Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

The dead were considerably lighter on paper.

Kade Bher hated that.

He had been staring at the same two names for eleven minutes.

Not the entire casualty report.

Not the damage assessment.

Not the preliminary intelligence obtained from the Burnt Narrows.

Just two names.

The first belonged to Seaman First Class Thomas Reed.

Twenty-one years old.

Former player.

Assigned to Breakwater’s anti-aircraft battery.

Killed during the surface engagement.

The second belonged to Petty Officer Third Class Mateo Alvarez.

Twenty-four years old.

Former player.

Assigned to the battleship’s engineering and electrical support division.

Died of injuries sustained during the attack on the aft upper works.

Two lines.

Two military identification numbers.

Two ages.

Two short descriptions of the circumstances surrounding their deaths.

There were more pages attached.

Medical reports.

Witness statements.

Damage-control records.

Statements from the officers responsible for their departments.

A list of personal effects.

Proposed casualty notifications.

An unfinished recommendation for military honors.

But the central personnel report required only a small amount of space to record that two people who had been alive that morning were no longer alive.

Kade found that profoundly offensive.

He sat behind his desk in Horizon Atoll’s command office with a half-empty cup of coffee beside his left hand and a brass desk lamp illuminating the papers in front of him.

The room was otherwise dark.

Outside the windows, the naval station had settled into the uneasy quiet that followed a major battle.

Not silence.

Horizon was never completely silent.

Somewhere beyond the administration building, repair trucks were moving between the maintenance district and the waterfront. Portable generators hummed. The harbor cranes occasionally groaned as technicians repositioned damaged rigging assemblies for inspection.

From the direction of the naval anchorage came the distant metallic sounds of people working aboard Breakwater.

The battleship was home.

That was the good news.

The bad news occupied considerably more paper.

Kade glanced toward the clock.

02:17.

He had been awake for far too long.

The previous evening had ended with him sitting across from Chief Mara Fenwick, eating a sandwich he barely remembered tasting.

She had eventually ordered him to stop working.

He’d agreed.

Then spent almost an hour lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while trying not to imagine what might have happened if the Blackwake’s final bombing run had struck Breakwater’s ammunition spaces.

Eventually, he had gotten up.

Washed his face.

Changed his shirt.

And returned to his office.

Now the paperwork was waiting.

Of course it was.

Kade rubbed his eyes.

Then reached for the top document.

ADMIRALTY UNION — PACIFIC STATION COMMAND

HORIZON ATOLL — AFTER-ACTION CONSOLIDATED REPORT

OPERATION: BURNT NARROWS

STATUS: COMBAT PHASE CONCLUDED

He looked down.

The report contained sections for strategic assessment, tactical results, friendly losses, enemy losses, expenditure, medical casualties, equipment damage, recovery operations, and logistical recommendations.

It was extremely thorough.

It was also unfinished.

He had spent much of the night discovering that finishing a battle and finishing the paperwork describing it were two entirely different achievements.

The first had required battleships, destroyers, cruisers, aircraft, and fifteen young women with enough collective firepower to make the infantry quartermaster nervous.

The second required signatures.

An astonishing number of signatures.

Kade looked toward the thick stack of documents beside the lamp.

Then sighed.

”I think I’d rather fight another carrier.”

The sentence left his mouth.

He immediately regretted it.

He looked toward the casualty report.

Then lowered his eyes.

”No.”

A pause.

”Definitely not.”

He picked up his pen.

On the first page, the operation was described as a tactical success.

The Blackwake forward installation at the Burnt Narrows had been disrupted.

The enemy carrier strike force had been destroyed.

The designated landing party had returned.

An infected civilian survivor had been recovered.

A former-player Sensha Pendant had been retrieved intact.

Those were considerable achievements.

Under ordinary circumstances, Kade might have been pleased.

Perhaps even proud.

But beneath that summary was the section labeled FRIENDLY LOSSES.

And that was where the successful operation became difficult to look at.

Breakwater had suffered heavy damage to the upper works, underwater protection, electrical systems, and multiple anti-aircraft positions. Emergency repairs had stabilized the ship, but she could not be considered fit for another major engagement until a proper survey and substantial refit work were completed.

The battleship’s crew had sustained two confirmed fatalities and a larger number of wounded.

Every man aboard Breakwater was a former player.

That distinction had been established from the very beginning of her assignment to Horizon.

She wasn’t a conventional Admiralty Union battleship manned by native professional sailors who had spent their entire lives serving this world’s navy.

She was something considerably stranger.

An actual Tennessee-class battleship in the extensively modernized configuration of USS California, operated by a complete human crew assembled from the player community of FRONTLINE HEARTS.

Hundreds of men.

Captain Daniel Mercer.

Executive Officer Adrian Cole.

The engineering watch.

The gunnery crews.

The communications personnel.

The damage-control parties.

Every single one of them had come from the same original Earth as Kade.

Before the Crisis, they had been scattered across different cities, states, and countries.

Some had studied engineering. Others had worked ordinary jobs. Several were history enthusiasts. Some were students who had spent far too much time reading about battleships and arguing over their favorite naval designs.

They had joined together to operate an actual ship within what they believed was an extraordinarily ambitious military MMORPG.

The first day of operation had involved target practice, confusion, missed procedures, arguments about watch rotations, and the sudden realization that coordinating hundreds of people aboard a battleship was considerably more complicated than controlling a shipgirl’s rigging.

Then the Crisis had happened.

And Breakwater had become real.

Not real because somebody had decided to improve the graphics.

Real because the steel was cold beneath their hands.

Because ammunition had mass.

Because fires consumed oxygen.

Because flooding dragged enormous quantities of seawater through damaged compartments.

Because men could bleed.

And because two of those men were now dead.

Kade looked down at the casualty entries again.

It would have been easy to write that they were former players.

That was how the station administration categorized their origin.

But the distinction carried a cruel additional meaning.

Neither Thomas Reed nor Mateo Alvarez had entered FRONTLINE HEARTS expecting to die.

They had entered because they wanted to experience something extraordinary.

A warship.

A crew.

A world of naval history brought to life.

They had survived the transition from game to reality.

They had helped bring Senko safely to Horizon.

They had learned to operate their ship under increasingly frightening conditions.

And now they were gone.

No respawn.

No return to the character-selection screen.

No waking up at home and pulling off a headset.

Their bodies were real.

Their deaths were real.

And Kade had signed the authorization that sent their ship into the Burnt Narrows operation.

He swallowed.

Then forced himself to continue.

Aster had suffered a penetrating fragment injury and considerable damage to her Fletcher-class equipment.

June’s Atlanta-class rigging had sustained propulsion and protective-support damage, along with bodily injuries requiring treatment.

Elsa had returned with additional wounds and heavy-cruiser equipment requiring extensive repair.

Riko’s Yamato-class Mk. I had survived, but the recoil-support systems required inspection and probable component replacement.

Mina and Emi had returned exhausted, their intermediate rigs showing the wear expected from an emergency deployment that had exceeded anything contemplated during their recent training.

Yuna’s Illustrious-class equipment was functional.

Her aviation group had not been so fortunate.

One Sea Hurricane.

Two Fairey Barracudas.

Missing and assessed lost.

Their fairy aircrew remained unaccounted for.

Kade lingered on that final entry.

He had nearly overlooked it during the first report.

Not because he didn’t care.

Because the initial aviation expenditure sheet had listed aircraft losses under materiel.

Three aircraft.

Three entries.

Replacement airframes required.

Then the aviation casualty supplement arrived.

It was much longer.

Aircraft did not fly themselves.

Not even the tiny ones carried in a Keelborn’s rigging.

Yuna’s fairy pilots were living personnel.

They had names.

Service records.

Qualifications.

Personal effects.

And friends waiting beside an aviation deck for them to come back.

The surviving fairy crews had been recovered.

The missing ones had not.

Kade had insisted that the casualty register carry two separate entries.

One for aircraft.

One for people.

Until their deaths could be confirmed, the missing fairies would remain listed as missing.

Not conveniently converted into an equipment write-off.

He stared at the amendment he’d signed.

Then turned the page.

There was more.

Of course there was.

Ammunition.

Fuel.

Medical supplies.

Repair materials.

Torpedoes.

Aircraft ordnance.

Spent anti-aircraft ammunition.

Damaged equipment that might be repaired.

Damaged equipment that almost certainly couldn’t.

Kade considered the list.

Then looked toward the ceiling.

”How much does one battle cost?”

Nobody answered.

A second later, he amended the question.

”Actually, don’t tell me.”

He turned another page.

Corwin Hale had already told him.

In considerable detail.

The quartermaster’s preliminary accounting was attached to the operational report in a separate folder.

It was a very thick folder.

Kade regarded it with the suspicion ordinarily reserved for unexploded ammunition.

