Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

The Third Night

Three nights after the emergency meeting concerning USS Ironwake, Horizon Atoll was still awake.

That was not unusual.

Naval installations did not sleep the way towns did. Even during the quietest nights, there were sentries standing beneath floodlights, radio operators listening for distant calls, engineers checking machinery that could not safely be left unattended, and men and women whose watches began precisely when everyone else was settling into bed.

Horizon had always possessed those people.

What had changed was the number of things they were listening for.

The station’s warning level had increased without a general alarm. Patrol routes had been adjusted. Identification procedures had been tightened. Ships approaching the harbor were being challenged earlier and more carefully, while the communications office worked through a growing list of reports concerning vessels that had ignored Admiralty Union routing instructions elsewhere in the Pacific.

The airfield maintained a small emergency watch.

Harbor Control kept its searchlights serviced and their power supplies checked.

Security posts around the navigable lagoon had been reminded that an apparently quiet anchorage was not the same thing as a secure one.

And the men aboard USS Breakwater, despite their ship’s ongoing repairs, had been instructed to treat unfamiliar nighttime activity with the seriousness it deserved.

It made the atmosphere a little tense.

Not unbearably.

Not enough to stop people from eating dinner, laughing over ridiculous stories, or complaining about the astonishing quantity of sand that seemed to have followed them home from Beach Week.

But enough that a conversation might pause when an unfamiliar engine sounded beyond the harbor entrance.

Enough that guards examined approaching vehicle headlights a little longer than they had the previous week.

Enough that some of the Keelborn girls began checking the sky before they stepped outdoors.

The rumors had become real.

A former-player fleet had attacked Halcyon Roads.

A full-sized Iowa-class battleship named USS Ironwake had reportedly participated.

And somewhere among the surviving emergency transmissions was an account of people collecting Keelborn Pendants as if they were prizes.

Horizon still had no reliable final report from Halcyon.

No authenticated casualty total.

No confirmed explanation of where Ironwake had sailed afterward.

The six-day estimate for the rogue fleet’s possible arrival at the Burnt Narrows remained just that—an estimate. Fast scouts could appear earlier. The main fleet might travel somewhere else entirely. Weather, fuel, combat damage, and cargo-loading delays could change the timetable.

Kade had refused to let anyone turn the number into a promise.

Nevertheless, it was difficult to forget.

Six days had become five.

Then four.

Now the passage of each night felt a little more consequential.

And in one of Horizon’s better-lit maintenance buildings, two Keelborn girls were having an entirely different sort of crisis.

 “IT FEELS WEIRD!”

Riko Minase stood on the reinforced fitting platform with her arms extended, glaring down at the mechanical assemblies surrounding her waist.

A technician crouched beside the starboard mounting.

Another checked a pressure reading.

Hana Saeki stood nearby, holding a clipboard and wearing the expression of someone who had explained the same engineering principle twelve times and was preparing to explain it a thirteenth.

“Riko.”

The Yamato-class girl looked up.

“WHAT?”

“Please stop moving.”

“I’M NOT MOVING!”

The portside support assembly shifted.

A securing cable rattled against the servicing stand.

Hana looked at it.

Then toward Riko.

The battleship girl followed her gaze.

A pause.

“…Much.”

Hana closed her eyes.

“Thank you.”

The technician beside the mount made an adjustment.

A faint mechanical whine rose from the assistance system.

Riko’s expression changed immediately.

“Oh.”

Hana looked up.

“Better?”

The younger girl experimentally shifted her weight.

The support framework moved with her.

Not perfectly.

Not invisibly.

But smoothly enough that her eyes widened.

“Oh!”

The Akashi-class repair specialist smiled.

“There we go.”

Riko looked toward the starboard equipment.

Then toward her feet.

Then back.

For a moment, she seemed genuinely delighted.

“It’s lighter!”

“Not literally,” Hana answered. “You’re still carrying a tremendous amount of equipment. The new assistance arrangement is distributing the load more efficiently.”

Riko blinked.

Then grinned.

“Lighter!”

Hana sighed.

“Close enough.”

The machinery surrounding Riko was part of her newly issued Mk. II Intermediate rigging.

For weeks, she’d trained with the bulky Mk. I apparatus that had made her early exercises such an educational misery. The beginner configuration had been designed to limit dangerous movements, stabilize inexperienced users, and make the enormous forces involved in Keelborn operations manageable without allowing an overconfident novice to destroy herself or an entire maintenance pier.

It had done those things rather well.

Riko had hated portions of it with equal dedication.

The rigid assistance frames had restricted her turns. The governors had intervened whenever she attempted sudden maneuvers. The protective supports had made some movements feel as though she were dragging a small industrial building across the water.

More than once, she’d accused the rigging of deliberately conspiring against her.

The technicians had generally responded by pointing out that the rigging had also prevented several spectacularly expensive accidents.

Riko had disliked that argument because it was difficult to refute.

Now she was finally advancing.

The Intermediate configuration was still a training system, but it was no longer the full novice arrangement. Several bulky external supports had been removed or replaced by tighter, more responsive assemblies. The stabilization governors remained active but operated over a broader range. The power-assistance modules had been recalibrated to respond more naturally to her movements rather than resisting everything that looked enthusiastic.

Her naval armament remained physically supported.

The weight had not disappeared.

Nor had the fuel requirements, ammunition stores, cooling systems, or maintenance obligations.

But the apparatus fit her better.

Moved with her better.

And, perhaps most importantly, allowed her to begin learning how to handle the true characteristics of a Yamato-class battleship without treating every step as a potential emergency.

Riko looked extraordinarily pleased.

She shifted her shoulders.

The equipment moved.

She took a short step.

The mounting assemblies followed.

Then she tried another.

And almost stepped off the edge of the fitting platform.

“RIKO!”

Three people shouted simultaneously.

The Yamato-class girl froze.

One foot remained suspended beyond the painted safety line.

She looked down.

Then back toward Hana.

An embarrassed smile appeared.

“…I was testing it?”

Hana pressed the clipboard against her forehead.

“Of course you were.”

A few technicians laughed.

Riko carefully stepped backward.

The machinery settled.

Hana took a breath.

Then lowered her clipboard.

“Listen. Intermediate doesn’t mean unrestricted.”

The battleship girl nodded quickly.

“I know.”

“You still have speed limits during initial familiarization.”

“Yes.”

“You still need clearance before practicing aggressive maneuvers.”

“Yes.”

“And you absolutely do not get to fire the main battery because the equipment feels nicer.”

Riko opened her mouth.

Hana raised one finger.

The Yamato-class girl closed it.

A pause.

Then she sighed.

“…Fine.”

From the neighboring platform, a quiet voice spoke.

“That’s probably wise.”

Riko turned.

“Yuna!”

Yuna Mori was standing beside her own newly fitted equipment, looking considerably less theatrical about the entire procedure.

The Illustrious-class carrier wore a practical training suit beneath the physical assemblies of her Mk. II Intermediate carrier rigging. The arrangement had been revised from the bulky beginner framework, with tighter support structures around her aviation deck machinery, improved weight distribution, and a more responsive system for controlling movement across the water.

Her flight-deck equipment remained substantial.

The machinery was real.

And the aircraft facilities still needed the same careful servicing they had required before.

No amount of rigging improvement could turn a carrier into an effortless collection of weightless accessories.

Yuna knew that.

So did her fairies.

Several of the tiny aviation personnel were supervising a technical inspection from a protected servicing position beside the fitting platform. Their deck chief carried a clipboard that was, relative to her own body, almost offensively large.

Riko leaned closer.

“Yuna! How’s yours?”

The carrier girl considered that.

Then looked toward the support assembly beside her waist.

“Better than yesterday.”

Riko grinned.

“Right?”

Yuna nodded.

“The movement is smoother.”

“RIGHT?”

“And I don’t have to compensate as much when turning.”

“EXACTLY!”

Hana looked between them.

Then sighed.

“Please don’t encourage each other.”

Yuna smiled faintly.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Riko folded her arms.

“You’re just jealous because we got the new equipment.”

The Akashi-class girl raised an eyebrow.

“Riko.”

“Yes?”

“Who installed it?”

Riko blinked.

A pause.

Then she slowly lowered her arms.

“…You.”

“And who helped design the revised fittings?”

Riko considered that.

“…You?”

Hana smiled.

“Correct.”

The younger battleship stared.

Then grinned sheepishly.

“Thank you, Hana.”

The repair ship girl looked satisfied.

“Much better.”

 The fitting work had taken longer than anyone wanted to admit.

Intermediate rigging was not something that arrived in a box with instructions reading congratulations, you’re experienced now.

Riko and Yuna had spent the preceding days completing inspections, safety assessments, calibration trials, and supervised movement exercises. Their instructors had reviewed the results before recommending that either girl advance beyond the novice equipment.

The upgrade had been approved because they were improving.

Not because Horizon needed impressive ship classes available on paper.

There was a difference.

Kade had made that distinction painfully clear during the readiness conference.

A Yamato-class battleship with incomplete training was not automatically more useful than an experienced destroyer.

An Illustrious-class carrier with exhausted fairy crews was not a bottomless supply of air support.

And damaged equipment did not become serviceable simply because the station’s strategic situation had become unpleasant.

The girls were receiving Intermediate configurations because the training staff believed they were ready for the next stage.

The fact that Horizon now had reason to fear another hostile fleet merely made it more important to conduct the process properly.

Tonight would be their first extended low-light familiarization patrol in the new arrangements.

It was not a combat sortie.

