accommodation requests.

Supply requirements.

Keelborn training schedules.

An Admiralty Union circular that had arrived during the night.

And another report concerning suspected hostile activity along regional shipping routes.

He accepted the clipboard.

His expression became less playful.

”Anything urgent?”

”Nothing requiring an immediate alarm.”

”Good.”

”But there are several matters we’ll need to discuss.”

”Naturally.”

Mara stepped into the office.

The Commander returned to his desk.

And, for the moment, the investigation into the missing coffee cup was postponed in favor of the slightly less important business of running a naval base.

At least, that was how Kade chose to think of it.

 Horizon Atoll looked considerably different from the morning after the Crisis.

Not dramatically different.

Nobody had restored the entire naval station in a month.

The great primary drydock remained closed, its enormous machinery still awaiting parts, inspections, and repairs that would require more resources than the station currently possessed.

Several hangars remained unusable.

The old coastal fortifications were still only partially restored.

And parts of the southern industrial district looked as though they had been abandoned during an argument between an engineer and the concept of preventive maintenance.

But there were changes.

Real changes.

The western cargo district had working cranes.

Two, at least, that could be used reliably within their certified lifting limits.

Several warehouses had been cleared, repaired, and returned to limited service.

Pump Station Four had survived its first month of renewed operation without suffering another catastrophic failure, although Dain Okoro continued monitoring it with the suspicion normally reserved for known criminals.

The communications annex had reliable electricity.

Most of the occupied barracks had adequate water pressure.

A few old generators had been refurbished, and the main distribution network had undergone enough repairs that the station no longer experienced a power interruption every time somebody tried operating two large pieces of industrial equipment simultaneously.

The improvement was especially noticeable at night.

More lights remained on.

Not all of them.

But enough.

Enough that the harbor no longer resembled a collection of isolated buildings trying to avoid attracting one another’s attention.

The training facilities had improved too.

Several land-based instruction areas were operating.

A section of the inner lagoon had been cleared and surveyed for supervised maneuvering exercises following the discovery of the Blackwake mine.

Other waters remained restricted.

The station still lacked sufficient equipment to guarantee that every old approach was safe.

Kade had no intention of discovering another underwater explosive through Aster’s remarkable talent for accidental contact.

And then there was Breakwater.

The enormous Tennessee-class battleship had remained at Horizon.

Somehow, despite the extraordinary amount of fuel it consumed, the shortage of spare parts, and the growing collection of complaints from its engineering department, the player-crewed ship had become one of the station’s regular patrol vessels.

Not every day.

There were limits.

Very expensive limits.

But on scheduled patrol days, Captain Daniel Mercer took the old battleship beyond the protective reef, usually accompanied by Keelborn escorts, to watch the nearby approaches and discourage anything unpleasant from getting too close to the harbor.

The patrols were short.

Deliberately short.

Their routes were planned around fuel consumption, available intelligence, weather, and the requirement that Breakwater return with enough reserves to maneuver safely.

The ship could not afford to wander around the Pacific looking for trouble.

Fortunately, Mercer had developed a profound dislike of looking for trouble.

He felt trouble had already demonstrated sufficient enthusiasm for finding him.

The patrols nevertheless consumed fuel.

A great deal of fuel.

And every time Breakwater returned, Corwin Hale developed another headache.

Kade considered this a regrettable but necessary relationship.

The battleship protected the approaches.

The quartermaster protected the fuel budget.

And the Commander attempted to keep both from murdering one another over requisition forms.

So far, everybody had survived.

The station’s people were beginning to get used to the arrangement.

The dockworkers waved when Breakwater returned.

The harbor pilots had grown familiar with her handling characteristics.

The medical personnel knew several of the crew by name.

A few of the sailors had even become regular customers at the waterfront snack bar.

The proprietor liked them.

Within reason.

She had banned two of them from arguing about naval gun calibers inside the dining room after an exceptionally enthusiastic discussion nearly overturned a table.

Horizon Atoll was becoming a community.

An unusual one.

A crowded one.

A community containing substantially more naval artillery than any reasonable person required.

But a community nonetheless.

Kade looked over the latest station report.

Then toward Chief Fenwick.

”How’s the old lady?”

Mara glanced up.

”Which one?”

”Breakwater.”

The chief smiled.

”Returning from patrol this morning.”

”Any trouble?”

”None reported.”

”Fuel?”

Her smile disappeared.

Kade nodded.

”Thought so.”

”Captain Mercer has been very careful with his consumption.”

”I know.”

”But the reserve allocations remain inadequate for sustained operations.”

”Also know.”

Mara consulted the figures.

”Regional logistics approved part of our latest request.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”How generous.”

”Not enough.”

”Naturally.”

He read the allocation.

Then sighed.

The Admiralty Union had other priorities.

Major fortresses.

Critical convoy routes.

Industrial centers.

Frontline bases defending shipping lanes.

Horizon Atoll remained comparatively unimportant in the eyes of the regional supply authorities.

The station had improved its status somewhat by restoring part of its cargo-handling capacity and supporting nearby patrols, but it was still an old, neglected facility competing against installations with considerably stronger political influence.

Senko had helped enormously.