Then he looked back at the two names on the casualty sheet.

Thomas Reed.

Mateo Alvarez.

For all the accounting involved, no entry in the folder could tell him what those lives had cost.

He reached for the personnel reports.

If he was going to put his signature on the official record, the least he could do was learn something about the men who had died.

 Thomas Reed had liked battleships.

That was the first thing Kade discovered.

Not merely served aboard one.

Liked them.

His file contained the ordinary details expected in a military personnel record, but there was an unusual attachment that distinguished it from the native service files Kade had become accustomed to reviewing.

PRE-CRISIS PLAYER REGISTRATION — FRONTLINE HEARTS

It included Reed’s original account information, his selected naval role, the identification assigned to him when he joined Breakwater’s organized crew, and the emergency service record assembled after the Crisis.

There was no childhood history in the Meridian Federation.

No native naval academy.

No years of service aboard other Admiralty Union vessels.

Thomas Reed had been born on the original Earth.

He had grown up in the American Midwest, in a small inland city hundreds of miles from the nearest coastline.

As a child, he’d collected photographs of historical warships.

As a teenager, he’d built scale models.

And when he’d discovered that FRONTLINE HEARTS permitted groups of players to crew a fully modeled historical battleship, he’d signed up with an enthusiasm that several of his friends apparently considered unreasonable.

Kade could sympathize.

Breakwater was an impressive ship.

Even he had been excited the first time he’d seen her.

Reed’s original player application had listed his reasons for wanting to join the crew.

He liked naval history.

He wanted to learn how a battleship operated.

He thought working in a large coordinated team sounded fun.

And he was particularly interested in the anti-aircraft batteries fitted during USS California’s wartime modernization.

It was almost painfully ordinary.

An enthusiast signing up for something he loved.

Kade looked at the old registration date.

It had been filed shortly before the game’s launch.

A time that now felt impossibly distant.

The attached statements from Reed’s shipmates were considerably more personal.

Reed had been diligent, eager to learn, and occasionally prone to asking questions long after the engineering personnel wanted to go home.

One sailor had written that Reed could turn a routine anti-aircraft inspection into an extended discussion about naval history.

Another had described him as cheerful.

A third had simply written:

He always offered to help.

Kade read that one twice.

During the Blackwake attack, Reed’s gun position had suffered damage from shell fragments.

A nearby sailor had been wounded.

According to the witness statements, Reed helped move the man clear of the exposed position before returning to assist the surviving gun crew.

He was killed when another enemy shell struck the upper works.

Kade looked down at the paper.

Reed had not single-handedly saved the battleship.

He had not destroyed the enemy carrier.

He had not accomplished some impossible feat that belonged in a propaganda reel.

He had helped a wounded shipmate under fire.

Then returned to his station because the ship was still fighting.

And he had died.

Kade closed the folder briefly.

His throat felt tight.

He reached for the second file.

Mateo Alvarez had been an electrical specialist.

Twenty-four.

Also from the original Earth.

His pre-Crisis employment information described practical experience with electrical systems, though nothing remotely resembling the machinery aboard a rebuilt battleship.

He had joined Breakwater’s engineering organization partly because he enjoyed technical work and partly because he thought the ship’s extraordinary historical machinery would be interesting to operate.

According to his shipmates, that enthusiasm had survived the first day of gunnery practice.

Barely.

He’d spent considerable time arguing with electrical diagrams and complaining that the game’s equipment documentation had been assembled by someone with a personal grudge against electricians.

After the Crisis, those complaints became much more serious.

Breakwater’s systems were no longer interfaces pretending to represent machinery.

They were machinery.

Switchboards.

Motors.

Cables.

Electrical distribution.

Damage-control circuits.

Backup generators.

And all the other systems required to keep a battleship functioning.

Alvarez had learned quickly.

He had also become unusually good at finding problems other members of the engineering department missed.

One of the witnesses described him as the sort of man who became more irritated by a faulty switch than by enemy gunfire.

Kade smiled faintly.

He liked him already.

Alvarez had been assigned near the aft ammunition-handling spaces when the dive-bombing attack struck.

The explosion damaged nearby electrical equipment and started a fire.

According to the engineering report, Alvarez assisted in securing a damaged electrical circuit and helped isolate a threatened access route while the damage-control team brought the fire under control.

He was badly wounded during the effort.

He remained conscious long enough to provide information about the damaged circuitry.

Then he lost consciousness.

He died despite treatment.

Kade stared at the final medical statement.

It was written in the restrained language of military medicine.

Professional.

Precise.

Entirely inadequate.

Then he noticed something else.

NEXT OF KIN — PRE-CRISIS CONTACT INFORMATION

Reed’s file listed his parents.

Alvarez’s listed a younger sister.

Both addresses belonged to the original Earth.

Both telephone numbers belonged to communication networks that no longer connected to anything Horizon could reach.

Kade stared at them.

For a while, he simply sat there.

Somewhere, perhaps, on the Earth they had come from, Reed’s parents were wondering what had happened to their son.

Perhaps Alvarez’s sister had been trying to contact him since the Crisis.

Perhaps their families had experienced the same catastrophe.

Perhaps the original Earth had continued without them.

Nobody knew.

And Kade had no way to tell any of those people what had happened.

He looked toward the casualty notification forms.

The standard AU process assumed the next of kin could be contacted.

An address.

A message.

A representative.

A response.

But those procedures had been written for deaths within this world’s military.

Not for people displaced from another Earth whose families might be an impossible distance away.

Kade opened a blank page.

Then wrote:

PRE-CRISIS NEXT OF KIN NOT CURRENTLY CONTACTABLE. ORIGINAL IDENTIFICATION DATA PRESERVED. NO ASSUMPTION OF NOTIFICATION COMPLETED.

He stared at the words.

It was ugly.

Bureaucratic.

And entirely truthful.

He signed beneath them.

Then closed the file.

For a while, the only sound in the office was the ceiling fan.

Eventually, he reached for a separate document.

RECOMMENDATIONS FOR GALLANTRY DECORATIONS

The form was unfinished.

Mercer had submitted the nominations.

The supporting evidence was included.

But the section requiring station-level authorization remained blank.

Kade looked toward the clock.

02:48.

He rubbed his eyes.

Then reached for the regulations.

If he couldn’t bring the men back, he could at least make certain the institution they had served acknowledged what they had done.

The question was what authority he actually possessed.

He was Horizon’s commanding officer.

That did not make him the Admiralty Union’s supreme military authority.

Nor did it give him permission to invent decorations, promote the dead without procedure, or award the Union’s highest honors simply because he felt they deserved them.

There were rules.

Annoying rules.

Important rules.

And Kade intended to read them properly.

He opened the regulations.

Then began searching.

 The Admiralty Union’s military honors system was, in Kade’s opinion, designed by people who had been trapped in a room with entirely too many stamps.

There were decorations for combat gallantry.

Decorations for exceptional leadership.

Decorations for distinguished service.

Campaign ribbons.

Unit citations.

Commendations for rescue.

Special recognition for extraordinary circumstances involving Keelborn, Sensha Girls, and SIA personnel.

There were also several provisions covering posthumous awards.

Those were the ones he needed.

The Union’s highest decorations required review by senior military authorities.

Some required confirmation by a regional awards board.

Others could be approved only at theater command level or above.

Kade read those sections carefully.

He could recommend.

He could endorse.

He could forward evidence.

He could not simply sign his own version of the Union’s supreme valor decoration and expect anyone to recognize it.

Then he found the provision governing station command.

The Admiralty Union Commander’s Gallantry Citation, First Class.

The highest individual combat gallantry citation available under the delegated authority of a station commanding officer during an active wartime emergency, provided the recommendation was supported by witness testimony and properly recorded.

It was not the highest military honor in the Union.

It was the highest one Kade could realistically confer himself.

He reread the regulation.

Then checked the supporting requirements.

Two independent statements where available.

Description of action.

Duty assignment.

Confirmation from the ship’s commanding officer.

Posthumous authorization.

Recording in the central military personnel system.

He checked the provisions for attached combat units and former-player military organizations operating under a station’s authority.

Breakwater was registered in Horizon’s operational roster.

Her personnel had been provisionally entered into the station’s service records.

And the emergency combat authority under which the battleship had fought provided a basis for issuing a station citation, even while broader questions concerning former-player service status remained unresolved.

Kade checked the clauses again.

Then a third time.

He wasn’t going to give two dead men honors the paperwork would later declare invalid.

Mercer had submitted signed recommendations.

The witness statements were included.

Almost everything was there.

One portion of Alvarez’s witness statement required confirmation from the damage-control officer.

Kade made a note.

He would not invent the missing signature.

Then he reached for the telephone.

The night communications operator answered after the second ring.