There would be no gunnery.

No live aviation operations.

No attempt to push the new rigs to their limits.

The approved route remained within Horizon’s controlled harbor approaches and the navigable portions of its lagoon, away from the section still restricted following the Blackwake organic mine incident.

They would be accompanied by an experienced destroyer girl.

They would communicate with Harbor Control at designated checkpoints.

And they would return before the late watch unless conditions required otherwise.

Straightforward.

Ordinary.

Safe, by the standards of a naval station living through a war.

Riko considered that last description somewhat disappointing.

Hana considered it wonderful.

Yuna simply hoped the new equipment wouldn’t develop a fault halfway through the first turn.

 “Carrier lateral stabilization,” a technician called.

Yuna looked toward the panel beside her.

“Ready.”

“Portside response?”

She shifted her weight.

The machinery adjusted with a low whine.

“Normal.”

“Starboard?”

Another controlled movement.

“Normal.”

“Recovery-platform alignment?”

The fairy deck chief raised her clipboard.

“Within tolerance!”

The technician nodded.

“Communications?”

A tiny operator checked the secured local set.

“Good!”

Yuna smiled.

For a moment, she looked toward the fairies.

They were busy.

Concentrated.

Alive.

The thought always came now.

Not because she wanted it to.

Because she couldn’t help remembering the empty places left by the crews that had failed to return from the Burnt Narrows.

The new rigging had required careful changes to the aviation-support arrangements. Every aircraft handling station had been checked for safe access. The fairy crews had been consulted on how the altered equipment affected their work.

That mattered to Yuna.

She’d insisted upon it.

The deck chief had taken the responsibility extremely seriously.

At one point, she’d rejected an otherwise acceptable maintenance arrangement because a handhold had been moved to a location that would make access dangerous for smaller crew members.

The technician involved had initially protested that the clearance was sufficient.

The deck chief had asked him to climb the equivalent distance while carrying a toolbox larger than his own torso.

The technician had reconsidered.

The handhold had been moved.

Yuna remained proud of her.

Now the little officer looked up.

“Carrier ready for movement trial.”

The Illustrious-class girl nodded.

“Thank you.”

Then she glanced toward the empty launch position.

For a moment, her expression softened.

Tonight, there would be no fighter sorties.

No bombers.

No aircraft leaving the deck and disappearing into the night.

Only movement training.

A carrier patrol with her aviation crews secure aboard and her aircraft stowed.

Yuna appreciated that more than she could easily explain.

 At the far end of the building, the maintenance doors opened.

A breeze moved through the workshop.

The smell of salt water drifted inward.

And a new voice called:

“Are the two celebrities ready yet?”

Riko turned.

Standing beneath the entrance lights was an Allen M. Sumner-class destroyer girl.

She wore a practical dark-blue patrol uniform, her own rigging already fitted and secured for duty. Compared with the Yamato and Illustrious equipment inside the workshop, her destroyer machinery looked compact, familiar, and thoroughly functional.

She was one of Horizon’s experienced Sumner-class girls, assigned tonight as escort and antisubmarine watch.

Her given name was not one Riko had needed often; everyone on the training roster simply knew her by her patrol callsign, Harbor Three.

She had accepted the arrangement with a shrug.

It was easier than listening to Riko announce everyone’s ship class every time they met.

Now she looked toward the platforms.

Then whistled.

“Not bad.”

Riko grinned.

“Right?”

Harbor Three looked toward the Yamato-class girl’s Intermediate equipment.

Then toward the technicians still adjusting the fittings.

“You done growing a shipyard around yourself?”

Riko folded her arms.

“It’s a battleship.”

“That’s what I said.”

Yuna laughed softly.

Hana approached with her clipboard.

“Harbor Three.”

The destroyer straightened slightly.

“Hana.”

“Your antisubmarine equipment passed inspection?”

“Yes.”

“Hydrophone array?”

“Checked.”

“Acoustic receiver?”

“Working.”

“Headphones?”

The destroyer tapped the padded set hanging around her neck.

“Present.”

Hana nodded.

“Depth-charge racks?”

“Secured and accounted for.”

“Release interlocks?”

“Tested.”

“Very good.”

Harbor Three smiled.

“Anything else?”

Hana considered that.

Then glanced toward the destroyer’s equipment.

“Have you submitted the maintenance request for the sonar display?”

The Sumner girl stared.

For a moment, she seemed personally wounded.

Then she sighed.

“Don’t remind me.”

Riko blinked.

“What display?”

Harbor Three looked toward her.

“The one I don’t have.”

The Yamato-class girl tilted her head.

“You don’t have a sonar screen?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Riko looked toward the destroyer’s rigging.

Then toward Hana.

“But she’s a destroyer!”

Hana sighed.

“Riko, not every equipment arrangement includes every instrument in the same form.”

Harbor Three folded her arms.

“My hydrophones feed an acoustic receiver. The receiver feeds my headphones. I listen.”

Riko frowned.

“No screen?”

“No screen.”

Yuna looked toward her.

“Doesn’t that make it difficult?”

The Sumner girl’s expression became thoughtful.

“Sometimes.”

She touched the headphones.

“But a good sound can tell you quite a lot.”

Hana nodded.

“Passive listening is valuable precisely because it doesn’t announce itself the way an active transmission can.”

Harbor Three grinned.

“Exactly.”

Then she sighed.

“Still want a screen.”

Hana smiled.

“I know.”

“An actual display. Bearings. Maybe a nice track history.”

“I know.”

“Something that doesn’t require me to spend half the night listening to shrimp argue with each other.”

Riko blinked.

“Shrimp?”

Harbor Three looked toward her.

Then smiled.

“You’d be surprised what the sea sounds like.”

The Yamato-class girl considered that.

For a moment, she seemed intrigued.

Then she leaned forward.

“Can I listen?”

Harbor Three regarded her.

Then glanced toward Hana.

“After the patrol briefing.”

Riko grinned.

“YES!”

The Sumner girl sighed.

“Wonderful.”

Yuna smiled.

Hana returned to her clipboard.

For the moment, the night looked perfectly ordinary.

That would not last.

 Across the Lagoon

The assignment that took Hana onto the water was much less glamorous than either of the new rigging trials.

A fault had developed in the secondary communications relay at the eastern end of the harbor defenses.

Not a catastrophic fault.

The station could still transmit and receive through its primary systems, and the backup aerials remained available. But one of the older signal installations had begun dropping its connection whenever the coastal searchlights drew power from the same aging distribution circuit.

Dain’s technicians had already isolated the most likely problem.

Unfortunately, the replacement component was located on the opposite side of the lagoon from the main repair yard.

And because the relay was part of the emergency harbor-defense network, the repair needed to be completed before the next full systems test.

Hana was going.

Not because every electrical fault on Horizon required an Akashi-class Keelborn.

It didn’t.

But she had helped inspect the damaged equipment earlier, understood its connection to the old repair systems, and possessed the portable instruments required to finish the adjustment without hauling an entire workshop across the island.

She’d also promised Dain she would check a failing auxiliary pump near the relay platform.

That pump mattered for a different reason.

Its job was to keep seawater from accumulating beneath a section of the coastal installation where the foundations had been weakened during earlier Blackwake raids.

It was a small piece of machinery.

The sort of device nobody appreciated until it stopped working and somebody discovered several inches of water where electrical cables were supposed to remain dry.

Hana believed strongly in repairing such devices before they made themselves interesting.

Her maintenance bag was already packed.

Replacement contacts.

Insulated tools.

A compact meter.

Sealing materials.

A portable work light.

Several spare connectors.

And a collection of small components she’d insisted upon carrying because she had learned that nobody ever regretted having the correct fuse until they were looking for one at midnight.

The bag was not light.

Neither was her portable repair equipment.

She’d secured both to the proper mounts on her Akashi-class rigging.

Now she stood beside the fitting platform watching Riko and Yuna finish their final checks.

“Remember,” she said, “we are not taking the scenic route.”

Riko grinned.

“Of course!”

“We are not racing.”

“Of course!”

“We are not testing the maximum speed of your new rigging.”

“Of course!”

Hana narrowed her eyes.

“Riko.”

The Yamato-class girl blinked.

“Yes?”

“Why do you sound disappointed?”

“I don’t!”

Harbor Three looked toward Yuna.

The carrier girl smiled faintly.

The destroyer sighed.

“We’re going to have a very long evening.”

Hana checked her watch.

“We have an hour and forty minutes allocated for the outbound trip, repair work, and return transit.”

Harbor Three raised an eyebrow.

“That’s optimistic.”

“It’s an auxiliary relay adjustment.”

“And an old pump.”

“Yes.”

“On Horizon.”

Hana paused.

The destroyer smiled.

For several seconds, they regarded each other.

Then Hana sighed.

“…Two hours.”

Harbor Three nodded approvingly.

“Better.”

The repair ship girl looked offended.

“I’m not that predictable.”

“You packed spare fuses for equipment that hasn’t failed yet.”

Hana opened her mouth.

Then stopped.

She looked toward the bag.

Then back.

“That’s called preparation.”

Harbor Three grinned.

“Exactly.”

Yuna laughed.

Riko looked between them.

Then smiled brightly.

“This is going to be fun!”

Hana and Harbor Three answered together.

“It’s a routine patrol.”

Riko blinked.

A pause.

Then she grinned.

“Right!”

The other three sighed.

 The patrol briefing began at nineteen forty.

By then, the last light of sunset had disappeared beyond the atoll, leaving the lagoon beneath a darkening sky broken by the reflections of harbor lamps and distant navigation beacons.