Her auxiliary transport capability allowed Horizon to bring in supplies that previously required complicated and expensive charter arrangements.

But even Senko couldn’t carry materials that nobody would release.

Or fuel that nobody would allocate.

Or replacement components that no longer existed in the nearest supply depots.

The practical difficulties had not disappeared when the Crisis began.

If anything, they had become worse.

Kade looked toward the industrial district.

”Any word about the next steel shipment?”

Mara checked.

”Delayed.”

”Again?”

”Again.”

”Reason?”

”Reallocated.”

He lowered the report.

”To?”

”A higher-priority naval facility.”

Kade stared at her.

She looked back.

Then he slowly leaned into his chair.

”Of course.”

Mara smiled sympathetically.

”Corwin is preparing an appeal.”

”Good.”

”He’s also preparing a rather strongly worded letter.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”How strongly?”

”He used the phrase administrative malpractice twice.”

Kade nodded.

”Excellent. He’s warming up.”

Mara laughed.

Then her expression softened.

”He’s doing his best.”

Kade looked toward the warehouse district.

”I know.”

And he did.

Corwin had spent twenty-two years at Horizon.

Dain had spent seventeen.

Mara herself had spent eleven.

None of them had needed newcomers to teach them that the station was falling apart.

They’d known.

They had been keeping it alive for years.

Now, with more hands and a little more material, they were finally beginning to make the sort of repairs they’d wanted to make all along.

Kade looked back at the reports.

Then glanced toward the empty space on his desk.

Still no cup.

He narrowed his eyes.

The investigation would resume shortly.

He had a naval base to run.

But he was not a forgiving man where coffee was concerned.

By eight fifteen, the hunt had taken Kade to the communications annex.

By eight twenty, he’d established that nobody in the communications annex had seen his cup.

Taken from NovelPhoenix, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

By eight twenty-three, he’d learned that a radio operator named Victor believed the cup might have been taken to the maintenance district.

By eight twenty-five, Victor admitted that he was guessing.

Kade looked at him.

Victor looked back.

”Sorry, Commander.”

Kade considered the young sailor.

”Victor.”

”Sir?”

”Do you understand the seriousness of providing false intelligence during an investigation?”

Victor blinked.

Then noticed the faint smile on Kade’s face.

”...Sir.”

”Entire fleets have been lost over less.”

”It’s a coffee cup.”

”A beloved coffee cup.”

Victor covered his mouth.

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”Something funny?”

”No, sir.”

”Good.”

”Very serious matter.”

”Extremely.”

The sailor’s shoulders shook.

Kade sighed.

”Carry on.”

He left the communications annex to the sound of Victor laughing behind him.

Outside, the harbor was already busy.

A small supply truck moved along the waterfront road, carrying replacement piping toward the water-processing district.

Several dockworkers were unloading machinery from a cargo platform near the western warehouses.

A pair of SIA Dolls stood beside the maintenance yard’s security checkpoint, speaking with one of the newly assigned synthetic-infantry players.

And farther along the quay, a group of Keelborn were preparing their equipment for the morning training exercises.

The station had developed an entirely new morning routine.

One that involved considerably more people than it had a month earlier.

Kade watched a pair of dockworkers walk past carrying a boxed electrical component.

One of them looked toward him.

”Morning, Commander!”

Kade nodded.

”Morning.”

”Pump Five’s getting inspected today!”

”Good luck.”

”We’ll need it!”

The man laughed.

His companion waved.

Kade watched them continue toward the maintenance building.

He recognized both men.

One had worked at Horizon for almost a decade.

The other had arrived from a regional repair facility after hearing that the station was finally receiving additional maintenance funding.

Neither was a player.

Neither knew what a VRMMORPG was.

As far as they were concerned, Horizon Atoll had acquired an unusually eccentric Commander and a collection of even more eccentric naval personnel.

They had adjusted.

Mostly.

The newcomers’ vocabulary continued to baffle them.

The strange medical event remained unexplained.

But after a month, the station’s older personnel had learned that most of the newly assigned Keelborn were young women who needed instruction, patience, and occasionally someone to tell them that operating enormous naval guns before completing their safety inspections was a terrible idea.

The dockworkers rather liked them.

Within reason.

Riko had become particularly popular among the construction crews.

Not because she possessed the world’s most ambitious battleship upgrade plan.

Because she had spent several afternoons helping carry materials, move equipment, and clear abandoned workshop spaces.

The workers had discovered that she was enthusiastic, polite, and surprisingly willing to do unpleasant jobs.

They had also discovered that she could spend an extraordinary amount of time explaining the theoretical advantages of twenty-inch naval artillery.

Most had developed effective strategies for escaping those conversations.

Yuna had become a familiar presence in the aviation district, where she helped the station personnel restore basic maintenance capacity and organize the equipment required for future carrier operations.

Aster was well liked by the destroyer detachments.

She was also watched very carefully whenever she approached a pier.

Hana had practically been adopted by the maintenance department.

Dain Okoro had begun referring to her as his assistant engineer, a designation she accepted with enormous pride.

Tali, meanwhile, had started exchanging technical notes with her.

The two possessed an alarming enthusiasm for finding forgotten machinery and determining whether it could be made operational again.