”Command switchboard.”

”Victor?”

A pause.

”Commander?”

Kade glanced toward the clock.

”Sorry.”

There was a silence.

Then Victor sighed.

”You’re still working?”

”Unfortunately.”

”Does Chief Fenwick know?”

Kade considered that.

”...Define know.”

The operator made a tired sound.

”Commander.”

”Yes?”

”She specifically told me to call her if you were still in the office after midnight.”

Kade stared at the telephone.

Then slowly closed his eyes.

”Traitor.”

Victor sounded entirely unrepentant.

”Would you like me to connect her?”

”No.”

A pause.

Then Kade sighed.

”Actually, yes. In a minute. But first, I need the latest station delegation schedule for military honors.”

The operator became more attentive.

”Honors, sir?”

”Yes.”

”Which section?”

”Commander’s Gallantry Citation. First Class. Wartime emergency authority.”

A pause.

Then Victor answered.

”I can retrieve the current authorization. Do you need a copy?”

”Please.”

”Understood.”

Kade glanced toward the casualty forms.

”And get me a direct line to Captain Mercer when he’s available.”

The operator hesitated.

”Captain’s still aboard Breakwater.”

”I know.”

”Engineering says he’s been awake most of the day.”

Kade considered that.

Then looked toward the clock.

02:54.

He sighed.

”Make it a morning call.”

Victor sounded relieved.

”Yes, Commander.”

Kade lowered the receiver.

Then sat quietly.

He had an answer.

Not a perfect one.

Not the highest honor the Union possessed.

But an actual, legally recognized decoration he could award without pretending his authority extended farther than it did.

He looked toward Reed’s file.

Then Alvarez’s.

Two men.

Two acts of courage.

Two citations.

He picked up his pen.

And began writing.

 The Captain and His Dead

Daniel Mercer looked as though somebody had removed several years from his life and replaced them with exhaustion.

When he entered Horizon’s command office at eight thirty the following morning, Kade immediately regretted arranging the meeting.

The battleship captain was still wearing a clean uniform, but he had a dressing along the side of his forehead and one arm moved with obvious discomfort.

His eyes were bloodshot.

He carried a folder under his uninjured arm.

Behind him, Adrian Cole looked only marginally better.

Both men had slept.

Apparently.

Neither gave the impression of having found the experience particularly refreshing.

Kade stood.

”Captain.”

Mercer saluted.

”Commander.”

Kade returned it.

Then pointed toward the chairs.

”Sit down before you fall down.”

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

”That bad?”

Kade considered the question.

Then nodded.

”Daniel, you look like somebody used you to test fourteen-inch armor penetration.”

Cole made an unexpected choking sound.

Mercer slowly turned.

His executive officer was trying not to laugh.

The captain sighed.

”Wonderful.”

He sat.

Cole followed.

Kade reached for the coffee pot.

”Coffee?”

Mercer stared.

”Please.”

Cole nodded.

”Very much.”

Kade poured three cups.

For a few moments, the office was quiet.

The men drank.

Outside, a truck passed along the waterfront road.

Somewhere near the communications building, a petty officer was loudly explaining that the new relay installation was not an appropriate place to store spare paint.

Ordinary Horizon noises.

Mercer closed his eyes.

Then exhaled.

”God, that’s good.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Eliza made it.”

”Tell her she’s a saint.”

”She’d prefer you eat breakfast.”

Cole smiled.

”She’s already sent someone to the ship.”

Mercer opened one eye.

”She has?”

”Three covered trays, two large kettles of soup, and a written warning that we’re not to substitute coffee for meals.”

Kade nodded approvingly.

”That sounds like her.”

Mercer sighed.

”Excellent woman.”

”Terrifying woman.”

”Also true.”

For a moment, the three laughed.

Then Kade looked toward the folders on his desk.

The atmosphere changed.

Mercer noticed immediately.

He set down his cup.

”Casualties?”

Kade nodded.

”Yes.”

Cole straightened.

The Commander placed the two personnel files between them.

”Thomas Reed. Mateo Alvarez.”

Mercer’s expression became very still.

He looked toward the names.

Then nodded.

”I know.”

Kade waited.

The battleship captain opened Reed’s file.

For a long while, he read without speaking.

He had already submitted the report.

Already endorsed the statements.

Already signed the casualty notification.

But something about seeing the documents on another officer’s desk seemed to make the deaths more final.

Eventually, he closed the file.

”Reed was a good kid.”

Kade nodded.

”I read the statements.”

Mercer looked down.

”He talked too much.”

Cole smiled faintly.

”He did.”

”Every time we had a maintenance inspection, he wanted to know what something had looked like before the rebuild.”

The captain’s expression softened.

”He could spend twenty minutes asking about a gun director.”

Kade smiled slightly.

”I believe it.”

Mercer glanced toward the window.

”He loved that ship.”

A pause.

”Absolutely loved her.”

Nobody spoke.

Then Cole looked toward Alvarez’s file.

”Mateo was the one everyone went to when the wiring diagrams were wrong.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”They were wrong often?”

Cole sighed.

”Commander, Breakwater has been rebuilt, modernized, modified, and repaired so many times that some of our documentation resembles a family argument.”

Kade looked toward Mercer.

The captain shrugged.

”He’s not wrong.”

Cole continued.

”Alvarez kept his own diagrams. Updated them whenever he found a discrepancy.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”He stayed at the damaged electrical station.”

”Yes.”

”He helped isolate the affected circuit.”

Cole’s expression tightened.

”And the ammunition access.”

Kade glanced toward the file.

Then nodded.

”That’s what the report says.”

Mercer looked down at his hands.

For a moment, he seemed to struggle with something.

Then he spoke quietly.

”He shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Kade looked toward him.

The captain continued.

”He was doing his job. Following the procedures. Helping the damage-control team.”

His jaw tightened.

”And we still lost him.”

Kade didn’t answer immediately.

What could he say?

That people died in war?

Mercer knew.

That the battle had been worth fighting?

Perhaps.

That the lives lost were part of the price?

Kade hated that phrase.

He didn’t want to use it.

Instead, he looked toward the files.

Then said:

”I want their service recognized properly.”

Mercer raised his eyes.

Kade placed the decorations regulation on the table.

”The highest gallantry award I can confer under my station authority is the Commander’s Gallantry Citation, First Class.”

Cole looked toward the document.

Mercer listened.

Kade continued.

”It won’t replace a theater-level decoration. I’ve already prepared recommendations for higher honors, supported by the witness statements. Those will go through the proper board.”

He glanced toward the signatures.

”But the station citation is something I can actually authorize.”

Mercer studied the paper.

Then looked toward Kade.

”Posthumously?”

”Yes.”

The captain’s expression softened.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then he nodded.

”Thank you.”

Kade looked toward him.

”Don’t thank me yet. I want you to review the citations.”

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

”Why?”

”Because they’re your men.”

The captain became very still.

Kade continued.

”I didn’t know them the way you did. You did.”

He indicated the drafted texts.

”If I’ve got anything wrong, correct it.”

Mercer looked down at the papers.

Then nodded slowly.

”All right.”

The review took twenty minutes.

They went through each paragraph.

Every description.

Every witness statement.

Every line explaining what the men had done.

Mercer corrected one sentence about Reed’s actions at the anti-aircraft position.

Cole clarified the order of events surrounding Alvarez’s work near the damaged ammunition-handling access.

Kade amended both.

Nobody hurried.

When they finished, the citations were accurate.

More importantly, they described acts of courage rather than treating death itself as a substitute for merit.

Kade signed the first document.

Then the second.

He placed the official station seal beside his signature.

The small press made a dry sound against the paper.

Two decorations.

Two posthumous citations.

The highest he could award personally.

Kade looked toward Mercer.

”Approved.”

The captain swallowed.

Then nodded.

”Thank you, Commander.”

Kade reached for the remaining paperwork.

”There’s something else.”

Mercer looked up.

”The bodies.”

The captain’s expression changed.

Kade continued carefully.

”Breakwater has the necessary arrangements for temporary preservation, but we need to decide how the final services will be handled.”

Mercer nodded.

”I’ve been thinking about it.”

Kade looked toward him.

”Good.”

He rested his hands on the desk.

”I’m leaving the arrangements to you, within the medical requirements and whatever wishes the men expressed.”

Mercer studied him.

Kade continued.

”Burial ashore. Cremation. Burial at sea. Whatever you judge appropriate after reviewing their records and speaking to the people who knew them.”

He paused.

”You’re their captain. You should be the one making that decision.”

For several seconds, Mercer said nothing.

Then he looked toward the casualty files.

”Reed once said he wanted to be buried back home.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”I saw his original registration.”

”His parents live in the Midwest.”

”Yes.”

Mercer lowered his eyes.