Horizon looked different at night.

The neglect remained visible, but darkness hid some of the cracked paint, weathered concrete, and repairs that still needed to be finished.

What remained was a scattered necklace of lights around black water.

The old administration buildings stood farther inland, their windows glowing yellow beneath the palms. The repair yards were illuminated by work lamps, and several cranes rested motionless beside the piers.

USS Breakwater occupied her berth like a dark cliff of steel.

Even damaged and stationary, the battleship dominated the harbor.

Her main turrets stood beneath the night sky, their heavy barrels pointing safely away from occupied shore facilities. Scaffolding climbed portions of her upper structure. A section of the temporary electrical lighting remained visible along the repair platforms.

Several men stood watch aboard her.

Male former players from another Earth.

Their ship was as real as the water moving against her hull.

Farther around the anchorage, Keelborn equipment rested at designated moorings.

Some girls were off duty.

Others were undergoing maintenance.

A few remained assigned to the harbor-defense rotation.

The lagoon itself was large enough to accommodate the station’s operational needs, with charted approaches leading between reefs and shallow areas into the deeper inner harbor.

Not every portion was safe to enter.

The old contaminated lagoon sector remained closed behind enforced boundaries, and several approaches were restricted because of mines, damaged infrastructure, or insufficient survey information.

The patrol route had been planned accordingly.

The four Keelborn would travel along the approved channel, proceed toward the eastern signal platform, allow Hana to complete the repair, then return by way of the inner defensive circuit.

No unnecessary deviations.

No exercises beyond the approved Intermediate rigging familiarization.

No entry into the restricted lagoon sector.

And no approaching unidentified contacts without reporting them to Harbor Control.

An ordinary evening.

At least on paper.

 The senior watch officer stood beside the chart.

“Night Patrol Three, your assignment is straightforward.”

Harbor Three nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer indicated the route with a pointer.

“You’ll lead. Riko and Yuna maintain the approved formation behind you. Hana accompanies the patrol to the East Signal Annex.”

Riko studied the chart.

Yuna listened quietly.

Hana checked the maintenance notes.

The officer continued.

“Visibility is good near the harbor, but the moon will not be fully above the eastern horizon until later. Expect dark water beyond the fixed lighting.”

Harbor Three nodded.

“Understood.”

“Civilian traffic?”

“Two authorized workboats inside the inner harbor. One harbor launch expected at approximately twenty-three hundred. All movements registered.”

“Good.”

The officer looked toward the Sumner-class destroyer.

“Your passive acoustic receiver is functioning?”

“Yes.”

“Continuous listening in the approach sectors.”

Harbor Three nodded.

“Understood.”

The officer turned toward Riko and Yuna.

“You two are here to become familiar with the handling characteristics of your Intermediate equipment.”

Riko straightened.

“Yes, sir!”

“That does not mean you are responsible for pursuing underwater contacts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or conducting independent defensive maneuvers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or testing how quickly a Yamato-class battleship can accelerate through a narrow channel.”

Riko opened her mouth.

Stopped.

Then nodded.

“…Yes, sir.”

Harbor Three smiled faintly.

Yuna looked toward the map.

The officer continued.

“If anything unusual occurs, the escort controls the immediate tactical response. You follow the instructions given unless safety requires otherwise.”

Yuna nodded.

“Understood.”

Riko followed.

“Yes.”

The officer looked toward Hana.

“Repair work only at the designated platform. Confirm with Harbor Control before returning.”

Hana nodded.

“Of course.”

He studied all four.

For several seconds, his expression remained serious.

Then he added:

“Given the recent intelligence, remain alert. We have no confirmed hostile contact near Horizon, but that is not a reason to assume there cannot be one.”

The words settled over the briefing room.

Riko’s expression became more serious.

Yuna looked toward the window.

Harbor Three touched the headphones hanging around her neck.

Hana nodded slowly.

The watch officer closed the folder.

“Any questions?”

Nobody spoke.

“Then carry on.”

 They entered the water at twenty-oh-eight.

Riko went first.

The Yamato-class girl’s Intermediate rigging settled around her as the buoyant naval structures engaged and the propulsion equipment came online.

The movement was accompanied by a familiar series of mechanical vibrations.

A low hum.

A brief adjustment in the support assemblies.

Then the larger components balanced against the water.

Riko looked down.

For a moment, she seemed almost startled by how naturally the equipment responded.

“Oh.”

Hana, waiting beside the pier, raised an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

Riko shook her head.

“No!”

She shifted her weight.

The rigging followed.

A small wave rolled outward.

Her eyes widened.

“It’s so much smoother!”

Harbor Three moved past her.

“That’s the idea.”

The destroyer’s own equipment cut a narrow wake through the lagoon as she settled into the lead position.

Yuna entered next.

The Illustrious-class carrier proceeded carefully, her attention moving between the water ahead and the feedback from her support systems.

The fairy deck chief had completed the aviation-stowage checks before departure. The carrier’s aircraft remained secured, and only essential watch personnel were active aboard the rigging.

Yuna felt the machinery respond to her first turn.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“It really is better.”

Riko beamed.

“RIGHT?”

The carrier girl smiled.

“Yes.”

Hana followed, her portable repair equipment secured to the Akashi-class mounts.

She glanced toward the two trainees.

“Remember your speed limits.”

Riko nodded.

“I know!”

Harbor Three raised one hand.

“Patrol Three, form up.”

The other girls adjusted their positions.

The destroyer took the lead.

Riko settled off her port quarter.

Yuna remained farther back, with enough room to maneuver safely without crowding the much larger Yamato-class assemblies.

Hana brought up the rear.

Their wakes widened across the dark water.

Then they passed the first harbor marker and began the patrol.

 For the first twenty minutes, the greatest threat they encountered was Riko’s enthusiasm.

“This is amazing!”

Harbor Three glanced back.

“Watch your spacing.”

“I AM!”

“Then stop drifting inward every time you look at the lights.”

Riko corrected her course.

A small mechanical adjustment passed through the Yamato-class rigging.

She frowned.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Yuna followed the same curve more cautiously.

Her new equipment responded well, but she could still feel the difference between the familiar novice arrangement and the more demanding Intermediate configuration.

The machinery no longer compensated for every awkward movement.

She had to make more decisions herself.

How far to shift her weight.

When to begin a turn.

How quickly to adjust propulsion.

How to prevent the larger aviation-support structures from developing unnecessary motion.

It required concentration.

But there was pleasure in it too.

For the first time, the carrier felt as though the equipment was working with her rather than constantly telling her what not to do.

She looked toward Riko.

The younger battleship was smiling.

Yuna smiled back.

Then Harbor Three called:

“Night Patrol Three to Harbor Control. Passing East Marker Two. Formation intact. No unusual contacts.”

A brief crackle.

“Harbor Control copies. Continue approved route.”

The destroyer acknowledged.

Then touched the controls beside her acoustic receiver.

The headphones settled over her ears.

The sounds of the night changed.

Above the water, the harbor was full of ordinary noises.

Wind.

Waves.

The distant hum of generators.

Occasional voices carried from the shore.

Through the hydrophone system, however, the lagoon possessed another world entirely.

Deep.

Muffled.

Complicated.

The electrical pickup carried low mechanical vibrations through the receiver, mixed with the crackling and scraping sounds of things that lived beneath the water.

The destroyer adjusted the gain.

A soft hiss filled her ears.

She listened.

There were the workboats.

One nearer the inner channel.

One farther east.

Their engines had distinctive rhythms she could recognize from previous patrols.

A harbor tug sat idle near the repair berth.

Its machinery produced a faint, familiar low-frequency signature.

Farther away, the water moved against reef formations, creating scattered noise that shifted with the current.

Harbor Three listened to all of it.

She had no bright display showing little moving symbols.

No convenient line tracing every underwater contact across a screen.

Only the sounds carried into her headphones and the controls allowing her to compare bearings.

She’d complained about the limitation often enough that Hana had begun recognizing the complaint before it was spoken.

But tonight she didn’t complain.

She listened.

And the lagoon spoke back.

For a while, everything sounded ordinary.

 At twenty-thirty-one, Hana reached the East Signal Annex.

The installation occupied a reinforced concrete platform beside a low strip of land at the lagoon’s eastern edge.

A narrow pier provided access for maintenance launches, while an older staircase climbed toward the signal equipment mounted above the shore.

Several fixed lights illuminated the approach.

A sentry stood beside the access gate.

Beyond him rose an aging communications mast, its steelwork silhouetted against the night sky.

Hana looked up.

Then sighed.

“Still standing.”

Harbor Three raised an eyebrow.

“Were you expecting otherwise?”

“It’s Horizon.”

“Fair.”

The repair ship girl approached the pier.

A maintenance assistant secured her equipment bag.

The sentry checked her authorization and opened the gate.

Hana stepped onto the platform.

Then turned toward the patrol.

“Twenty minutes.”

Harbor Three smiled.

“Thirty.”

Hana folded her arms.

“Twenty.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty-five.”

The Sumner girl considered that.

Then nodded.

“Deal.”

Riko blinked.

“What just happened?”

Yuna smiled.

“Negotiation.”

Hana looked offended.

“It’s a simple repair.”

Harbor Three grinned.

“Of course.”

The Akashi-class girl sighed.

Then disappeared through the access gate with the maintenance assistant.

The other three remained on station.

The patrol wasn’t over.

It was merely holding the outer security pattern while Hana completed her task.