Senko had become Corwin Hale’s favorite person.

Mostly.

He loved her cargo capacity.

He loved her careful inventory records.

He loved the fact that she actually understood the importance of properly labeling supplies.

He did not love her habit of appearing in his office with another fifteen-page procurement proposal.

Kade considered all of that as he crossed the waterfront road.

For the first time since the Crisis, the station’s older personnel were no longer merely tolerating the newcomers.

They were forming relationships with them.

Arguments.

Friendships.

Habits.

Expectations.

The usual things people developed when they lived and worked together.

It was encouraging.

Very encouraging.

Then he heard a gun being inspected.

A metallic bolt slid backward.

A spring snapped forward.

Somebody sighed.

Kade turned.

Three young women stood beside the checkpoint near the training barracks.

One carried an M4A1 carbine.

Another held a Sten Mk V.

The third had an MP7 secured against her chest.

All three wore SIA service uniforms.

All three were players.

And all three had spent the past month discovering that the SIA designation came with substantially more complications than the game’s character-selection screen had suggested.

The first was Piper.

Twenty years old.

Brown hair cut just above her shoulders.

An unusually cheerful expression for someone assigned to early-morning security duty.

She had chosen the M4A1 because it was familiar, reliable, and suited the kind of infantry role she had expected to play.

The second was Tamsin.

Nineteen.

Dark-blonde hair.

Frequently tired-looking eyes.

And a Sten Mk V that prompted at least one question from every person who saw it.

The third was Ren.

Short black hair.

A quiet expression.

And an MP7 that seemed almost absurdly compact beside some of the heavier weapons carried by the station’s synthetic infantry.

Kade had met all three during the previous month.

He liked them.

They were competent enough to recognize what they didn’t know, which already placed them ahead of several newly arrived officers he’d encountered over the radio.

Piper noticed him first.

”Commander!”

He stopped.

”Morning.”

Tamsin nodded.

Ren gave a small wave.

Kade glanced toward the weapons.

”Inspection?”

Piper nodded.

”Before training.”

”Good.”

Tamsin looked toward her Sten.

Then sighed.

Kade noticed.

”Problem?”

She examined the weapon.

”Everyone keeps asking why I picked this.”

He looked toward the submachine gun.

”Well.”

Tamsin narrowed her eyes.

”Don’t.”

”Interesting choice.”

”Commander.”

”Historically significant.”

”Commander.”

”Distinctive appearance.”

Piper began laughing.

Tamsin looked betrayed.

”I liked it!”

Kade nodded.

”Perfectly valid.”

”Exactly!”

”Provided it works.”

”It does!”

Ren glanced toward the weapon.

Then quietly added:

”Most of the time.”

Tamsin slowly turned.

”Ren.”

The MP7 girl looked away.

Piper burst out laughing.

Kade smiled faintly.

For all their different weapon choices, the three had found a comfortable rhythm.

The SIA program’s equipment classifications permitted modern infantry weapons, unlike the naval technology restrictions governing Keelborn classes.

That had created some curious combinations among the player population.

M4A1 carbines.

Modern personal-defense weapons.

Older submachine guns selected for personal preference.

A few extremely peculiar loadouts that station instructors had immediately begun questioning.

The players still possessed their own real-world faces and bodies, but the AU’s records placed them within the SIA military classification.

That was proving awkward.

Especially because native SIA Dolls were synthetic persons with their own established service histories, while these newcomers had lived ordinary human lives before the Crisis.

The administrative system did not seem particularly interested in the distinction.

A native SIA Doll named Mira approached the checkpoint carrying the morning duty roster.

She looked toward Kade.

”Commander.”

”Mira.”

”Good morning.”

”Morning.”

She handed Piper a small document.

”Your team has been assigned to training Area Three. The instructor is waiting.”

Piper nodded.

”Thanks.”

Mira looked toward Kade.

”Are you visiting the training grounds?”

”Possibly.”

Her expression became curious.

”Possibly?”

”I’m investigating a disappearance.”

All four women looked at him.

Piper blinked.

”What disappeared?”

”My coffee cup.”

There was a silence.

Then Tamsin slowly lowered her Sten.

”...Your what?”

”Coffee cup.”

Ren’s eyes widened slightly.

Piper stared.

Mira considered the statement with complete seriousness.

”Have you reported the loss to station security?”

Kade looked at her.

She looked back.

Then her mouth twitched.

He narrowed his eyes.

”You’re enjoying this.”

”A little, Commander.”

Piper started laughing.

Tamsin covered her face.

Ren smiled.

Kade sighed.

”Everyone’s a suspect.”

Mira nodded solemnly.

”Understood.”

He pointed toward the barracks.

”Carry on. And no live ammunition during familiarization exercises.”

Piper gave him a thumbs-up.

”Already checked!”

”Good.”

Tamsin raised her Sten slightly.

”We’re doing handling drills.”

”Excellent.”

Ren nodded.

”Then range procedures.”

”Even better.”

Kade began walking away.

Behind him, Piper called:

”Commander!”

He glanced back.

”Yes?”

”Did you check the mess hall?”

He stopped.

Considered that.

Then looked toward her.

”Not yet.”