”Or they did.”

The correction hung between them.

Cole looked toward the table.

None of the three men knew what had happened to the original Earth.

There were no working communications links.

No known route home.

No way to tell Reed’s parents that their son had died fighting aboard a battleship in an ocean that should not have existed.

Mercer looked toward the personnel file.

”He wanted to go home.”

Kade nodded.

”I know.”

”How am I supposed to honor that?”

The question was quieter than the captain probably intended.

Kade considered it.

For a moment, he looked toward the maps hanging on the wall.

Horizon.

The Pacific.

The scattered Admiralty Union states.

The islands and shipping routes of an Earth that resembled their own in some ways and differed in countless others.

Nothing on those maps could take Thomas Reed back to his family.

Kade looked toward Mercer.

”I can’t give you a way home.”

The captain swallowed.

”But I can give you authority to preserve the proper records and arrange a dignified resting place here.”

He paused.

”If a way home ever becomes possible, there should be enough information for his family to find him.”

Mercer considered that.

Then nodded slowly.

”All right.”

He looked toward Cole.

”We could use the station cemetery.”

The executive officer nodded.

”Provided the ground and facilities are suitable.”

Kade looked toward them.

”We’ll make them suitable.”

Mercer exhaled.

”A marked grave. Full identification. Proper records. No anonymous burial.”

”Agreed.”

The captain looked down at Reed’s file.

Then spoke quietly.

”I think he’d want that until he can go home.”

Kade nodded.

”So do I.”

Mercer closed the folder.

For a moment, he seemed reluctant to move his hand from it.

Then he looked toward Alvarez’s record.

”Mateo never said much about funerals.”

Cole nodded.

”Not to me.”

Mercer considered that.

”He talked about his sister, though.”

Kade looked toward the next-of-kin entry.

”Yes.”

”She was always telling him he spent too much time working.”

Cole smiled sadly.

”Apparently she told him not to join the battleship crew because he’d end up arguing with old machinery on his days off.”

Mercer almost laughed.

”She wasn’t wrong.”

Kade smiled faintly.

Then the captain’s expression tightened.

”We can’t contact her either.”

”No.”

A pause.

Mercer looked toward Kade.

”What would you do?”

Kade considered the question.

Then shook his head.

”I’d read every record. Ask the men who knew him. Find out whether he’d expressed any preference.”

He looked toward the captain.

”And then I’d make the decision I believed he would have wanted.”

Mercer listened.

Kade continued.

”Whatever you decide, Daniel, make sure the record explains why.”

The captain nodded slowly.

He thought for a moment.

Then looked toward Cole.

”Let’s review his personal messages and the crew statements. If there’s nothing clearer, I’d prefer to arrange cremation and preserve his ashes in an identified urn.”

Cole considered that.

”Until we know whether his family can ever be reached?”

”Yes.”

Mercer looked toward Kade.

”I don’t want to scatter him at sea if his sister might someday be able to take him home.”

The Commander nodded.

”That’s reasonable.”

He glanced toward the medical regulations.

”We can have Irena confirm the arrangements and the necessary preservation procedures.”

Mercer nodded.

”Thank you.”

Kade looked back at the two files.

”Then that’s what we’ll work toward. The final decisions are yours, Captain, with the proper safeguards and records.”

The battleship captain exhaled.

For the first time since entering the room, his shoulders seemed to lower.

Then he looked toward the decorations.

”May I present the citations?”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”To whom?”

”The ship’s company. At the memorial.”

Kade considered the request.

Then smiled faintly.

”Daniel.”

The captain looked up.

”They’re your men.”

Mercer swallowed.

Then nodded.

”Right.”

Kade continued.

”I’ll attend. But you should read the citations.”

The battleship captain looked down.

For a moment, he seemed unable to speak.

Then he nodded.

”Thank you.”

Kade returned the nod.

”You’re welcome.”

The room remained quiet.

Then Cole cleared his throat.

”Commander.”

Kade looked toward him.

”Yes?”

”Permission to ask something?”

”Go ahead.”

The executive officer glanced toward Mercer.

Then back.

”Do you think we did the right thing?”

Kade considered the question.

He thought of the Blackwake carrier.

The damaged industrial installation.

The fifteen SIA women trapped on the beach.

Belle’s Pendant.

Mara Venn.

Breakwater’s casualties.

This narrative has been purloined without the author’s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The enormous ammunition expenditure.

Then he looked toward the two men.

”I think we had good reasons to fight.”

Cole listened.

Kade continued.

”I think we made some mistakes.”

Mercer nodded faintly.

”And I think the enemy made the situation worse than anyone expected.”

He paused.

”But I don’t think those facts cancel one another out.”

For a moment, neither officer spoke.

Then Kade looked toward the casualty files.

”We owe the people who died more than the claim that everything went perfectly.”

Mercer’s expression tightened.

He nodded slowly.

”Agreed.”

Kade glanced toward the battle report.

”We’ll examine what happened. Properly.”

Cole nodded.

”Yes.”

”And the next time we plan an operation, I want every lesson from this one available before somebody has to learn it again the hard way.”

Mercer looked toward him.

Then smiled faintly.

”That I can promise.”

Kade nodded.

”Good.”

For a while, they sat together.

Three men.

Three former players.

Three cups of coffee.

Two casualty files.

And a naval station that had survived another battle without coming through it unchanged.

 The memorial was held aboard Breakwater two evenings later.

The ship was not fully repaired.

Not even close.

Temporary cables ran through portions of the damaged upper works. Several gun positions remained covered or secured, and repair crews were still working in compartments below the main deck.

But the area selected for the service had been cleared.

The flags were at half-staff.

The crew assembled in clean uniforms.

Every sailor standing on that deck was a man who had come from the original Earth.

Some were American.

Others had been born in different countries.

Before the Crisis, their lives had been separated by oceans, ordinary jobs, college courses, families, and the absurd inconvenience of different time zones.

They had met through the game.

Joined the same naval organization.

Learned their assigned stations.

Argued over procedure.

Practiced gunnery.

And somehow, over the course of the past month, become the crew of an actual battleship.

Now two of them were dead.

The men stood in formation beneath their ship’s flags.

Those unable to stand comfortably because of their injuries were given places where they could attend without worsening their condition.

Some carried bandaged hands.

Others had dressings beneath their uniforms.

A few moved with the awkward caution of men whose injuries still hurt despite the medicine.

Their faces were tired.

Their expressions solemn.

There were no native sailors among them.

The native personnel in attendance were guests from Horizon Atoll, there to honor the men who had died protecting the station’s expedition.

Kade stood beside Chief Fenwick and Irena Holt.

Corwin was there.

Dain.

Eliza.

Several members of the native station staff.

Representatives of the Keelborn.

And a small group from VESPER.

Alina had asked whether the SIA detachment could attend.

Kade had said yes.

The girls stood together near the rear.

Cassidy wore a proper uniform and had left her revolver in its locker.

Zofia stood beside her, unusually quiet.

Morgan’s expression was solemn.

Greta held her cap in both hands.

Lara watched the sailors with the gentle, troubled expression she’d worn since returning from the Burnt Narrows.

They had seen Breakwater fight.

They had heard the guns.

Watched the smoke.

Seen the damaged equipment.

But this was the first time many of them had truly confronted the fact that some of the people aboard had died while protecting them.

Cassidy looked toward the memorial display.

Two photographs.

Two sets of service details.

Two folded flags.

Thomas Reed.

Mateo Alvarez.

She swallowed.

Then glanced toward Zofia.

The Polish girl’s eyes were wet.

Cassidy didn’t make a joke.

She simply moved her hand slightly.

Zofia took it.

At the front, Mercer stepped forward.

His shoulder remained bandaged beneath his uniform.

He carried the two citations.

For a moment, he looked over the assembled crew.

Faces he recognized.

Men who had been ordinary players a little over a month earlier.

Young men who had joked over the communications channels during their initial training exercises.

Men who had discovered, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, that a battleship possessed an astonishing number of compartments requiring cleaning.

Men who had spent their first day learning how to coordinate real turrets, real ammunition handling, real engines, and real damage-control equipment.

Some had been excellent at their assigned jobs from the beginning.

Others had needed a considerable amount of help.

But they had learned.

And when the Blackwake had attacked, they had fought.

Not because the game promised experience points.

Not because there was a reward waiting.

Because Senko was in danger.

Because the girls on the beach needed evacuation.

Because the ship beside them was taking fire.

Because their friends were trapped inside damaged compartments.

Because there was nowhere to log out.

Mercer lowered his eyes toward the first page.

When he began speaking, his voice was steady.

Not because he wasn’t grieving.

Because he had practiced.

Because he wanted to get the words right.

He spoke about Thomas Reed.

About his enthusiasm.

His dedication.