Harbor Three checked the chart.

Then looked toward Riko and Yuna.

“Slow circuit. Keep visual contact with the signal platform. No unnecessary speed changes.”

Both trainees nodded.

The destroyer adjusted her headphones.

The acoustic receiver hissed softly.

And the three girls resumed their watch.

 The Boat That Did Not Belong There

Four miles beyond the outer harbor, a submarine moved through the dark.

Its engines had been reduced to a careful, low-speed setting.

Inside the pressure hull, the air smelled of warm machinery, oil, stale food, and the distinctive mixture of damp metal and human habitation that never quite disappeared from submarines on extended patrol.

A dim red lamp illuminated the control compartment.

The deck trembled faintly beneath the crew’s boots.

Valves clicked.

A gauge needle moved.

And a young woman stood beside the navigation table, studying a sketch of Horizon Atoll.

She was not a Keelborn.

Neither was anyone else aboard.

The submarine was an actual vessel with a steel pressure hull, ballast tanks, torpedo tubes, engines, electric motors, and the cramped internal arrangements of a conventional undersea warship.

Its crew consisted entirely of women.

Former players.

They had chosen naval submarine roles in FRONTLINE HEARTS and emerged from Hour Zero inside a real boat, surrounded by machinery that behaved as machinery ought to behave.

The vessel belonged to the game’s Type VIII submarine line.

An unusual designation by older naval standards, but perfectly familiar to the women who had selected it during character creation.

The skipper liked to call it a premium choice.

Most of her crew liked to call it a floating headache.

At the moment, both descriptions seemed accurate.

 “Depth?”

A voice answered from the controls.

“Seventeen meters.”

“Speed?”

“Three knots.”

“Motor condition?”

“Normal.”

The skipper nodded.

Her name was Miriam Vale.

She was twenty-eight years old, though the last several weeks had made her feel considerably older.

Before FRONTLINE HEARTS, Miriam had lived on the original Earth, worked an ordinary job, and spent far too much of her spare time playing naval combat games with people she considered friends.

She’d liked submarines.

Liked the patience.

The stealth.

The idea that a vessel smaller than a battleship could threaten something vastly more powerful through positioning and surprise.

When FRONTLINE HEARTS offered her the chance to take command of a submarine crew composed of other players, she’d accepted immediately.

It had seemed like an excellent way to spend the launch.

Then the Crisis happened.

At first, Miriam had been frightened.

Everybody aboard had.

The controls were suddenly real.

The steel was cold.

The machinery shook beneath their feet.

Their stomachs growled when they were hungry.

Their throats became dry.

And when someone cut her hand on a damaged hatch fitting, the blood had not vanished.

For the first several days, Miriam had been certain the game developers were running an unusually elaborate event.

Then a week passed.

Then another.

Then enough time that she had stopped counting days according to the clocks she remembered from home.

But she still believed.

Or, increasingly, needed to believe.

Because the alternative was worse.

The alternative meant she and her crew were trapped somewhere they did not understand, aboard a submarine they could not simply log out of, surrounded by a world where a mechanical failure might kill them.

It meant people could die.

Permanently.

It meant everything she’d done while assuming the rules were artificial might have consequences she could not undo.

Miriam disliked that possibility so intensely that she’d made a habit of dismissing anyone who raised it.

There were plenty of explanations.

A time-compressed event.

Advanced immersion.

A locked campaign session.

Hidden progression rules.

The other player fleets had explanations too.

Some of them were absurd.

Some were contradictory.

Miriam tried not to notice.

What mattered was that someone had eventually offered her something concrete.

A mission.

A reward.

An objective that resembled the naval game she’d expected to play.

Reconnaissance of a supposedly low-tier Admiralty Union outpost.

Identification of valuable Keelborn units.

Recovery of anything that could be claimed later.

The organization issuing those instructions had contacts throughout the Pacific.

Its ships were powerful.

Its people spoke confidently about an eventual return to the original Earth.

And one of its principal warships was an Iowa-class battleship named USS Ironwake.

Miriam had found that reassuring.

Perhaps more reassuring than she should have.

Now she stood beneath the submarine’s red lights, examining the chart of Horizon Atoll.

The base looked unimpressive.

Old defenses.

Limited infrastructure.

A damaged conventional battleship.

A neglected repair harbor.

Several scattered Keelborn positions.

According to the report she’d received, it was an easy reconnaissance objective.

Possibly more.

Miriam studied the chart.

Then smiled faintly.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 Beside the navigation table stood her executive officer, a dark-haired former player named Elise Rowan.

Elise was twenty-six.

She’d been one of the first crew members to stop using the word game after the Crisis.

It had happened during their second week, when a damaged auxiliary motor injured a woman in the engineering compartment.

Elise had helped hold the wound closed while their medic worked.

She remembered the warmth of the blood.

The woman’s cries.

The way everybody had gone quiet afterward.

No ordinary simulation she knew could account for the experience.

That realization had frightened her more than the accident itself.

She’d tried talking to Miriam.

The skipper had listened for a while.

Then explained that the developers were obviously testing advanced sensory feedback.

Elise had asked why anyone would design a game that allowed someone to suffer an untreated infection.

Miriam had said the medical systems probably had a hidden difficulty modifier.

Elise hadn’t argued again.

Not openly.

There wasn’t much she could do.

They were on a submarine.

Miriam was the skipper.

And the crew needed someone who could make decisions.

Now Elise stood beside her, examining the approach route.

“Captain.”

Miriam looked up.

“Yes?”

“We’re very close to the harbor defense sector.”

“I know.”

“Closer than the original reconnaissance instructions required.”

Miriam tapped the chart.

“The objective is to identify the Keelborn present.”

“We can observe some from outside.”

“Not enough.”

Elise hesitated.

Then continued.

“The lagoon is shallow. There are reef hazards. If we’re detected, maneuvering room will be limited.”

Miriam nodded.

“Which is why we’re moving slowly.”

“That isn’t the same as being safe.”

The skipper looked toward her.

For a moment, her expression became irritated.

“Elise.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve discussed this.”

“I know.”

“The whole point of a submarine is not being seen.”

The executive officer considered that.

Then glanced toward the pressure-hull gauge.

She wanted to say that stealth was not a magical property granted by selecting the submarine class.

That the hydrophones, searchlights, patrol craft, and trained destroyer escorts belonging to a real naval installation could detect them.

That entering an inhabited harbor without authorization was not simply an adventurous scouting mission.

But Miriam was already looking toward the next chart.

Elise swallowed her objection.

Then asked a different question.

“What’s the plan if they challenge us?”

“Remain submerged.”

“And if they detect us anyway?”

Miriam smiled.

“Then we explain that we’re conducting an event reconnaissance objective.”

Elise stared.

For several seconds, she didn’t speak.

Then she looked toward the control compartment.

The crew were listening.

Not openly.

But enough.

She lowered her voice.

“Captain.”

Miriam glanced up.

“Hmm?”

“What if they don’t think it’s an event?”

The skipper’s smile faded.

For a moment, the machinery hummed softly around them.

Then Miriam answered:

“That’s their problem.”

Elise felt something unpleasant settle in her stomach.

She looked toward the chart.

Horizon Atoll.

A real island.

A real naval base.

Real people.

And they were approaching it in a submarine without permission, relying on the hope that nobody would take their intrusion seriously.

She began to wonder whether they’d made a terrible mistake.

It was too late to turn around without giving an explanation Miriam would accept.

The skipper looked toward the helm.

“Maintain course.”

The helmswoman acknowledged.

“Maintaining.”

Miriam returned to the chart.

And the Type VIII submarine continued slowly toward Horizon’s lagoon.

 The Sound Between the Sounds

At twenty-forty-three, Harbor Three heard something she didn’t recognize.

It was barely there.

A low mechanical pulse beneath the more familiar noise of the lagoon.

She did not react immediately.

There were many perfectly ordinary explanations for an unusual underwater sound.

A distant workboat could change its engine setting.

A harbor pump could start.

Propeller noise might reflect from the reef formations and arrive from an unexpected direction.

Even the movement of water across submerged structures could produce rhythms that sounded mechanical when filtered through an acoustic receiver.

A good listener did not classify every unfamiliar noise as an enemy.

A good listener asked questions.

Harbor Three turned the receiver control slightly.

The familiar harbor tug remained on its known bearing.

The two registered workboats were farther away.

Neither had changed its reported position.

The new sound was different.

She listened.

One slow pulse.

Then another.

A faint, uneven wash beneath them.

She frowned.

The spacing was too regular to be a random scrape against the reef.

Not quite regular enough to be an electrical hum.

She adjusted the listening direction.

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The sound weakened.

She turned the control back.

It returned.

Her expression changed.

“Hmm.”

Riko glanced over.

“What?”

Harbor Three raised one finger.

“Quiet a second.”

The Yamato-class girl immediately closed her mouth.

Yuna slowed slightly, remaining within the approved formation.

The destroyer listened.

A subtle rumble passed through her headphones.

Then the low rhythm returned.

It was not loud.

In fact, if she’d been talking, she might have missed it completely.

The noise seemed to come from beneath the western side of the approved patrol sector, closer to the deeper approach channel than the maintenance platform.

Harbor Three glanced toward the shore.

The East Signal Annex was illuminated by work lights.

Hana was still inside.

The patrol had been moving along its assigned holding circuit.

Nothing about the scene appeared unusual.

The destroyer touched her radio.

“Night Patrol Three to Harbor Control.”

A pause.

“Harbor Control, go ahead.”

