Chapter 1.3 - “Belle of the Blackwater”

The first thing Cassidy Boone learned about an industrial building occupied by the Blackwake was that silence did not mean safety.

The second was that she would very much like to be somewhere else.

Preferably Horizon Atoll.

Preferably the auxiliary barracks.

Preferably sitting beneath the ceiling fan with Zofia complaining about how terribly boring everything was.

She would even have accepted another lecture about ammunition accounting.

That was how thoroughly the morning had changed her priorities.

Unfortunately, none of those options appeared available.

Cassidy stood inside the abandoned loading shed, her ears still ringing from the shot she'd fired earlier, staring toward a damaged steel doorway through which something had recently tried to kill Lara Baumann.

A native SIA security officer lay broken beside the entrance.

At least, Cassidy assumed the frame had once belonged to a native SIA officer.

The black growths spreading through its armor made identification difficult. Its left arm was twisted beneath its body, and the dark substance that had been moving along its damaged joints now lay still.

Lara was alive.

That was good.

Cassidy kept returning to that fact.

Lara was alive.

The terrified woman they'd found beyond the doorway was alive too, although her condition was deteriorating. Dark fibrous material spread across the injured arm she held close to her body, and the veins along her neck had taken on an unpleasant color.

Mira had established a small security position around her while communicating with the medical personnel waiting offshore.

The woman had finally managed to give her name.

Mara.

Mara Venn.

Thirty-six years old.

A maintenance technician who had worked at the industrial station before the Blackwake occupied it.

She was not connected to Chief Fenwick at Horizon, something that would become mildly confusing in the official reports but seemed unimportant compared with the circumstances.

Mara was pale.

Exhausted.

And frightened enough that her hands would not stop trembling.

She sat against a concrete support with a thermal sheet around her shoulders while Lara examined the uninfected portions of her arm.

Ingrid knelt nearby, offering water.

The other members of VESPER remained in assigned positions around the loading shed.

Nobody was laughing now.

Nobody was complaining about boredom.

And the low mechanical voice from somewhere deeper inside the facility had resumed its announcement.

"Personnel recovery."

A pause.

Metal scraped against concrete.

"Personnel recovery."

Another pause.

"Personnel recovery."

Cassidy looked toward the ceiling.

The words were coming from deeper inside the industrial complex, carried through a damaged speaker system that occasionally crackled and distorted.

It wasn't particularly loud.

That almost made it worse.

Somebody—or something—had evidently connected the old announcement network to machinery within the facility.

The voice repeated at irregular intervals.

Not quite the same timing each time.

Not quite the same tone.

Like a recorded message being played through equipment that no longer understood what it was supposed to be doing.

Zofia approached Cassidy.

The Polish girl held her Błyskawica close against her body, carefully keeping the muzzle pointed away from her friends.

Her burgundy scarf was tucked inside her protective vest.

There was dust in her hair.

Her face looked unusually pale.

"Cass?"

Cassidy glanced over.

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

She considered that.

Her fingers still felt strange.

The revolver's recoil had left an uncomfortable ache through her wrists, though she knew the weapon had not malfunctioned.

The real problem was that she kept remembering the infected SIA frame lunging toward Lara.

The speed.

The damaged faceplate.

The certainty that somebody was about to die.

And the sound of the revolver.

She looked toward Zofia.

"Mostly."

The Polish girl nodded.

"Good."

Cassidy examined her friend's expression.

"How about you?"

Zofia hesitated.

Then glanced toward the broken doorway.

"I liked the training beach better."

Cassidy smiled faintly.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Me too."

The distant voice repeated its announcement.

Zofia looked toward the passage.

Her smile vanished.

"What's making that noise?"

Cassidy followed her gaze.

"No idea."

"Wonderful."

"Wouldn't have picked it myself."

Zofia swallowed.

Then glanced toward Lara and Mara.

The injured technician was speaking quietly to Mira.

Her words were difficult to hear from the far side of the shed.

But whatever she was describing made the native SIA officer become very still.

Cassidy noticed.

So did Zofia.

They exchanged a glance.