His endless questions about naval machinery.

His excitement when he first learned that Breakwater would be using USS California’s rebuilt configuration.

And the young man who had volunteered to help a wounded shipmate under fire.

Then Mercer read the citation.

The words were formal.

Military.

Carefully written.

But the men standing nearby understood what they meant.

Reed had not been forgotten.

Mercer lowered the first page.

Then he spoke about Mateo Alvarez.

About the electrical diagrams he had kept.

The repairs he had performed.

The engineering crew that had come to depend on his practical knowledge.

The damaged electrical station.

The threatened ammunition access.

The work that had helped prevent a far worse fire aboard the ship.

The wounded man who had continued providing information until he could no longer speak.

He read the second citation.

When he finished, he stood still for several seconds.

Then he lowered the papers.

The silence that followed was long.

Nobody hurried to fill it.

Finally, the ship’s designated memorial officer stepped forward.

The service continued.

A moment of reflection was offered.

Those who wished to pray did so.

Those who did not remained respectfully silent.

The flags were honored.

And when the final bell sounded across the damaged deck, Kade lowered his head.

He didn’t pretend to know whether the dead could hear it.

He hoped, somehow, that it mattered.

Beside him, Mara Fenwick stood perfectly still.

Her expression was composed.

But her eyes were wet.

Kade glanced toward her.

Then away.

The service was not about him.

For once, he was grateful for that.

At the end, Mercer approached the memorial photographs.

He stood before them.

Saluted.

Then remained there for a moment after lowering his hand.

Kade watched.

The battleship captain had given the order to fight.

The ship had won.

And he would have to carry the memory of the men who died following that order.

Kade understood enough about command to know that no decoration, however deserved, would remove that burden.

It wasn’t supposed to.

When the service ended, the station personnel departed quietly.

There was no cheering.

No celebration of the enemy fleet’s destruction.

Not on that deck.

Not that evening.

Only the slow return of sailors to their duties, medical personnel to their patients, and technicians to the work required to make Breakwater seaworthy again.

The station’s medical staff were making preparations for the funerary arrangements Mercer had requested.

Reed would receive a properly marked burial ashore, with the location and identification preserved against the possibility that his family could someday be reached.

Alvarez’s remains would be handled according to the captain’s final decision after completing the review of his known wishes and personal records, with the intention of preserving a way for his sister to receive him if circumstances ever allowed.

Nothing about those arrangements was as good as taking the men home.

Everyone involved knew that.

But there was dignity in refusing to pretend that their families had somehow ceased to matter merely because those families were beyond reach.

And beneath the half-staff flags, two names remained.

Thomas Reed.

Mateo Alvarez.

Horizon Atoll would remember them.

 The Island That Owed Them a Few Tons of Steel

On the sixth day after the Battle of the Burnt Narrows, Corwin Hale received a message that made him sit up so quickly he spilled tea across an inventory sheet.

This was an unusual occurrence.

Corwin generally treated beverages and paperwork as two separate categories of objects that should never be permitted to meet.

The nearest clerk stared.

Corwin stared too.

Then, rather than comment on the disaster, he reached for the radio.

”Repeat that.”

The voice answered through light static.

”Horizon Logistics, Senko Maru. Returning from Burnt Narrows. Cargo manifests verified. We’re approaching the western navigation sector.”

Corwin blinked.

He looked toward the message he’d been waiting for since dawn.

Then asked:

”Senko, confirm you have the material aboard.”

A pause.

Then the transport girl’s familiar voice returned.

”Yes, Mister Hale.”

He leaned forward.

”Steel?”

”Yes.”

”Industrial fittings?”

”Yes.”

”Electrical distribution equipment?”

”Yes.”

”Replacement pump components?”

”Some. Not everything we hoped for, but enough for an initial overhaul.”

Corwin’s fingers tightened around the receiver.

He glanced toward the ceiling.

Then asked the question he’d been afraid to ask.

”And the machine tools?”

There was a longer pause.

For a moment, he feared the answer.

Then Senko replied.

”Two serviceable machines, several damaged ones suitable for parts, and one industrial lathe Dain specifically asked us to inspect.”

Corwin went perfectly still.

The clerk watched him.

Then Senko added:

”We’re bringing the lathe.”

Corwin closed his eyes.

For a moment, he appeared to be experiencing a profound spiritual revelation.

The clerk cleared her throat.

”Sir?”

He raised one hand.

”One moment.”

He looked toward the radio.

”Senko.”

”Yes?”

”Please tell me nobody tried to bring anything with visible Blackwake growths aboard.”

The transport girl’s answer came immediately.

”No, Mister Hale. Everything selected passed the field screening. The suspect lots were left isolated on the island.”

Corwin exhaled.

”Good.”

”The recovered SIA frames are in sealed transport containers. They have not been connected to our systems.”

He nodded.

”Excellent.”

Then he paused.

”Wait.”

A silence.

He looked toward the manifest.

”SIA frames?”

”Yes.”

Corwin stared.

”How many?”

”Four complete basic frames and several boxes of compatible service components.”

The quartermaster stopped breathing for approximately three seconds.

Then he lowered the radio.

Looked toward the clerk.

And said:

”Get the Commander.”

She blinked.

”Immediately?”

Corwin nodded.

”Immediately.”

The clerk hurried toward the telephone.

Corwin looked down at the tea spreading across his inventory sheet.

For a moment, he considered the damage.

Then he reached for a clean piece of paper.

The tea could wait.

Horizon had salvage coming home.

Actual salvage.

Not optimistic reports.

Not promises.

Not equipment that might exist somewhere if they were fortunate enough to reach the correct warehouse.

Real, physical material.

And for a station whose repair departments had spent the past week arguing over which damaged machinery deserved the last serviceable replacement parts, that was very good news indeed.

 Senko had not enjoyed the return trip to the Burnt Narrows.

She had volunteered.

Enthusiastically.

That was true.

But enthusiasm did not make the ruined industrial station pleasant.

When the salvage expedition approached the islands, she could still see the damage left by the naval battle.

Fragments of Blackwake vessels had washed against the reefs.

Oil and dark residue stained sections of the water.

Several areas had been marked unsafe by the earlier reconnaissance teams.

The industrial complex itself looked worse than it had in the first photographs.

The machinery yard where Belle’s Sherman had been destroyed was surrounded by collapsed steel.

The old gantry crane was broken.

One maintenance building had lost much of its roof.

And the route used by VESPER remained closed pending further contamination assessment.

Senko had read the reports.

She knew what happened there.

That didn’t make seeing the place any easier.

She stood on the water beside her cargo rigging, watching the shoreline while her escort element examined the approach.

Her 1935 Senko Maru-class equipment was built for a very different purpose from the machinery carried by the battleships and destroyers.

Her hull-inspired cargo structures projected from the support assembly around her back and hips.

Cranes and loading booms rested on articulated mountings, with storage and handling equipment arranged to distribute heavy loads safely through the rigging.

It was an ungainly silhouette compared with Aster’s Fletcher equipment.

Senko didn’t mind.

She wasn’t supposed to look fast.

She was supposed to carry things.

And after months of watching Horizon struggle to repair basic infrastructure, she was increasingly proud of that distinction.

The escort assigned to the salvage expedition consisted of three Keelborn.

A South Dakota-class battleship.

A Kitakaze-class destroyer.

And an Allen M. Sumner-class destroyer.

The battleship was Scarlett Hayes.

Twenty-two years old.

American.

A former player.

And currently involved in a deeply personal argument with one of her gun-elevation mechanisms.

Scarlett stood nearby in a dark uniform with gold trim, her long strawberry-pink hair moving in the breeze.

Her South Dakota-class equipment carried three triple sixteen-inch main turrets, substantial secondary weapons, and the broad, compact machinery associated with the American battleship design.

The assistance apparatus around her rigging was less graceful than she wanted.

She’d complained about that.

Repeatedly.

But the technical staff had been adamant.

Her heavy-gun qualification remained restricted, and this assignment had been approved as a controlled escort movement with experienced screening vessels—not an opportunity to challenge an enemy battleship.

Scarlett had accepted the conditions.

After arguing.

Quite a lot.

Now she stood in the assigned outer security sector while the Kitakaze and Allen M. Sumner girls surveyed the closer approach.

Her main guns remained secured.

Her job was to watch the horizon, maintain communications, and provide the expedition with a heavier defensive presence if a serious surface threat appeared.

She was not happy about being told to avoid unnecessary maneuvering.

She was even less happy about the gun-elevation warning that had begun sounding during the transit.

Scarlett looked toward her forward support assembly.

A small amber indicator blinked.

She stared at it.

Then narrowed her eyes.

”Don’t.”

The warning sounded again.

A soft electronic chirp.

Scarlett’s expression darkened.