“Request current movement confirmation for the western approach to East Signal Annex.”

The controller sounded mildly surprised.

“Checking. Stand by.”

Harbor Three continued listening.

The low pulsing noise persisted.

She compared it with the engine rhythms she remembered.

Fishing craft.

Maintenance launches.

Harbor tugs.

Patrol boats.

None seemed quite right.

There was a faint cyclic beat.

Then a softer secondary vibration.

The sort of pattern rotating machinery produced when the listener was hearing it through water rather than air.

She swallowed.

“Harbor Control to Night Patrol Three. No registered surface traffic in your western listening sector. Last authorized workboat passed north of Marker Four approximately seventeen minutes ago.”

Harbor Three looked toward the dark water.

“Copy. Do you have any submerged maintenance activity authorized?”

A longer pause.

“Negative. No diving teams, underwater vehicles, or submerged testing in that sector.”

The destroyer’s fingers tightened around the receiver.

“Understood.”

Riko watched her.

The cheerful expression had faded from the Yamato-class girl’s face.

Yuna looked toward the western channel.

The sea appeared black beneath the night sky.

Harbor Three closed her eyes.

Not to shut out the danger.

To listen better.

The headphones carried a faint mechanical whisper.

Then another.

Then the slow, steady chopping rhythm she’d been trying to identify.

Her stomach tightened.

Propellers.

Slow propellers.

Not the noisy surface propellers of a registered harbor launch.

Something submerged.

Moving carefully.

Deliberately.

And apparently trying very hard not to be heard.

Harbor Three opened her eyes.

“Oh.”

Riko leaned closer.

“What?”

The destroyer didn’t answer immediately.

She moved the listening direction again.

The sound shifted in strength.

She checked the bearing against the patrol chart.

Then listened once more.

One low rotation.

Another.

A third.

She had heard recordings like that during antisubmarine instruction.

Not exactly the same sound.

Real machinery rarely behaved like a perfect training example.

But close enough.

Too close.

Harbor Three looked toward the dark water.

Then spoke very quietly.

“That’s a submarine.”

 Riko stared at her.

For a moment, the Yamato-class girl seemed unable to process the statement.

“A what?”

Harbor Three touched the headphones.

“Submarine.”

Yuna straightened.

The carrier girl’s expression changed immediately.

“Blackwake?”

“Unknown.”

Riko looked toward the water.

Then toward the western approach.

“But how could it—”

“Quiet.”

The destroyer adjusted the receiver again.

She needed confirmation.

A bearing.

A track.

Enough to tell Harbor Control where the contact was moving.

She had no sonar display drawing the answer for her.

No screen tracing a convenient little submarine symbol toward a point on the chart.

Just the sound in her ears.

She listened to the propeller beat.

Shifted the pickup.

Found the strongest bearing.

Then waited several seconds and checked again.

The sound had moved.

Only slightly.

But enough.

The contact was advancing through the deeper water along the lagoon’s western edge.

Slowly.

Toward the harbor.

Harbor Three’s mouth became dry.

This wasn’t a training exercise.

The station had scheduled no submarine drill.

There were no authorized underwater vehicles operating nearby.

And the current warning conditions made the idea of an unidentified submerged vessel entering the lagoon extraordinarily unpleasant.

She opened the patrol radio.

“Harbor Control, Night Patrol Three. Probable submerged contact, western approach to East Signal Annex. Bearing follows. Slow propeller signature, no authorized traffic match.”

The controller answered immediately.

“Night Patrol Three, confirm probable submarine?”

The Sumner girl swallowed.

Then looked toward the dark water.

“Affirmative. Passive acoustic contact consistent with a slow-moving submarine. Classification not yet confirmed.”

For a moment, the channel was silent.

Then the response came.

Sharper now.

“Night Patrol Three, maintain contact. Harbor defense watch is being notified. Do not enter the restricted lagoon sector.”

“Understood.”

Harbor Three looked toward her two companions.

“Riko. Yuna.”

Both straightened.

“Yes?”

“Move toward the eastern side of the approved channel. Keep clear of my intended track. Do not approach the contact unless I instruct you.”

Riko opened her mouth.

Harbor Three looked directly at her.

“I’m serious.”

The battleship girl closed it.

Then nodded firmly.

“Understood.”

Yuna nodded as well.

“Right.”

The destroyer watched them begin the maneuver.

The Intermediate equipment responded.

Riko’s heavy assemblies shifted under controlled power.

Yuna adjusted her course carefully, making room without crossing the destroyer’s path.

Neither attempted to act independently.

Harbor Three appreciated that more than she could express.

She returned to her headphones.

The slow beat continued.

A fraction louder now.

Or perhaps merely easier to recognize.

She felt a cold thrill pass through her.

There was something under the water.

And it knew enough to move quietly.

 At the East Signal Annex, Hana was halfway through the relay adjustment when the alarm reached her.

A technician had removed the faulty component from its mounting.

The replacement lay beside an open instrument case.

The circuit had been isolated, verified, and tagged.

Hana was examining the damaged contacts when her radio crackled.

“East Signal Annex, Harbor Control. Night Patrol Three reports a probable submerged contact west of your position. Suspend exterior maintenance and secure personnel.”

Hana froze.

The technician looked up.

“What?”

She reached for the radio.

“East Signal Annex acknowledges. Confirm submerged contact?”

“Probable submarine. Investigation underway. Keep the annex clear of the waterfront.”

Hana looked toward the open panel.

Then toward the technician.

For several seconds, she seemed to be weighing the inconvenience of leaving a repair unfinished against the very real possibility that someone was trying to enter the harbor underwater.

The decision was immediate.

“Secure the panel.”

The technician blinked.

“But the replacement—”

“Leave it isolated. We can finish later.”

He nodded rapidly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hana gathered the most important instruments.

The maintenance assistant disconnected the portable light.

The sentry outside the annex began directing personnel toward the sheltered interior corridor.

Hana glanced toward the water through the open doorway.

The lagoon looked calm.

Almost beautiful.

The fixed lights cast long reflections across its surface.

Farther out, Riko’s large silhouette was moving slowly toward the east side of the channel, with Yuna maintaining a safe position nearby.

Harbor Three remained farther west.

Her posture had changed.

She was listening.

Hana knew that look.

For a moment, she remembered all the times the Sumner girl had complained about not having a sonar display.

All the jokes about listening to shrimp.

All the patient equipment checks.

Now the destroyer’s headphones had apparently found something the rest of them couldn’t see.

Hana’s expression tightened.

She touched her radio.

“Harbor Three, this is Hana. I’m securing the annex. Do you need technical support?”

The destroyer’s answer came after a brief delay.

“Not yet. Stay off the waterfront.”

Hana swallowed.

“Understood.”

A pause.

Then the Sumner girl added:

“And don’t come looking for me.”

Hana almost laughed.

Almost.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The channel closed.

Hana looked toward the dark lagoon.

Then she hurried inside.

 Harbor Three continued tracking the contact.

By twenty-fifty-one, she was certain enough to stop hoping for an innocent explanation.

The slow propeller beat remained on a consistent underwater course.

The sound had grown stronger, then changed slightly as the vessel adjusted its movement.

That mattered.

A fixed machine on the lagoon floor did not alter its bearing and propeller rhythm while advancing through the channel.

A drifting object did not produce controlled propulsion.

A school of fish did not sound like a carefully managed drive shaft.

Something was moving.

Something large enough to be a submarine.

And something without permission.

She checked the bearing again.

Then the chart.

The contact was approaching water shallow enough that a submerged vessel would have very little vertical maneuvering room.

If it continued, it would pass beneath the western edge of the patrol circuit.

Near the line of fixed harbor-defense searchlights.

Harbor Three looked toward the watchtowers.

The towers stood along the shore, their windows glowing faintly.

Their searchlight housings were dark.

For the moment.

She opened the radio.

“Harbor Control. Night Patrol Three.”

“Go ahead.”

“Contact continuing toward inner lagoon. Slow propeller beat, positive movement. Request immediate searchlight sweep of the western channel and water surface along my bearing.”

A pause.

Then the controller answered:

“Searchlights preparing.”

Harbor Three looked toward the towers.

The contact continued moving.

She listened.

A low beat.

Another.

Then something else.

A faint mechanical adjustment.

Perhaps a control-surface movement.

Perhaps a change in propulsion load.

It was enough to make her skin prickle.

She opened the channel again.

Her voice sharpened.

“Harbor Control, I need the towers to shine their lights down into the lagoon. Now!”

The response was immediate.

“Searchlight towers, illuminate western approach sector! Direct beams onto the water along Night Patrol Three’s bearing!”

For a brief moment, nothing happened.

Then one of the coastal towers came alive.

A pale beam swept across the darkness.

Another followed.

Then a third.

The searchlights moved outward over the water, their powerful beams cutting through the night before lowering toward the lagoon’s surface.

The water turned silver.

Long, bright reflections stretched across the channel.

Riko raised one arm against the glare.

Yuna narrowed her eyes.

The beams moved slowly, searching the dark surface.

Harbor Three watched.

The propeller sound continued in her headphones.

She guided the searchlight teams by radio.

“A little south. Hold. Two degrees west. Lower the beam. Yes—there.”

The light settled over an apparently empty patch of water.

Nothing broke the surface.

No conning tower.

No periscope visible from the destroyer’s angle.

Only dark water.

For a moment, Harbor Three wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.

Then the moving beam caught something beneath the surface.

Not a reflection.

Not a wave.

A shape.