Piper grinned.

”Maybe somebody washed it.”

Kade stared at her.

The suggestion was disturbingly reasonable.

He narrowed his eyes.

”Suspiciously helpful.”

Piper laughed.

”You’re welcome!”

Kade continued toward the training grounds.

The mess hall could wait another ten minutes.

He had something else he wanted to check.

 The northern training area was significantly more organized than it had been a month earlier.

That wasn’t saying much.

The first week had involved enough confusion to convince Chief Fenwick that certain military traditions had been invented for very good reasons.

But there had been progress.

Actual progress.

Aster was standing on a concrete training platform beside a row of equipment diagrams.

Her Fletcher-class rigging rested on a fitting cradle nearby.

She was explaining the relationship between propulsion control, balance, and emergency stopping procedures to a small group of newly arrived destroyer girls.

Unlike the enthusiastic disaster Kade remembered from her first lessons, she was being quite methodical.

This surprised him.

He paused beside the entrance.

Aster pointed toward a diagram.

”Okay. If you lose propulsion on one side, don’t immediately throw your weight in the opposite direction.”

A young destroyer raised her hand.

”Why?”

”Because the rigging still has momentum.”

”Right.”

”And if you fight it too aggressively, you’re going to make the problem worse.”

Another girl nodded.

Aster continued.

”You need to know which parts of your equipment can still respond. Follow the emergency procedure, call for assistance, and don’t improvise unless you actually understand what you’re doing.”

Kade watched her.

Aster picked up a marker.

Then drew an arrow on the diagram.

”And before anyone asks, yes, your stopping distance matters.”

A girl near the back smiled.

”Speaking from experience?”

Aster slowly turned.

Her eyes narrowed.

The group laughed.

She pointed the marker toward the girl.

”Very funny.”

Kade smiled faintly.

There she was.

Still Aster.

Still perfectly capable of making herself the center of an argument.

But there was something different about her.

A month earlier, her confidence had been supported mostly by beta experience and enthusiasm.

Now she’d spent weeks teaching people who could actually be injured if they misunderstood her instructions.

And she’d nearly been killed by a Blackwake mine in a training area everybody had believed was safe.

That sort of experience changed people.

Not necessarily dramatically.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Aster finished the explanation.

Then pointed toward the equipment cradle.

”Right. We’re doing a supervised emergency-disconnect drill after the break. Nobody touches the release mechanism until the technicians are ready.”

Several girls nodded.

”Good.”

She glanced toward the entrance.

Saw Kade.

And immediately brightened.

”Commander!”

He raised one hand.

”Aster.”

The students turned.

Aster grinned.

”Come to inspect my teaching?”

”Among other things.”

She folded her arms proudly.

”Well?”

Kade looked toward the diagrams.

Then toward the equipment.

Then back at her.

”Surprisingly professional.”

Aster gasped.

”Surprisingly?”

He nodded.

”Deeply concerning development.”

The students began laughing.

Aster pointed at him.

”You’re the worst.”

”Frequently told.”

She sighed.

Then smiled.

”Did you need something?”

Kade considered the question.

”Have you seen my coffee cup?”

Aster blinked.

Then stared.

”...What?”

”Blue mug. White anchor.”

She looked at him.

Then toward the students.

Then back.

A slow smile appeared.

”Commander.”

”Yes?”

”Did you lose your coffee?”

”The cup.”

”Of course.”

”Important distinction.”

Aster covered her mouth.

Several students were already giggling.

Kade sighed.

”Another dead end.”

Aster laughed.

”Try the mess hall!”

”Everyone keeps saying that.”

”There’s probably a reason!”

He looked toward her.

She grinned.

He nodded solemnly.

”Suspicious.”

Then he turned toward the adjacent training platform.

Several other Keelborn were practicing formation procedures beneath the supervision of a small group of instructors.

Calla stood beside the range-control table.

Her Atlanta-class rigging was fully inspected and equipped, though her weapons remained secured.

The dark-haired cruiser had become one of Horizon’s most valuable instructors.

She possessed actual beta experience, particularly in anti-aircraft coordination and defensive formations.

That experience had saved lives during the convoy battle.

Now she was passing it on.

June was beside her.

June hadn’t participated in the beta.

But she’d survived the convoy battle, learned a great deal during the following month, and developed enough confidence to assist with basic communications and formation drills.

She still deferred to Calla on the more complicated procedures.

Kade appreciated that.

Knowing when someone else had more experience was an underrated skill.

Nearby, Elsa was instructing several cruiser-class girls on defensive positioning.

Her Admiral Hipper-class equipment had been repaired, and she was moving comfortably again.

She had also been a beta participant.

Like Calla, she understood things the newcomers were only beginning to learn.

At the far end of the training area, Nadya had gathered a small collection of battleship girls around an old gunnery diagram.

Her Sevastopol-class experience was particularly valuable because she had spent considerable time learning how to compensate for the limitations of older fire-control equipment.

Some of the younger battleship players were fascinated.

Others looked as though they regretted ever expressing an interest in gunnery.

Riko was among them.

She was staring at the diagram with an expression of profound concentration.

Nadya pointed toward a marked firing arc.