”I said don’t.”

Senko glanced over.

The transport girl smiled faintly.

”Everything all right?”

Scarlett turned.

”Yes.”

The indicator chirped.

Senko looked toward it.

Then back at Scarlett.

The battleship girl folded her arms.

”It’s being dramatic.”

Senko considered that.

”Is it damaged?”

”No.”

Another warning.

Scarlett’s eyebrows twitched.

”It’s being difficult.”

Senko smiled.

”Perhaps you should report it.”

”I did.”

”What did Engineering say?”

Scarlett sighed.

”They said it’s a sensor calibration issue and I’m supposed to leave the restricted movement settings alone until I get back.”

Senko nodded.

”That sounds reasonable.”

Scarlett stared.

For a moment, the battleship girl seemed deeply betrayed.

Then she sighed.

”You’re no fun.”

Senko smiled.

”I’m a transport.”

”That’s not an answer.”

”It’s a very good answer.”

The warning sounded again.

Scarlett looked toward the machinery.

Then muttered:

”I swear to God, if you do that one more time—”

The radio crackled.

”South Dakota, Kitakaze. Outer approach remains clear. Please confirm you’re not threatening your equipment again.”

Scarlett froze.

Senko covered her mouth.

A pause.

Then Scarlett raised the handset.

”I am not threatening anything.”

The Kitakaze girl’s answer came immediately.

”Understood. We heard a rumor.”

Scarlett closed her eyes.

”From whom?”

A second voice entered the channel.

The Allen M. Sumner-class girl.

”The machinery, probably.”

Senko began laughing.

Scarlett stared toward the horizon.

Then sighed so dramatically that Senko feared the battleship might exhaust her entire air supply.

”Wonderful.”

For a few seconds, the radio was filled with quiet amusement.

Then the Kitakaze-class girl became serious.

”Approach survey complete. No active surface contacts detected in the assigned salvage sector. Contamination markers remain in place around the restricted structures.”

Senko straightened.

The work was beginning.

She raised her handset.

”Understood. Moving to the approved loading area.”

Scarlett’s expression changed immediately.

The jokes disappeared.

She glanced toward the open water.

Then toward the transport girl.

”Stay inside the surveyed route.”

Senko smiled gently.

”I will.”

”And tell me if anything looks wrong.”

”I will.”

Scarlett nodded.

Then turned toward the horizon.

For all her arguments with machinery, she was taking the assignment seriously.

That mattered.

The transport girl adjusted her cargo-handling equipment.

Her cranes shifted.

The supports moved into their working positions.

And Senko approached the damaged industrial pier to collect the materials Horizon had spent so much to reach.

 The salvage operation had been authorized only after several uncomfortable meetings.

Kade had refused to send Senko back immediately after the battle.

The first request came while Breakwater was still being examined for underwater damage.

He rejected it.

The second came while the contamination survey was incomplete.

He rejected that too.

The third came from Corwin, who produced a preliminary list of items that might be recoverable from the outer warehouses.

Kade had stared at it.

Then asked whether anybody could confirm those warehouses were safe to enter.

The answer had been no.

He rejected the request again.

Corwin had looked personally wounded.

Dain had been sympathetic.

Hana had been considerably less sympathetic.

She’d informed the quartermaster that she wasn’t interested in acquiring industrial machinery if doing so required her to spend the next week repairing the people who went to fetch it.

Corwin had conceded the point.

Reluctantly.

Then the reconnaissance team completed its assessment.

A limited section of the outer industrial yard had been surveyed.

The old cargo-handling area was accessible.

Several storage buildings were structurally usable.

No active Blackwake personnel had been observed in the approved sector.

And the salvage personnel had a defined route that avoided the machinery hall, the contaminated vehicle yard, and the underground passages associated with the facility’s remaining hazards.

That changed matters.

Kade approved a restricted salvage operation.

The personnel involved received a very long safety briefing.

Senko listened attentively.

Scarlett made several sarcastic remarks about the paperwork.

The two destroyer girls took the route survey seriously.

And Dain submitted a list of recovery priorities so detailed that Corwin described it as a declaration of intent against every broken machine on Horizon.

Kade approved the list.

Within reason.

The salvage teams were instructed to recover only materials they could identify, handle safely, and transport without risking contamination.

No rummaging through unknown Blackwake growths.

No opening suspicious sealed containers.

No cutting apart active machinery merely because it looked valuable.

No entering the damaged vehicle-repair hall.

And absolutely no attempt to recover the remains of Belle’s Sherman before specialists had assessed the site.

Scarlett had asked whether that last rule applied to battleship-caliber salvage equipment.

Kade had stared at her.

She’d smiled.

He’d informed her that the rule applied especially to people who thought they were being clever.

The battleship girl had looked offended.

Then she’d saluted.

For the record.

Kade had not been reassured.

But now, six days after the battle, the expedition was returning.

And the cargo manifest was real.

 Senko’s arrival turned Horizon’s western cargo platform into the busiest place on the island.

The transport girl entered the approved harbor sector shortly before sunset, moving carefully beneath a load that would have made a less experienced cargo Keelborn deeply uncomfortable.

The machinery attached to her rigging had been inspected before departure.

It had also been inspected during loading.

And again before leaving the Burnt Narrows.

She was carrying too much valuable equipment to treat any of the calculations casually.

The Kitakaze-class escort arrived first.

Her compact proper destroyer rigging moved smoothly over the water, with characteristic Japanese hull sections and fitted weapons balanced around her body.

She crossed the harbor entrance, confirmed the immediate approach, and moved toward the assigned security position.

The Allen M. Sumner-class girl followed.

Her American destroyer equipment carried the heavier post-Fletcher arrangement, including twin five-inch gun mounts, torpedo equipment, funnels, directors, and propulsion fittings.

She maintained the formation’s communications watch while Senko approached the cargo platform.

Scarlett came last.

The South Dakota-class battleship moved with deliberate care, her restricted rigging configuration making the final harbor turn slower than she would have preferred.

The warning indicator sounded again.

She looked down.

”Don’t you dare.”

The indicator chirped.

A dockworker standing on the platform slowly raised an eyebrow.

Scarlett looked toward him.

He looked toward the equipment.

Then back at her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, the battleship girl said:

”It started it.”

The dockworker nodded gravely.

”Understood, miss.”

Behind him, Dain Okoro closed his eyes.

Hana Saeki began laughing.

Kade, who had arrived with Mara and Corwin, looked toward Scarlett.

He considered the enormous South Dakota-class machinery.

The gold-trimmed uniform.

The familiar annoyed expression.

Then sighed.

”Scarlett.”

She straightened.

”Commander!”

”Did you threaten your elevation mechanism?”

The battleship girl’s eyes widened.

A pause.

Then:

”...No.”

Dain raised an eyebrow.

Scarlett glanced toward him.

The engineer folded his arms.

She looked away.

”...Not seriously.”

Kade closed his eyes.

Mara began laughing.

Corwin made a tired sound.

Senko reached the loading platform and raised one hand.

”Commander!”

Kade turned.

The transport girl smiled.

”We’re home.”

For a moment, he simply looked at her.

Then he smiled back.

”Welcome home, Senko.”

She looked delighted.

The cranes on her rigging moved into their approved unloading positions.

Dockworkers secured the handling area.

The inspection team approached with their equipment.

And the first recovered materials began coming ashore.

Steel plate.

Not new.

Not pretty.

But usable.

Lengths of structural steel suitable for fabrication.

Bundles of industrial cable.

Copper conductors.

Valve assemblies.

Pump housings.

Heavy-duty bearings.

Replacement electrical components.

Several crates of mechanical fasteners.

Gaskets.

Seals.

Insulation stock.

Sections of serviceable pipe.

An assortment of recovered motor components.

And the industrial lathe that had nearly caused Corwin to achieve spiritual enlightenment.

Dain saw it.

Stopped walking.

Then approached.

Very slowly.

Hana watched him.

The engineer examined the machine.

Its bed showed wear.

The paint was chipped.

Several fittings had been removed for transport.

But the underlying structure appeared sound.

Dain rested a hand against the housing.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he looked toward Senko.

”You found it.”

The transport girl nodded.

”Yes.”

He examined the machine again.

Then smiled.

A rare, genuine smile.

”Good girl.”

Senko’s cheeks reddened.

”Thank you.”

Dain looked toward Corwin.

The quartermaster was already writing.

”That alone is going to save us weeks.”

Corwin nodded.

”Provided it passes inspection.”

Dain looked offended.

”Of course it has to pass inspection.”

Hana leaned toward Senko.

Then whispered:

”That means he’s happy.”

The transport girl smiled.

”I thought so.”

Nearby, Scarlett was watching the unloading operation.

Her eyes moved over the equipment.

Then toward the first stack of recovered steel.