A long, unnatural darkness sliding beneath the shallow water.

Its outline was broken by the shifting light, but the shape persisted.

A narrow hull.

A raised central structure.

Something moving slowly enough to remain almost invisible unless a person knew precisely where to look.

Harbor Three’s breath caught.

“There.”

Riko leaned forward.

The Yamato-class girl’s eyes widened.

“Oh, no.”

Yuna stared.

She could see it too.

A long shadow beneath the lagoon.

A submarine.

Harbor Three’s voice snapped across the radio.

“VISUAL CONTACT! SUBMERGED VESSEL IN WESTERN CHANNEL! HARBOR THREE HAS THE TARGET!”

A heartbeat later, the harbor alarm began sounding.

 Depth Charges in Shallow Water

The first alarm horn sounded from the western tower.

A second answered from the harbor-control station.

Then a third rose above the maintenance district.

The warnings rolled across the lagoon, startling birds from the palm trees and sending sentries toward their assigned positions.

On Breakwater, men looked up from their night watches.

Along the coastal batteries, crews began moving toward prepared equipment.

At the East Signal Annex, Hana stopped in the sheltered corridor and turned toward the water.

The sound was unmistakable.

An underwater contact had been confirmed inside the harbor-defense perimeter.

Horizon had an intruder.

 Harbor Three listened to the submarine’s propellers.

The rhythm changed.

A little faster.

It had heard the alarms.

Or seen the searchlights.

Perhaps both.

The destroyer watched the shadow begin turning toward deeper water.

The contact was trying to retreat.

But its position made the maneuver difficult.

The western channel narrowed between charted shallow areas. A boat operating submerged had to manage both depth and heading carefully, especially when the water above the reef was too shallow to hide a full-sized pressure hull.

Harbor Three knew the route.

The submarine probably did not.

She touched her radio.

“Harbor Control, contact changing course westward, increasing propeller rate. Probable attempt to withdraw.”

“Maintain track. Defensive units standing by.”

The destroyer looked toward the shadow.

Her depth-charge racks were secured.

The safety interlocks remained engaged.

She could release the weapons only after proper action.

There were rules for this.

Procedures.

Reasons not to drop explosives indiscriminately into a lagoon containing friendly vessels, maintenance platforms, and coastal infrastructure.

There were also reasons not to allow an unidentified submarine to reach the heart of the anchorage.

The intruder might carry torpedoes.

It might have laid mines.

It might be reconnoitering the harbor.

And if it reached a favorable firing position, Breakwater and the other vessels at anchor could become targets.

Harbor Three drew a breath.

“Harbor Control, request authorization for antisubmarine action. Contact is submerged, unresponsive, and inside restricted defense waters.”

The reply came after several tense seconds.

“Approved to engage under harbor-defense rules. Keep effects away from friendly structures and marked hazard areas. Attempt to force the contact to surface if feasible.”

The destroyer’s expression hardened.

“Understood.”

She looked toward Riko and Yuna.

“Move east. Further east. I need room.”

Riko nodded immediately.

“Right!”

Yuna adjusted her course.

The two larger Keelborn moved clear of the intended attack sector, keeping their movement controlled despite the sudden alarm.

Riko felt her new rigging respond under the increased demands.

For one terrifying moment, instinct urged her to accelerate toward the submarine.

She could see the dark shape.

She knew it was dangerous.

She possessed enormous guns.

Surely there was something she could do.

Then she remembered the briefing.

She was a trainee.

Her equipment was new.

And fourteen-inch naval artillery was not an appropriate solution to a submerged contact in Horizon’s harbor.

She forced herself to maintain the ordered position.

Yuna did the same.

The carrier girl’s hands were cold.

Her fairies remained secured aboard her rigging.

No aircraft launched.

There wasn’t time, and the situation didn’t require them.

She watched Harbor Three move.

The Sumner-class destroyer accelerated across the lagoon, her smaller rigging cutting through the water with an agility neither battleship nor carrier could match.

Harbor Three’s expression had become entirely focused.

Her headphones remained in place.

She listened.

Watched the searchlight beams.

Compared bearing with movement.

And guided herself toward the submarine’s projected track.

The target was trying to turn away.

Good.

That meant it was responding.

But it was still submerged.

Still unidentifiable.

Still inside the defense perimeter.

Harbor Three approached on a crossing line, avoiding the shallowest water and the marked areas near shore facilities.

She checked her depth settings.

Checked the release controls.

Then shouted across the radio:

“Night Patrol Three commencing depth-charge attack! All friendly units remain clear!”

Riko swallowed.

Yuna stared.

The destroyer moved over the dark shadow.

For a moment, the submarine disappeared beneath the disturbed water.

Harbor Three felt her heart hammering.

Then she released the first depth charge.

A heavy object dropped into the lagoon behind her.

The rack shifted.

The weapon entered the water with a violent splash.

She continued forward.

A second charge followed farther along the attack line.

Neither was intended as a direct impact against the submarine’s hull. The pattern had been selected to bracket its route and disrupt its ability to continue submerged, while limiting the danger to nearby friendly structures.

But an underwater explosion was never gentle.

Harbor Three knew that.

She’d set the charges.

She’d accepted the risk.

Now the weapons were descending.

She counted.

The first explosion arrived as a deep, brutal shock.

WHUMMMP.

A column of water rose behind her.

The lagoon seemed to lift.

The second charge detonated moments later.

WHUMMMP.

Another plume erupted.

The shock waves rolled outward through the water, striking the underside of the nearby waves and sending a dull vibration through Harbor Three’s rigging.

Riko recoiled.

Yuna raised one arm against the spray.

Farther away, the searchlight beams wavered as the disturbed surface erupted into white foam.

Harbor Three leaned into her turn.

Her headphones were briefly filled with an overwhelming wash of underwater noise.

She had to lower the receiver gain.

Then wait.

The water churned.

Foam spread across the attack area.

A cloud of suspended sediment rose from the lagoon floor, obscuring the shadow.

For several seconds, nothing was visible.

Then Harbor Three heard a sound.

Not the slow propeller beat.

Something harsher.

A metallic groan.

An uneven mechanical vibration.

Then, faintly, the propellers again.

Faster now.

Irregular.

She frowned.

The submarine had survived.

But something was wrong with it.

She listened.

The sound shifted abruptly.

A low rushing vibration joined the propeller noise.

Air or water moving through equipment.

A change in ballast.

Perhaps an attempt to alter depth.

Harbor Three opened the radio.

“Contact still moving. Possible damage. Maintaining track.”

Riko stared toward the disturbed water.

For a moment, she couldn’t see anything.

Then the searchlights caught a dark shape rising beneath the foam.

A long shadow.

Larger.

Closer.

Her eyes widened.

“It’s coming up!”

Yuna turned.

The carrier girl’s breath caught.

Harbor Three heard the same thing through her headphones.

The submarine was climbing.

Fast enough that the pressure-hull sounds changed.

The destroyer moved away from the emergence area, clearing room in case the boat surfaced violently.

She raised one arm.

“SURFACING CONTACT! ALL UNITS HOLD FIRE UNTIL IDENTIFICATION!”

The lagoon boiled.

Foam broke apart.

A black shape pushed upward.

Then a conning tower breached the surface.

Water poured from its sides.

A long steel hull followed, rising heavily into the light.

The submarine rolled slightly before settling.

Its stern sat lower than its bow.

One section of outer casing appeared damaged.

Water streamed from several openings.

The pressure hull remained intact enough to keep the boat afloat.

But there was no mistaking what had happened.

Harbor Three stared.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

The silhouette was familiar.

Almost offensively familiar.

Not a Blackwake mass of malformed steel and organic growth.

Not a corrupted undersea creature.

A conventional submarine.

A vessel with recognizable fittings, ordinary metal plating, and the unmistakable outline of a design she’d seen in game reference material.

Her eyes widened.

“…Type VIII?”

Riko looked toward her.

“What?”

Harbor Three slowly lowered her headphones.

She stared at the surfaced boat.

The searchlights illuminated a marking on the side of the conning tower.

A human-made marking.

There were no Blackwake growths.

No green lights.

No distorted weapons.

The submarine was real.

Conventional.

And very much not what she’d expected.

Yuna whispered:

“That’s not Blackwake.”

The destroyer swallowed.

“No.”

A hatch opened atop the conning tower.

For a moment, nobody emerged.

Then a woman appeared.

A real human woman.

Wet hair.

Dark uniform.

One hand gripping the hatch coaming.

She looked toward the surrounding searchlights with an expression of utter disbelief.

Another woman rose behind her.

Then a third.

All female.

All wearing naval clothing that made their former-player origin increasingly obvious.

Harbor Three stared.

The first woman raised both hands.

Then shouted across the water:

“DON’T SHOOT!”

For one impossible second, the lagoon was silent.

Then she continued:

“WE’RE PLAYERS!”

Riko went still.

Yuna’s expression changed.

Harbor Three slowly raised her radio.

Her voice was very quiet.

“Harbor Control.”

A pause.

“Night Patrol Three, go ahead.”

The destroyer looked toward the surfaced submarine.

Then answered:

“Contact is a conventional Type VIII submarine. Crew visible. Female personnel claiming former-player status.”

The controller didn’t respond immediately.

Harbor Three looked toward the women on the conning tower.

Then added:

“This is not a Blackwake submarine.”

The harbor remained silent for another heartbeat.

Then the order came.

“Night Patrol Three, maintain armed watch. Challenge the vessel. All personnel remain aboard until Harbor Security establishes control.”