”Your guns being bigger does not make the target easier to hit.”

Riko nodded.

”Right.”

”And if you don’t understand what the director is telling you, you’re wasting ammunition.”

”Right.”

”And if you fire before your crew or equipment is ready—”

”Bad.”

Nadya smiled.

”Very bad.”

Kade approached.

”Learning something?”

Riko looked up.

”Commander.”

”Hm?”

”Did you know battleship gunnery involves an unreasonable amount of mathematics?”

He considered that.

”Yes.”

Riko stared.

”You knew?”

”One of the many reasons I chose Commander.”

Nadya laughed.

Riko sighed.

”I thought I’d just aim.”

Elsa, who had overheard from the neighboring platform, smiled.

”That’s adorable.”

Riko turned.

”HEY!”

Aster burst out laughing from across the training area.

Even Calla smiled.

Kade watched them for a moment.

One month.

A month of practice.

A month of frustration.

A month of learning that naval equipment wasn’t merely an impressive collection of weapons attached to an attractive character design.

Riko could now move her Yamato-class rigging without constantly losing her balance.

Yuna had become increasingly competent with her Illustrious-class equipment, including carefully supervised aviation handling exercises.

Aster had become more disciplined.

The cruiser girls were learning defensive maneuvers.

The destroyers were developing better communications procedures.

And the beta players had gradually become the station’s informal instruction cadre.

Nobody was calling them veterans of a real war simply because they’d participated in beta tests.

The distinction mattered.

But their experience gave everyone else somewhere to start.

That was valuable.

Especially now.

Because the casualty reports weren’t improving.

Not even slightly.

 Kade was halfway toward the mess hall when his radio crackled.

”Commander Bher, this is Horizon Control.”

He stopped.

”Go ahead.”

”Breakwater is returning from patrol. No hostile contacts. Captain Mercer requests clearance for the western approach.”

Kade glanced toward the harbor.

Beyond the breakwater, the enormous battleship was beginning to appear against the horizon.

He raised the handset.

”Clearance granted through Harbor Control. Have the pilot coordinate the approach.”

”Acknowledged.”

”Any mechanical problems?”

”None reported.”

”Fuel?”

There was a pause.

A very familiar pause.

Then:

”Engineering has submitted a consumption report.”

Kade closed his eyes.

”Of course they have.”

Another voice joined the channel.

”Horizon Command, Breakwater. Mercer here.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Captain.”

”Morning, Commander.”

”How was the cruise?”

”Quiet.”

”Excellent.”

”Too quiet, if you ask Gunnery.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”I wasn’t asking Gunnery.”

Mercer laughed over the radio.

”Neither was I.”

Kade looked toward the distant ship.

”Anything unusual?”

”A few suspicious radar returns. Nothing confirmed. We remained within the assigned patrol area.”

”Good.”

”Engineering would also like me to inform you that the fuel situation remains an offense against civilization.”

Kade sighed.

”Tell Engineering I share their feelings.”

”They’ll appreciate that.”

”Unfortunately, it won’t make more fuel appear.”

”They’ll appreciate it less.”

Kade smiled.

”Welcome home, Captain.”

A pause.

Then Mercer answered.

”Good to be back.”

The radio fell quiet.

Kade watched Breakwater’s great steel hull moving toward the western approach.

The ship was familiar now.

An enormous presence in Horizon’s daily life.

Its sailors had formed friendships with the dockworkers.

Its medical personnel occasionally helped at the station infirmary.

Several of its engineers had joined the ongoing infrastructure surveys.

Its captain regularly attended supply meetings and usually left them looking as though he had aged several years.

But the battleship remained a military vessel.

A dangerous one.

A vulnerable one.

And one whose entire crew could suffer very real consequences if something went wrong.

Kade watched the ship.

He had no illusions about what a direct hit could do to a human crew.

The men aboard Breakwater had no Ship Pendants.

No Keelborn restoration process.

No guarantee that they would survive a battle simply because they were operating an unusually powerful warship.

The captain understood that.

So did his officers.

They’d spent the month drilling damage control, gunnery procedures, communications, and emergency repairs.

And they kept patrolling.

Not because they were invincible.

Because the waters around Horizon needed watching.

Kade lowered the radio.

Then looked toward the regional communications building.

There were other reports waiting.

Less pleasant ones.

He knew.

Chief Fenwick had included them in the morning folder.

He’d deliberately set them aside until after inspecting the training program.

Not because they were unimportant.

Because he wanted a clear head before reading them.

And, ideally, coffee.

He glanced toward the mess hall.

Then sighed.

”All right.”

Time to investigate the next crime scene.

 Corwin Hale was sitting inside the mess hall when Kade arrived.

This was unusual.

The quartermaster typically spent his mornings buried beneath enough procurement forms to qualify as a geological feature.

Now he occupied a small table beside the windows with a bowl of breakfast and a newspaper.

He looked up.

”Commander.”

Kade nodded.

”Corwin.”

”Morning.”

”Have you seen my cup?”

Corwin blinked.

Then looked toward the kitchen.

”...Your cup?”

”Blue. White anchor.”

The quartermaster stared.

Then smiled.

”Oh.”

Kade narrowed his eyes.