She folded her arms.

”All that trouble for a pile of metal.”

Dain slowly turned.

The battleship girl blinked.

The engineer looked toward the steel.

Then toward her.

”Miss Hayes.”

Scarlett straightened.

”Yes?”

”Do you enjoy having functioning gun mounts?”

She hesitated.

”...Yes.”

”Do you enjoy having intact propulsion machinery?”

”Yes.”

”Would you prefer the electrical systems on your equipment not attempt to murder themselves every time you change elevation?”

Scarlett glanced toward the warning indicator.

A pause.

Then:

”Very much.”

Dain pointed toward the recovered materials.

”Then that pile of metal is your future.”

Scarlett considered that.

Then looked toward Senko.

The transport girl smiled.

Scarlett sighed.

”Fine.”

She looked toward the steel.

Then nodded.

”Beautiful pile of metal.”

Hana burst out laughing.

Dain shook his head.

But the corner of his mouth twitched.

And Kade, standing beside Mara, found himself smiling in a way he hadn’t managed for several days.

Horizon had brought something useful home.

It wasn’t enough to repair everything.

Not remotely.

But for the first time since the battle, the material shortages had begun moving in the right direction.

 Four Empty Bodies

The SIA frames arrived in sealed gray containers.

That detail bothered Cassidy Boone more than she expected.

She had come to the waterfront with Morgan, Darya, Alina, and Réka after hearing that Senko had returned from the Burnt Narrows.

Officially, they were there to help the quartermaster identify and inventory recovered technical equipment.

Unofficially, Cassidy wanted to see whether the salvage party had found anything that might convince Corwin to stop complaining about her ammunition.

She had been reasonably optimistic.

Then a crane lifted the first long gray container onto the inspection platform.

Cassidy watched it settle.

The second followed.

Then the third and fourth.

A technician approached with a manifest.

Darya leaned closer.

”What are those?”

The technician consulted the paperwork.

”Basic SIA replacement frames.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Cassidy raised her eyebrows.

”Oh.”

Morgan glanced toward her.

The American woman looked back at the containers.

Her smile faded.

Alina approached the technician.

”Replacement frames?”

”Yes.”

”Complete?”

”Listed as complete. We haven’t verified the internal condition.”

Darya looked interested.

Réka’s expression became thoughtful.

Morgan folded her arms.

Cassidy stared at the first container.

The equipment looked ordinary.

Industrial.

A shipping case.

Nothing particularly dramatic.

The sort of thing Horizon handled every day.

But she knew what was inside.

Or at least what it was supposed to contain.

A synthetic body.

A frame into which an SIA mind backup might be installed.

A body capable of housing a person whose original body had been destroyed.

The idea had seemed abstract when Mira explained the backup system.

Important.

Unsettling.

But distant.

Now four possible replacement bodies were sitting on the cargo platform.

And Cassidy found herself wondering whether one of them might someday have her name attached to it.

She didn’t like that thought.

At all.

Morgan noticed her expression.

”Hey.”

Cassidy glanced over.

”What?”

”You okay?”

The American considered the question.

Then shrugged.

”Yeah.”

Morgan studied her.

Cassidy looked toward the containers.

Then added:

”Just weird.”

Morgan nodded.

”Yeah.”

Alina was already asking questions.

”Where were they found?”

The technician consulted the recovery record.

”Sealed military supply annex in the outer industrial district. The containers were part of a protected AU equipment shipment held in storage before the Blackwake occupation.”

”Any contamination?”

”No visible contamination on the outer containers. They passed the initial field screening, but we’re treating the contents as unverified until the technical department completes a full examination.”

Alina nodded.

”Good.”

Darya looked toward the serial numbers.

”Can we inspect them?”

The technician raised an eyebrow.

”After they’re transferred to the secure quarantine area.”

Réka nodded.

”Reasonable.”

A pause.

Then she added:

”Can we watch?”

The technician considered her.

Then looked toward Darya.

Then toward Alina.

His expression became suspicious.

”Why?”

Réka smiled.

”Professional curiosity.”

The man sighed.

”Of course.”

Mira arrived several minutes later.

She’d been informed of the find by the communications department and had come directly from the security office.

Her expression changed when she saw the containers.

Not excitement.

Not horror.

Something quieter.

She approached the first case.

Studied its identification plate.

Then rested one hand against the metal.

Alina watched.

”Officer?”

Mira looked toward her.

”Yes?”

”Have you seen these before?”

The native SIA woman nodded.

”Similar models.”

She examined the manufacturing record.

”Basic replacement frames. Older military standard.”

Darya leaned closer.

”Would they be compatible with our backups?”

Mira considered the question.

”Potentially.”

Cassidy looked up.

The officer continued.

”But compatibility must be verified. The frames will require inspection, cleaning, initialization, and possibly significant refurbishment.”

Darya nodded.

”And the backup installation?”

”That would involve the protected cognitive records and authorized restoration procedures.”

Mira looked toward the group.

”These are not ready for immediate use.”

Alina nodded.

”Understood.”

The native officer considered the containers again.

Then added:

”And they don’t remove the reason we perform safety training.”

Cassidy raised one hand.

Mira looked toward her.

”Boone.”

The American lowered it.

”...You knew what I was going to ask?”

”Probably.”

Cassidy sighed.

”You’re terrifying.”

Mira smiled faintly.

”Thank you.”

Morgan laughed.

Then the native officer’s expression became serious.

”Listen carefully.”

The women straightened.

”If one of you is killed, having a viable backup and an available frame may provide a path to restoration.”

Cassidy swallowed.

Mira continued.

”But the restored body would be synthetic. It would not be the same biological body you’re currently living in.”

She glanced toward the containers.

”And the experiences after the last successful backup would still be at risk.”

Alina nodded.

”We understand.”

Mira looked toward her.

”Do you?”

The Russian woman hesitated.

Then answered honestly.

”We’re trying to.”

The native SIA officer considered that.

Then nodded slowly.

”Good.”

She looked toward the containers again.

For a moment, her expression became distant.

Then she spoke quietly.

”I’ve known people who returned in frames like these.”

Nobody interrupted.

Mira continued.

”Some were grateful.”

A pause.

”Some struggled.”

She looked toward Cassidy.

”A few needed a long time to feel comfortable again.”

The American considered that.

Then nodded.

”Right.”

Mira’s expression softened.

”A replacement body can be a gift.”

She glanced toward the sealed containers.

”But needing one usually means something terrible happened first.”

The words settled over the little group.

Morgan looked down.

Alina folded her arms.

Darya stopped studying the serial numbers.

Even Réka had become quiet.

Cassidy considered the four gray containers.

Then looked toward Mira.

”Officer.”

”Yes?”

”Do you think it’s wrong to be glad we found them?”

The native woman studied her.

Then shook her head.

”No.”

Cassidy blinked.

Mira continued.

”I think it’s sensible to be relieved that another option may exist.”

She paused.

”I simply don’t want you to mistake that option for a reason to be careless.”

Cassidy nodded slowly.

”Okay.”

Mira smiled faintly.

”Good.”

Then Réka raised one hand.

The native officer turned.

”Yes?”

The Hungarian girl hesitated.

Then looked toward the containers.

”So...”

A pause.

”Are we allowed to name them?”

Alina closed her eyes.

Darya stared.

Morgan made a choking sound.

Mira considered the question with absolute seriousness.

”Not before registration.”

Réka nodded solemnly.

”Fair.”

Cassidy looked toward her.

Then grinned.

”I vote for Spare Cassidy.”

Alina turned.

”No.”

”Backup Cassidy?”

”No.”

”Emergency Cassidy?”

”Cassidy.”

The American looked wounded.

”What?”

Alina folded her arms.

”Please stop naming the replacement bodies.”

Cassidy considered that.

Then sighed.

”Fine.”

Réka leaned toward her.

Then whispered:

”Emergency Cassidy is better.”

The two began laughing.

Morgan shook her head.

Mira watched them.

For a moment, the native SIA officer looked as though she might object.

Then she smiled.

Only slightly.

But enough.

The laughter didn’t make the containers less unsettling.

It simply made them easier to stand beside.

And at Horizon Atoll, that counted for something.

 A Quartermaster’s Worst Nightmare

Corwin Hale was the only man on the island capable of receiving several tons of desperately needed salvage and immediately becoming more concerned about the paperwork.

Kade considered this an extraordinary talent.

The quartermaster stood in the command office that evening with three folders under one arm and a cargo ledger in his other hand.

His expression was complicated.

Somewhere between relief and irritation.

Kade recognized it.

It was Corwin’s natural state whenever anything useful happened.

”Commander.”

Kade looked up.

”Yes?”

”The salvage manifest has been reconciled against the field inventory.”

”Good news?”