Harbor Three nodded.

“Understood.”

She adjusted her radio to the local hailing frequency.

Then faced the submarine.

Her expression hardened.

“Unidentified submarine,” she called, her voice amplified across the water, “you are inside restricted Admiralty Union harbor waters. Shut down propulsion, secure all weapons, and prepare to be boarded under armed supervision.”

The woman atop the conning tower stared.

For a moment, she seemed genuinely outraged.

Then she shouted:

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

Harbor Three narrowed her eyes.

“Completely.”

The skipper looked toward the searchlights.

Then toward the destroyer.

Then the enormous Yamato-class rigging standing farther east.

Her expression changed.

And for the first time since entering Horizon’s lagoon, Miriam Vale began to suspect that her supposedly easy reconnaissance objective had gone catastrophically wrong.

 The People Inside the Steel

The first thing Elise Rowan felt was relief.

Not relief that the submarine had been detected.

Certainly not relief that two depth charges had detonated close enough to make several pieces of equipment protest.

But relief that the pressure hull had held.

For a few horrible seconds after the second explosion, she’d believed they were going to die.

The submarine had shuddered violently.

Loose objects had fallen from their brackets.

A section of lighting had flickered.

One crew member had been thrown against a bulkhead.

Another had fallen to her knees beside the navigation table.

Then came the damage reports.

A damaged external fitting.

A troublesome ballast-control response.

An irregular vibration from the aft propulsion equipment.

And the unmistakable realization that continuing submerged might turn a frightening situation into a fatal one.

Elise had ordered the emergency checks before Miriam could object.

The skipper had been furious.

Then she’d seen the depth reading.

And the strain on the machinery.

And the shallow-water limitations around them.

The argument had ended.

They surfaced.

Now the submarine rocked gently beneath Horizon’s searchlights while its crew stared upward through open hatches at a night sky full of hostile attention.

Elise stood beside the ladder leading to the conning tower.

Her hands were shaking.

She kept them behind her back.

A woman from Engineering approached.

“Executive Officer.”

Elise turned.

“Report.”

“The main pressure hull is holding. We’ve got seepage through one external fitting, but no serious internal flooding.”

“Propulsion?”

“Starboard motor response is irregular. We don’t want to run it under load until we inspect the coupling.”

“Ballast?”

“Controllable. Just.”

Elise nodded.

“What about injuries?”

“Three minor. One woman struck her shoulder when we rolled. Medical’s examining her.”

The executive officer closed her eyes for a moment.

Then opened them.

“Thank you.”

The engineer hesitated.

“Are they going to sink us?”

Elise looked toward the overhead hatch.

Beyond it, she could hear voices.

Harbor commands.

The low vibration of engines.

The distant sound of the station’s alarms.

She wanted to promise that everything would be fine.

She couldn’t.

“Not if we cooperate,” she answered.

The engineer swallowed.

Then nodded.

Elise looked toward the control room.

Several women stood at their stations, pale and frightened.

None had expected to end the night inside an enemy harbor.

Some had believed they were participating in a secret reconnaissance mission.

Others had followed orders because they were aboard a submarine and there was nowhere else to go.

A few, Elise suspected, had known the mission was wrong from the beginning.

They had come anyway.

She looked toward the ladder.

Above, Miriam’s voice sounded.

“WE HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HERE!”

Elise slowly closed her eyes.

Oh, no.

The skipper was making things worse.

Again.

 Harbor Three had no intention of arguing over rights with a submarine captain who had entered a defended lagoon without identification.

She maintained a safe position off the boat’s port quarter, her depth-charge equipment secured and her acoustic receiver still monitoring the surrounding water.

One submerged contact could conceal another.

That possibility troubled her.

The first submarine had already demonstrated that Horizon’s night watches could be surprised.

She was not going to assume the lagoon was clear simply because one intruder had surrendered.

The searchlights remained trained on the surfaced boat.

Coastal security teams were moving into position.

A harbor launch had left its berth with a boarding party aboard.

And from the inner anchorage came the low sound of additional Keelborn responding to the alarm.

Harbor Three listened to the command circuit.

“All defense stations, maintain assigned sectors. Do not converge on the contact unless directed.”

Good.

The last thing they needed was every available Keelborn rushing into a narrow channel.

She looked toward Riko.

The Yamato-class girl had remained where ordered.

Her Intermediate equipment moved gently with the swell.

For once, she was absolutely silent.

Yuna stood nearby.

Her expression was tense.

But her movements remained controlled.

Harbor Three caught her eye.

Then nodded.

Yuna returned the gesture.

The Sumner girl felt a small measure of satisfaction.

They were learning.

Even under pressure.

Especially under pressure.

 The submarine’s skipper was still shouting.

Miriam Vale stood on the conning tower with both hands raised, looking around at the searchlights as though their presence constituted some profound violation of the rules.

“This is a reconnaissance mission!”

Harbor Three answered over the loudspeaker.

“You entered restricted harbor waters without authorization.”

“It’s part of the scenario!”

“Not an accepted authorization.”

“We’re players!”

“So am I.”

Miriam froze.

For a moment, she simply stared at the destroyer.

Then she leaned forward.

“What?”

Harbor Three’s expression didn’t change.

“Former player. Original Earth. Same as you.”

The skipper blinked.

For several seconds, the discovery seemed to leave her confused.

Then she looked toward Riko.

And Yuna.

And the distant harbor.

A new expression appeared.

Recognition.

Or perhaps calculation.

Harbor Three didn’t like it.

Miriam called again.

“Then you know how this works!”

The destroyer answered immediately.

“Yes.”

The skipper grinned.

“Good!”

Harbor Three continued.

“You trespassed into a restricted military anchorage in a submerged armed vessel.”

Miriam’s grin faltered.

The Sumner girl looked directly at her.

“And you ignored the marked approaches, failed to identify yourself, and attempted to evade detection.”

“That was the mission!”

“Then your mission was stupid.”

For a moment, silence settled over the lagoon.

Then one of the girls aboard the submarine made a strangled sound.

Elise.

Trying not to laugh.

Miriam slowly turned toward her.

The executive officer straightened.

Very quickly.

Harbor Three continued.

“You will comply with Harbor Control’s instructions, secure your weapons, and proceed to the assigned detention pier under escort.”

The skipper stared.

Then she folded her arms.

“Detention?”

Harbor Three raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“You can’t arrest us for scouting.”

“I can help arrest you for entering a naval base in a submarine without permission.”

Miriam opened her mouth.

The destroyer raised one hand.

“And before you say this is a game again, take a look at your damaged boat.”

Silence.

For several seconds, Miriam didn’t answer.

Then Elise climbed higher onto the conning tower.

She looked toward Harbor Three.

Her voice was much calmer.

“We’ll cooperate.”

The skipper turned.

“Elise!”

The executive officer met her eyes.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Elise answered quietly.

“Our boat is damaged. We have injured crew. We are surrounded by armed naval personnel.”

Miriam stared.

Elise continued.

“We need to dock.”

The skipper looked toward the harbor.

Then toward the searchlights.

Then at the dark water surrounding her submarine.

For several seconds, she seemed to be weighing the situation.

At last, she spoke through clenched teeth.

“Fine.”

Elise released a slow breath.

Then she turned toward Harbor Three.

“Request instructions for safe harbor entry.”

The Sumner girl nodded.

“Stand by.”

She contacted Harbor Control.

The reply came quickly.

The submarine would proceed under escort at minimal speed using its serviceable propulsion equipment, or accept tow assistance if necessary. Weapons were to remain secured. All crew members were to be mustered and accounted for. No one would disembark without permission.

A boarding team would verify the vessel’s condition before the final approach.

The submarine would berth at a controlled inspection pier separate from Breakwater’s active repair area.

The instructions were strict.

But they were also practical.

Harbor Three read them back.

Elise acknowledged.

Miriam said nothing.

And under the cold white beams of Horizon’s searchlights, the Type VIII submarine began the slow, humiliating journey toward the detention pier.

 Hana received permission to return to the waterfront only after the submarine had been stabilized and the harbor-defense watch had confirmed the immediate danger was contained.

By then, the auxiliary relay repair had become the least interesting problem on the entire eastern shore.

She emerged from the signal annex carrying her equipment bag.

The technician followed.

Both stared toward the dark hull moving across the lagoon.

Hana blinked.

Then looked toward Harbor Three.

A pause.

“…You found a submarine.”

The Sumner girl glanced over.

“Yes.”

Hana looked toward the searchlights.

Then toward the Type VIII.

“And depth-charged it.”

“Yes.”

“And it was full of former players.”

“Yes.”

The repair ship girl stared.

For several seconds, she appeared to be considering a suitable response.

Then she sighed.

“I leave you alone for twenty-five minutes.”

Harbor Three grinned faintly.

“Technically, it was thirty-two.”

Hana slowly closed her eyes.

Riko laughed.

Not loudly.

Not with her usual exuberance.

But enough to break the tension.

Yuna smiled faintly.

Then Hana looked toward the submarine again.

Her expression became serious.

“Is everyone alive?”

Harbor Three nodded.

“No fatalities reported. A few injuries. Their engineering crew says the hull is holding.”

Hana released a breath.

“Good.”

She looked toward her maintenance bag.

Then toward the damaged submarine.

For a moment, professional instinct began taking over.

“Have they checked the ballast system?”

“Harbor’s boarding engineers are handling the initial inspection.”

“Propulsion?”

“Limited.”

“External fittings?”

“Damage reported.”