There it was again.

That reaction.

He’d received it from Mara.

From several communications personnel.

From Piper.

And now Corwin.

He folded his arms.

”Corwin.”

”Yes, Commander?”

”What do you know?”

The older man looked innocent.

”About?”

”The cup.”

Corwin slowly folded his newspaper.

”I believe the kitchen staff may be able to help.”

Kade stared.

Then looked toward the serving counter.

A cook was watching them.

She immediately turned away.

Too quickly.

Kade narrowed his eyes further.

”Interesting.”

Corwin took another bite of breakfast.

”Very.”

Kade approached the counter.

The cook behind it was a woman named Eliza Ward.

She had worked at Horizon for eight years.

She was an excellent cook.

She possessed an astonishing ability to remember the preferences of nearly everyone who entered the mess hall.

And she had developed a particularly irritating habit of reminding Kade that coffee did not count as a balanced meal.

She looked up.

”Commander.”

Kade leaned against the counter.

”Eliza.”

”Breakfast?”

”Eventually.”

She raised an eyebrow.

”Eventually?”

”I’m investigating something.”

She considered that.

Then smiled.

”Oh?”

Kade held up one finger.

”Blue cup.”

Her smile widened.

”White anchor.”

”Yes.”

”Chipped rim.”

”Yes.”

”Bit of a stain inside because somebody insists on drinking very strong coffee?”

Kade stared.

She nodded.

”Thought so.”

He folded his arms.

”Where is it?”

Eliza looked toward the kitchen.

Then back at him.

”Safe.”

Kade blinked.

”...Safe?”

”Perfectly safe.”

He stared.

For a moment, he considered several possible responses.

Then he sighed.

”You’ve taken my cup hostage.”

Eliza folded her arms.

”I have not.”

”Then why won’t you give it back?”

”Because you haven’t eaten breakfast.”

There was a long silence.

Kade stared.

Eliza stared back.

Then he slowly closed his eyes.

”Oh, for the love of—”

”You were in here yesterday evening.”

He opened one eye.

She continued.

”You had a cup of coffee. You got a radio call, put the cup on the counter, and left.”

Kade blinked.

He remembered the radio call.

A supply allocation problem.

A disagreement involving replacement electrical cables.

Chief Fenwick had asked him to review the request.

He had left the mess hall.

He had indeed been carrying coffee.

The realization arrived with extraordinary irritation.

”...Oh.”

Eliza nodded.

”Exactly.”

Kade looked toward the kitchen.

”So you washed it.”

”Yes.”

”And kept it.”

”Yes.”

”And waited for me to come looking for it.”

”Yes.”

He considered that.

”Why?”

She looked at him.

Then pointed toward the serving line.

”Because it’s almost nine and you still haven’t eaten.”

Kade stared.

Eliza smiled sweetly.

”Breakfast.”

He looked toward the kitchen.

Then toward Corwin.

The older quartermaster had buried his face behind the newspaper.

His shoulders were shaking.

Kade slowly looked back at Eliza.

”This is extortion.”

”Eggs?”

”Criminal extortion.”

”Potatoes?”

”Abuse of institutional authority.”

”Toast?”

He sighed.

”...Yes, please.”

Eliza beamed.

”Excellent.”

She reached beneath the counter.

Produced the dark-blue mug.

And placed it before him.

Clean.

Dry.

Intact.

The little white anchor faced outward.

Kade stared.

Then picked it up.

For a moment, his expression became almost reverent.

”At last.”

Eliza shook her head.

”You’re ridiculous.”

”Frequently.”

She filled the cup.

Hot coffee.

Strong.

Exactly the way he liked it.

Then placed a breakfast tray beside it.

Kade looked down.

Eggs.

Potatoes.

Toast.

A small serving of fruit.

He raised an eyebrow.

”All of this?”

”Yes.”

”You’re trying to make me healthy.”

”Terrible accusation.”

He smiled faintly.

”Suspicious.”

Eliza leaned forward.

”Commander.”

”Hm?”

”Eat.”

He nodded.

”Yes, ma’am.”

The cook smiled.

Then returned to her work.

Kade carried his tray toward the nearest table.

Corwin was still laughing behind his newspaper.

Kade sat across from him.

The quartermaster lowered the paper.

”Found it?”

Kade set down the mug.

”Recovered.”

”Excellent.”

”Negotiations were difficult.”

”I imagine.”

”Several demands were made.”

”Naturally.”

Kade looked at his breakfast.

Then toward the cup.

Then back at Corwin.

”Fortunately, we reached an agreement.”

The old man laughed.

For a few minutes, Kade ate.

And that, more than anything else, was when the month began to feel real.

Not the repaired machinery.

Not the battleship returning from patrol.

Not even the Keelborn training schedules.

The fact that a woman who had spent eight years cooking at Horizon Atoll knew exactly how he liked his coffee, had noticed that he wasn’t eating properly, and had decided to do something about it.

He looked toward the kitchen.

Eliza was arguing with a sailor about whether he could have a second helping of potatoes.

The sailor was losing.

Kade smiled faintly.

This place had been alive long before he arrived.

And it was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine it otherwise.

 The unpleasant news arrived with Chief Fenwick.