”Mostly.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

Corwin opened the first folder.

”The expedition recovered useful structural materials, several major machine components, electrical equipment, piping, and a quantity of assorted repair stock.”

Kade nodded.

”Good.”

”The industrial lathe appears serviceable, pending final inspection.”

”Very good.”

”Several recovered pump components are compatible with our current repair projects.”

Kade smiled.

”Excellent.”

”Four basic SIA replacement frames were recovered in sealed containers.”

”I heard.”

”None have been cleared for use.”

”I also heard.”

Corwin nodded.

”Good.”

Then he opened the second folder.

Kade looked toward it.

His smile faded.

”Oh, no.”

The quartermaster raised an eyebrow.

”Commander?”

”There’s another folder.”

”Yes.”

”That means bad news.”

Corwin considered the observation.

Then nodded.

”Generally.”

Kade sighed.

”Continue.”

The older man looked down.

”The material recovered is useful, but it doesn’t replace what we expended during the battle.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”I expected that.”

”The battleship’s main-battery ammunition expenditure alone represents a considerable supply burden.”

”Yes.”

”The anti-aircraft consumption is worse than our initial forecasts.”

”Yes.”

”Several torpedoes will require replacement.”

”Yes.”

”Yuna’s aviation losses will require new aircraft, specialized components, and appropriate fairy-crew arrangements.”

Kade’s expression tightened.

Corwin continued carefully.

”Riko’s recoil-support equipment requires parts we cannot manufacture with our present facilities.”

Kade sighed.

”I know.”

”The same applies to portions of June’s propulsion assembly.”

”Yes.”

”And Breakwater’s repair requirements are going to consume a substantial proportion of the steel and electrical stock we just recovered.”

The Commander considered that.

Then looked toward the window.

Outside, the western sky was darkening.

The harbor lights had begun coming on.

He could see the silhouettes of several maintenance cranes beyond the warehouses.

”So.”

Corwin waited.

Kade looked back.

”We spent enormous amounts of ammunition and fuel fighting to secure an industrial station.”

”Yes.”

”We then spent more fuel and resources to recover materials from it.”

”Yes.”

”And now we’re going to use a considerable amount of those materials repairing the equipment we damaged while securing them.”

Corwin nodded.

”Correct.”

Kade stared.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then the Commander leaned back in his chair.

”Fantastic.”

Corwin nodded solemnly.

”I thought you’d appreciate the efficiency.”

Kade looked at him.

The quartermaster’s expression remained completely straight.

Then Kade began laughing.

A tired, disbelieving laugh.

Corwin smiled faintly.

For several seconds, neither could quite stop.

Finally, Kade wiped his eyes.

”All right.”

He took a breath.

”All right.”

Corwin waited.

Kade leaned forward again.

”What does the salvage actually change?”

The quartermaster’s expression became serious.

He opened the third folder.

”The short answer?”

”Please.”

”It gives us options.”

Kade considered that.

Then nodded.

”Go on.”

Corwin indicated the repair projects.

”The recovered steel will allow Engineering to fabricate several structures we’ve been postponing.”

He turned a page.

”The electrical equipment may help restore portions of the maintenance district that have been operating under temporary power arrangements.”

Another page.

”The pump components should improve our ability to repair the damaged drydock services.”

Kade raised his eyes.

”Really?”

Corwin nodded.

”Not enough to restore the drydock completely. But enough for Dain to continue work on the drainage and circulation systems.”

Kade leaned forward.

That mattered.

A great deal.

Corwin continued.

”The machine tools will improve our workshop capacity. They won’t eliminate our dependence on outside suppliers, but they should reduce the time needed to fabricate certain replacement components.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”Good.”

”And the SIA frames?”

”Pending inspection, they may provide a limited reserve for replacement or major repair.”

Kade considered the figures.

Then looked toward the quartermaster.

”So we’re still in trouble.”

Corwin nodded.

”Yes.”

”But less trouble.”

”Also yes.”

The Commander smiled faintly.

”I’ll take it.”

Corwin closed the folder.

For a moment, he looked almost relieved.

Then his expression tightened again.

Kade noticed.

”What?”

The quartermaster hesitated.

”There’s one more issue.”

Kade slowly closed his eyes.

”Of course there is.”

Corwin looked toward the documents.

”The salvage expedition reported that several storage areas remain untouched.”

Kade opened his eyes.

”Because they were unsafe.”

”Yes.”

”Contaminated.”

”Possibly.”

”Structurally unstable.”

”In some cases.”

He looked toward Corwin.

”We’re not sending people in there simply because the material looks valuable.”

The quartermaster nodded immediately.

”I agree.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”You do?”

”Of course.”

A pause.

Then Corwin sighed.

”Commander, I have spent twenty-two years accounting for equipment. I would rather write off a machine than explain why somebody died trying to recover it.”

Kade became quiet.

He looked toward the older man.

For a moment, he saw something he hadn’t expected.

Not simply a quartermaster obsessed with supplies.

A man who had served long enough to know what those supplies were for.

Corwin looked toward the cargo manifest.

Then added:

”The salvage is valuable because it helps us keep people alive.”

He looked up.

”That’s the point.”

Kade nodded slowly.

”Yes.”

The quartermaster closed the folder.

”Then we agree.”

Kade smiled faintly.

”Apparently.”

Corwin saluted.

Then turned to leave.

At the door, he paused.

”Commander.”

Kade looked up.

”Yes?”

”The recovered lathe.”

”What about it?”

Corwin hesitated.

Then smiled.

”Dain has already asked whether he can assign it a permanent place in the workshop.”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

”And?”

”I told him Engineering would need to submit a proper installation plan.”

The Commander considered that.

Then sighed.

”He threatened to resign?”

Corwin shook his head.

”No.”

Kade blinked.

”Really?”

The quartermaster smiled.

”He threatened to move it himself.”

Kade closed his eyes.

”Of course.”

Corwin left.

And Kade, for the first time all evening, found himself looking forward to reading a repair plan.

 The People Who Needed Fixing

Horizon’s infirmary had become an increasingly crowded place.

Not entirely because of the battle.

That was the frustrating part.

Some patients had ordinary injuries.

A dockworker had strained his back while helping move cargo.

A maintenance technician had cut his hand on a rusted panel.

One sailor had fallen down a ladder after deciding he could carry three crates at once.

Irena had given him a lecture so severe that several other sailors began using the handrails more diligently.

Then there were the battle casualties.

The serious cases remained under medical observation.

Several Breakwater sailors required extended treatment.

Others were recovering from burns, fractures, and fragment wounds.

Aster had been ordered to remain off her damaged rigging while the deeper injury to her side healed.

June was spending an irritating amount of time in bed.

Elsa was undergoing both medical treatment and equipment rehabilitation.

The separation between those two processes had become increasingly important.

A Keelborn could have her body treated while her machinery remained damaged.

Or have her rigging repaired while an injury still prevented her from operating it safely.

Neither type of repair automatically completed the other.

Hana knew that.

Dain knew that.

Irena knew it especially well.

The trouble was making the patients accept it.

”Absolutely not.”

Aster stared.

Irena folded her arms.

The Fletcher-class girl sat on the edge of the examination bed, her red ribbon tied neatly in her hair and one side of her body wrapped in a fresh dressing.

She looked offended.

Deeply offended.

”I just want to walk around.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

”You walked around yesterday.”

”Yes.”

”And then your wound started hurting.”

Aster looked away.

”...A little.”

Irena considered that.

”Enough that you came back here.”

Aster folded her arms.

”I was being responsible.”

”Good.”

The destroyer girl blinked.

Irena continued.

”Then you’ll have no problem being responsible today.”

Aster stared.

For several seconds, she appeared to search for an argument.

Then she sighed.

”You’re unfair.”

The doctor smiled.

”I’ve been told.”

From the neighboring bed, June began laughing.

Aster turned.

The Atlanta-class girl was sitting upright with a small pile of books beside her.

Her injured side had been treated, and the damaged propulsion equipment was safely stored in the repair workshop.

She looked considerably better than she had when she returned.

She also looked bored.

Aster considered that.

Then pointed.

”She should be in trouble too.”

June blinked.

”What?”

”She was laughing.”

Irena looked toward June.

The younger cruiser straightened immediately.

”I wasn’t going anywhere.”

”Good.”

Aster stared.

Then slowly turned toward the ceiling.

”This is a conspiracy.”

June began laughing again.

Irena sighed.

Then looked toward the doorway.

Kade stood there.

He’d been watching for approximately thirty seconds.

A small smile crossed his face.

Aster spotted him.

Her expression brightened.

”Commander!”

Kade entered.

”Morning.”

Irena raised an eyebrow.

”It’s afternoon.”

He glanced toward the clock.

Then sighed.

”Of course it is.”