Hana frowned.

“Then they may need—”

Harbor Three raised one finger.

“Hana.”

The Akashi-class girl stopped.

“Yes?”

“Let Security finish.”

Hana considered that.

Then sighed.

“Right.”

The destroyer smiled.

“You’re going to get your chance to look at the machinery.”

Hana looked toward the submarine.

A small, exhausted smile appeared.

“Of course I am.”

Riko folded her arms.

For a moment, she stared at the Type VIII.

Then asked:

“Why would someone come here in a submarine?”

Harbor Three looked toward her.

The destroyer’s expression became thoughtful.

“That’s what Intelligence will want to know.”

Yuna watched the conning tower.

Several women stood beneath its lights.

Former players.

Real people.

Not Blackwake.

And yet they’d approached Horizon without permission.

She thought of Ironwake.

Of Halcyon Roads.

Of the report concerning Pendants.

For a moment, she felt cold.

She looked toward Riko.

The battleship girl seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Neither spoke.

Harbor Three noticed.

Then she looked toward the submarine again.

Her expression hardened.

The night was not over.

Not remotely.

 Horizon Was Not the Base They Expected

The detention pier stood along a controlled section of the inner harbor, separated from the main repair berths by security fencing, service roads, and a narrow stretch of water.

Its buildings were unimpressive.

An old warehouse.

A small inspection office.

Several concrete platforms.

A covered equipment bay.

Two watchtowers.

From a distance, it looked like the sort of neglected facility that might belong to a forgotten auxiliary station.

Miriam Vale had liked that description when she first read it.

Now, as her damaged submarine was brought alongside the pier under escort, she discovered how misleading appearances could be.

The first problem was the destroyers.

There were more than she’d expected.

The Allen M. Sumner-class girl who’d detected them maintained a position near the stern. Another Sumner-class Keelborn stood farther along the harbor-defense line, her weapons secured but available under the heightened watch condition.

Beyond her, Miriam could see additional Sumner equipment near a separate patrol berth.

Several of them.

Not one or two isolated units.

A small, organized destroyer presence.

She narrowed her eyes.

The second problem was the Akizuki girls.

At least two were visible beneath the harbor lights, their distinctive equipment unmistakable even at a distance. One stood near a defensive station, while another moved along the sheltered side of the anchorage with a patrol team.

Miriam looked toward them.

Then toward the navigation chart in her memory.

This wasn’t supposed to be a major naval base.

The third problem was the Fletchers.

She spotted one near a patrol pier.

Another farther inland beside a servicing station.

And then, to her growing disbelief, several additional Fletcher-class units occupying positions around the harbor facilities.

The fourth problem was the Bensons.

Miriam recognized the configuration immediately.

Smaller, older destroyer equipment.

Useful in numbers.

Particularly unpleasant if someone intended to operate a submarine inside their defensive perimeter.

She swallowed.

Then continued looking.

A larger silhouette stood near the outer anchorage.

Broad.

Heavy.

Familiar.

A South Dakota-class battleship girl.

Miriam stared.

Then noticed another.

Her mouth slowly opened.

“Two?”

Elise looked toward her.

“Captain?”

Miriam didn’t answer.

She was counting.

A South Dakota.

Another South Dakota.

Several Sumners.

Akizuki girls.

Fletchers.

Bensons.

Then something else.

Farther along the harbor-defense sector stood a battleship girl whose equipment matched the older Indiana-class arrangement represented in the game’s naval catalog.

Miriam blinked.

Then stared harder.

An Indiana-class battleship?

Here?

At this neglected little base?

She felt a cold sensation moving through her stomach.

The original reconnaissance summary had been wrong.

Very wrong.

Horizon might possess old buildings and a damaged harbor.

Its naval roster was another matter.

And she still hadn’t counted the conventional battleship.

 USS Breakwater loomed beyond the repair district.

Miriam saw the ship through a gap between the harbor cranes.

For a moment, her breath caught.

Tennessee-class.

Modernized.

Four triple fourteen-inch turrets.

An enormous real hull crowded with scaffolding, temporary lighting, and repair equipment.

She could see the damage.

That reassured her slightly.

The battleship was obviously not ready for full combat.

But it was still a battleship.

A real one.

Not a Keelborn girl.

Not a scaled-down ship accessory.

A full-sized steel vessel crewed by men.

She’d been told that Breakwater was badly damaged.

The report had been accurate about that.

It had failed to communicate what the sight of the ship would feel like from a submarine’s conning tower.

The enormous hull occupied the harbor like a dark fortress.

Even under repair, it looked capable of making an intruder regret very serious life choices.

Miriam swallowed.

Then looked away.

The other Keelborn were worse.

Not because they were individually more dangerous.

Because there were so many different types.

And because some of them were extraordinarily valuable.

She saw the Yamato-class girl first.

Riko stood near the escort position, her newly fitted Intermediate rigging still unmistakable under the harbor lights.

Miriam’s eyes widened.

“Yamato.”

Elise followed her gaze.

“Yes.”

Then Miriam saw Yuna.

An Illustrious-class carrier.

Her Intermediate equipment moved gently with the water as she approached the controlled inspection area under Harbor Control’s direction.

The carrier girl’s aviation structures were distinctive enough to recognize immediately.

Miriam stared.

Then a third girl appeared beside her.

Hana.

The Akashi-class repair ship.

Her equipment bag was still secured to her rigging, and she looked considerably more interested in the submarine’s mechanical condition than in the dramatic implications of the arrest.

Miriam whispered:

“Yamato. Illustrious. Akashi.”

Elise looked toward her.

The skipper’s expression had changed.

There was no embarrassment now.

No irritation at being detected.

Something else had begun taking shape behind her eyes.

Elise recognized it.

And felt sick.

“Captain.”

Miriam didn’t answer.

She was staring toward Yuna.

The Illustrious-class girl’s pendant lay near her collar, partly visible beneath the straps of her fitted equipment.

A small object.

Easy to overlook.

Unless a person knew what to look for.

Miriam knew.

She’d seen photographs.

Heard the explanations.

Read the messages circulating through the former-player channels associated with Ironwake’s organization.

Keelborn Pendants.

The supposed key to claiming high-value shipgirls.

The object some people insisted would allow a player to register a defeated or acquired Keelborn to an account.

Miriam had never tested the claim.

She didn’t know whether it was true.

But the people who’d given her the reconnaissance assignment had spoken about it as though it were the most natural reward system imaginable.

She looked toward Yuna again.

Then toward the other valuable Keelborn.

Her mind began working.

Not on escape.

Not on the injured women inside her submarine.

On opportunity.

Elise saw it happening.

And spoke sharply.

“Miriam.”

The skipper turned.

“What?”

The executive officer lowered her voice.

“Don’t.”

Miriam blinked.

“Don’t what?”

Elise looked toward Yuna.

Then back.

Her expression was pale.

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

For several seconds, the two women stared at one another.

Then Miriam smiled faintly.

“You’re imagining things.”

Elise did not believe her.

Not for a moment.

The submarine settled against the pier.

A mooring line was passed ashore.

The harbor-security team moved into position.

And Miriam Vale looked toward the Illustrious-class girl one more time.

The little Pendant glinted beneath the lights.

Her fingers twitched.

Elise saw it.

She had never been more frightened of her own skipper.

 The Wrong Thing to Reach For

The first woman to step ashore was not Miriam.

It was the submarine’s executive officer.

Elise Rowan climbed down from the conning tower under the watch of two armed security personnel, moved carefully across the secured gangway, and stopped at the painted line designated for incoming detainees.

She raised both hands.

Not dramatically.

Simply high enough that no one could mistake her intentions.

“I am the executive officer,” she said. “Elise Rowan. Former player. Original Earth.”

The security officer facing her was a native woman in an Admiralty Union uniform.

She held a clipboard.

Her expression remained professional.

“Do you have weapons on your person?”

“No.”

“Are there injured personnel aboard?”

“Yes. Three minor injuries. One possible shoulder fracture, two bruising injuries. Engineering damage sustained during the depth-charge attack.”

“Any dangerous cargo?”

Elise hesitated.

The officer noticed.

“What kind of cargo?”

“Standard submarine stores. Torpedoes. Ammunition. Batteries. Fuel. Personal equipment.”

The security officer made a note.

“Any unusual devices, mines, or hazardous materials?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Understood.”

The officer looked toward the submarine.

“All weapons will remain secured. Your crew will be searched, medically assessed, identified, and held pending investigation.”

Elise swallowed.

“Are we under arrest?”

The officer met her eyes.

“Yes.”

For a moment, Elise looked relieved.

That surprised the security officer.

But Elise didn’t explain.

An arrest meant procedures.

Records.

Names.

Somebody deciding what happened next through a formal system instead of leaving them aboard a damaged submarine under a captain who increasingly seemed to believe she could talk her way out of reality.

Elise lowered her eyes.

“Understood.”

The security officer nodded.

“Step to the marked inspection area, please.”

Elise obeyed.

Behind her, the crew began emerging.

 There were more women aboard than the first three visible on the conning tower.

Enough to operate the boat around the clock.

Engineers.

Helmswomen.

Torpedo specialists.

Electricians.

Radio operators.

Navigation personnel.

A medic.

Watchstanders.

Women of different ages and backgrounds, wearing various combinations of naval uniforms, coveralls, and hurriedly fastened clothing.

All former players.

All human.

All alive.

Several looked frightened.

Some were angry.

Others seemed exhausted enough that they barely cared what happened as long as they could sit down.