She entered the mess hall carrying the sealed regional communications folder.

Kade noticed the red classification strip immediately.

He set down his fork.

Mara approached the table.

”Commander.”

He glanced toward her expression.

The humor faded.

”What happened?”

She sat opposite him.

Corwin lowered his newspaper.

Mara opened the folder.

”Regional situation report.”

Kade nodded.

”Go on.”

”Another group of inexperienced Keelborn was lost during a Blackwake encounter near a contested shipping route.”

His expression tightened.

”How many?”

”Seven confirmed fatalities. Five Pendants recovered.”

Kade looked down.

Seven.

Another seven.

The casualty lists had grown almost every day since the Crisis.

Destroyers.

Cruisers.

Carriers.

Battleships.

Experienced players.

Inexperienced players.

Keelborn who had taken their first steps on the water less than a month earlier.

Some casualties could be restored.

If the Pendants survived.

If the repair facilities were available.

If the necessary materials could be obtained.

If the associated warships could be rebuilt.

The process was real.

So were its limitations.

Horizon Atoll’s own facilities were still far from sufficient for the most demanding restorations.

Kade looked back at Mara.

”Other reports?”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

”There are allegations of raids against smaller installations.”

Corwin frowned.

”Blackwake?”

”Not necessarily.”

Kade looked toward her.

”Explain.”

Mara opened the next page.

”Several regional commands report armed groups attempting to seize supplies, fuel, or control of lightly defended facilities. Some witnesses claim the attackers were newly assigned officers and Keelborn from other player-associated formations.”

Kade remained still.

”Confirmed?”

”Not all of it.”

”How much?”

”A few incidents have been independently reported. Others are rumors. Regional Command is still sorting out the accounts.”

He nodded.

That was the right distinction.

The reports were troubling enough without treating every frightened sailor’s story as established fact.

But he couldn’t ignore them.

People had been trapped in the new world for a month.

Some had adapted.

Some had found communities.

Others had discovered that the game-world’s supplies, weapons, territory, and military authority had all become real.

And some of those people apparently saw opportunity in that.

Opportunity to take materials.

Opportunity to claim better facilities.

Opportunity to intimidate anyone who couldn’t defend themselves.

Kade looked toward the harbor.

The old drydock stood beyond the windows.

Horizon Atoll had been unwanted when he’d claimed it.

The facilities were still poor.

But they were improving.

It possessed a deep-water anchorage.

A working cargo district.

A growing group of Keelborn.

A player-crewed battleship.

And an auxiliary transport.

Those things had value.

Increasing value.

He looked back at Mara.

”Any direct threats to Horizon?”

”None confirmed.”

”Good.”

”Regional Command recommends increased vigilance.”

Kade nodded.

”Already doing that.”

Corwin looked toward the reports.

”What about the AU directives?”

Mara’s expression changed.

She turned another page.

The document carried an administrative seal.

EMBODIED NAVAL ASSET MANAGEMENT — EMERGENCY CONTINUITY MEASURES.

Kade stared at the heading.

His appetite diminished.

Mara continued.

”Some regional authorities are authorizing temporary reassignment of Keelborn units without ordinary transfer procedures when military necessity is cited.”

Corwin frowned.

”That’s going to cause arguments.”

”Yes.”

Kade read farther.

The wording was familiar.

Operational readiness.

Command custody.

Asset availability.

Emergency requisition.

The same language he’d encountered throughout the month.

Language designed to manage naval equipment.

Except the equipment could now cry.

Could feel pain.

Could refuse.

Could be frightened.

Could remember dying.

Kade looked toward Mara.

”How broad is the authorization?”

”Varies by jurisdiction. The directive doesn’t give every local officer unlimited authority, but it does expand certain emergency powers.”

He nodded slowly.

”Any examples?”

She hesitated.

”There are complaints.”

He waited.

”Several Keelborn have alleged that their commanding officers refused reassignment requests or threatened to withhold repairs unless they accepted additional duties.”

Kade’s eyes narrowed.

”Investigated?”

”Some. Others are pending.”

”Player commanders?”

”Several of the named officers are newly assigned.”

He nodded.

Mara continued.

”There are also complaints about personal restrictions and officers asserting authority beyond their actual assignments.”

Corwin’s expression darkened.

He was not unfamiliar with bad officers.

He’d served long enough to know that some men viewed rank as permission to behave however they liked.

The Crisis had apparently produced a new collection of them.

Some were young.

Others were old enough to know better.

Most were human officers occupying command and administrative positions.

The AU’s existing legal framework made it disturbingly easy to justify certain kinds of control over Keelborn.

Kade looked toward the report.

”Any findings?”

Mara shook her head.

”Not yet.”

He closed the folder.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Corwin sighed.

”God help those girls.”

Kade glanced toward him.

The old quartermaster looked genuinely troubled.

Corwin had spent his life operating inside the AU’s supply and military administration.

He was accustomed to the language of assets and equipment.

He had processed countless requisitions.

Signed thousands of forms.

Approved transfers.

Denied requests.

But the past month had forced him to deal directly with Keelborn who looked, sounded, and behaved like ordinary young women.

Riko bringing him a carefully organized materials request.

Yuna thanking the warehouse staff for helping restore her aviation equipment.

Aster arguing about the proper storage of replacement gun components.

Senko arriving in his office with a transfer folder and an enormous smile.

Corwin knew their names.

He knew their personalities.

He knew some of their favorite foods.

And now the morning report was discussing people much like them as resources to be moved, assigned, and controlled.

He looked toward Kade.

”Commander.”

”Hm?”

”If someone tries to requisition our Keelborn...”

Kade looked toward the harbor.

Then back at him.

”We follow the actual chain of command, verify the legal authority, and make sure everyone involved understands what the order means.”

Corwin nodded slowly.

Kade continued.

”And if somebody starts waving a piece of paper around because he thinks it means he owns the person standing next to him, I want to see that paper.”

Mara looked at him.

He met her eyes.

His expression was calm.

Very calm.

”Personally.”

There was a silence.

Then Chief Fenwick nodded.

”Understood.”

Kade returned his attention to the report.

He couldn’t rewrite the Admiralty Union’s laws from an office at Horizon Atoll.

He couldn’t undo the abuses taking place elsewhere.

He couldn’t guarantee that every rumor was true, or that every victim would receive help.

He didn’t possess that kind of authority.

But he did possess some authority.

And he intended to know exactly where it began and ended.

For the moment, that was worth something.

He looked toward his coffee.

Still warm.

Good.

He took a sip.

Then picked up the next report.

 By the time breakfast ended, Breakwater had reached her anchorage.

The patrol crew began their post-voyage inspections.

The fuel department started another argument about allocations.

Calla returned to the training grounds.

Elsa and Nadya resumed their instruction schedules.

June helped prepare the next anti-aircraft communications exercise.

Hana continued working with Dain and Tali on the industrial distribution network.

Senko was negotiating for cargo space aboard her next approved supply movement, subject to the usual restrictions concerning escorts, fuel, and whether anyone actually possessed the materials Horizon required.

Piper, Tamsin, and Ren began their infantry training session.

Mira completed the security inspection.

The dockworkers unloaded another shipment.

The mess hall served lunch preparations.

And Horizon Atoll continued functioning.

Barely, in some places.

Comfortably, in others.

Better than a month earlier.

Still nowhere near as well as anyone wanted.

Kade returned to the command building with the recovered coffee cup in his hand.

Chief Fenwick was waiting beside the operations board.

She looked toward the mug.

Then smiled.

”Recovered your property?”

Kade set it down on his desk.

”After difficult negotiations.”

”Casualties?”

”None.”

”Excellent.”

”Several concessions.”

”Tragic.”

He looked toward her.

She smiled.

Kade shook his head.

Then turned toward the harbor map.

A month’s worth of changes lay before him.

The repaired facilities.

The operating warehouses.

The restricted training sectors.

The incoming supply routes.

Breakwater’s patrol area.

The places where their defenses remained inadequate.

And the enormous gray outline of the primary drydock.

Still waiting.

Still broken.

Still representing more work than the station could currently complete.

Kade considered the map.

Then opened the latest maintenance report.

Beyond the windows, a group of destroyer girls were practicing radio procedures.

Aster’s voice carried faintly across the courtyard.

Somebody laughed.

A heavy vehicle moved along the waterfront road.

A crane began lifting another shipment toward Warehouse Three.

Farther out, the old battleship rested at anchor, her crew already preparing for the next maintenance period.

The sounds were familiar now.

Not comfortable in the way an ordinary school holiday might have been.

Not safe in any absolute sense.

But familiar.

It had been a month.

Thirty-one days since the earthquake.

Thirty-one days since the severe headaches.

Thirty-one days since the players woke inside a world that would not let them leave.

Thirty-one days since Kade remembered a life he had no intention of discussing.

The world had offered no explanation.

No convenient escape.

No assurance that things would improve.

Instead, it had offered shortages, bureaucracy, naval warfare, complicated people, and a truly unreasonable amount of paperwork.

Kade looked at his coffee cup.

Then toward the open harbor.

He smiled faintly.

”Well.”

Mara glanced over.

”Commander?”

He took a sip.

The coffee was excellent.

Finally.

He lowered the mug.

”At least I’ve got this back.”

Chief Fenwick laughed.

Then her radio crackled.

”Horizon Command, Harbor Control. Incoming regional communications. Priority message for Commander Bher.”

Mara looked toward him.

Kade closed his eyes.

Of course.

There was always another message.

He set the cup safely away from the reports.

Then nodded.

”Put it through.”

The chief reached for the radio.

Outside, Horizon Atoll’s flags stirred in the sea breeze.

The repaired beacon watched over the western approach.

The harbor was busy.

The fleet was learning.

The station was growing.

And beyond the reef, the world was becoming a much more dangerous place than any of its newest inhabitants had imagined.

Kade Bher sat behind his desk.

Eighteen years old.

Commander of Horizon Atoll.

Owner of one recently recovered coffee cup.

And responsible for an increasingly extraordinary collection of people who, for reasons he still found mildly baffling, appeared to trust him.

He looked toward the communications equipment.

Then sighed.

”All right.”

He reached for the handset.

”Let’s hear it.”