Then Mira called:

"Morozova."

Alina immediately approached.

"Officer?"

"Bring the section leaders here."

Alina nodded.

She signaled Morgan and Piper.

Darya joined them, followed by Réka, who had been examining a damaged power conduit without touching it.

The women gathered around the injured technician.

Mara looked up.

Her eyes moved over their faces.

She seemed surprised by how young they were.

Then her attention settled on Alina.

"You're soldiers?"

Alina hesitated.

It was a question she'd heard several times since the Crisis.

The answer had become more complicated with every passing week.

"We're assigned to Horizon Atoll's security forces."

Mara looked toward her uniform.

Then toward Mira.

"SIA?"

"Yes," Mira answered.

The technician nodded faintly.

For a moment, she seemed reassured.

Then her eyes moved toward the doorway.

Her expression tightened.

"Then you need to get out."

Nobody answered immediately.

Mira crouched beside her.

"Mara. I need you to explain what is inside the complex."

The woman's breathing became uneven.

She looked toward the ceiling.

The speaker crackled again.

"Personnel recovery."

Mara flinched.

Then covered her mouth.

"That."

Mira waited.

Mara shook her head.

"It's her."

Alina frowned.

"Who?"

The technician looked toward the loading doors at the far end of the shed.

A long silence followed.

Then she whispered:

"Belle."

The name meant nothing to Cassidy.

Not yet.

Mira tilted her head.

"Who is Belle?"

Mara closed her eyes.

For a moment, it seemed she might not answer.

Then she spoke.

"A girl."

Her voice broke.

"A tank girl."

Darya became very still.

Réka looked up sharply.

Mira's expression changed.

"A Sensha?"

Mara nodded.

"Yes."

Alina glanced toward the dark corridor.

Zofia's eyes widened.

Cassidy looked between them.

A Sensha.

Not an ordinary infantry soldier.

Not another contaminated SIA frame.

A living armored-vehicle girl.

Someone capable of operating a full-sized tank.

And somewhere deeper inside the industrial facility, machinery was moving.

Very heavy machinery.

Cassidy slowly turned toward the damaged doorway.

"...Oh."

Mara began shaking again.

"She tried to help us."

Mira looked back at her.

"Tell me."

The technician swallowed.

"Belle came with a small relief detachment. There was trouble along the supply route. They said they were helping a damaged convoy find somewhere to repair."

Her voice grew weaker.

"We weren't supposed to have anybody here. The station had been closed for years, but some of us were still maintaining the emergency equipment. We had stores. Water. A little fuel. Enough to keep the lights working."

She looked toward the black growths along her arm.

"Then the ships came."

Nobody interrupted.

Mara continued.

"Not ordinary ships. The water around them was black. The people on the pier started shouting. Something came out of the holds."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"We tried to leave. Belle said she could keep them away while the rest of us got to the boats."

She took a shaky breath.

"She had a Sherman."

Greta, standing near the rear of the group, slowly straightened.

"A Sherman?"

Mara nodded.

"Yes."

The German woman's expression hardened.

"What model?"

Mara stared at her.

"I don't—"

Greta raised a hand.

"Sorry. Not important."

But it was important.

In a different way.

Because a Sherman wasn't an ordinary piece of equipment to discover inside an industrial warehouse.

Even among Sensha Girls, it was a real armored vehicle with real limitations.

Tracks.

Armor.

An engine.

A turret.

A gun.

Enough weight to make most wooden floors irrelevant.

And a main cannon capable of making a very serious mess of a building not designed to withstand shellfire.

Mara looked toward the corridor again.

"Belle was young."

Her voice softened.

"Maybe twenty. She talked strangely sometimes. Called things quests. Said she was still learning."

Alina's expression changed.

Darya looked toward her.

Mara continued.

"She kept saying they couldn't really kill her. That if anything happened, she'd come back."

A silence settled over the group.

Cassidy felt something cold move through her stomach.

Mara looked toward Mira.

"Is that true?"

Nobody answered immediately.

Then Mira spoke.

"No."

Mara's eyes widened.

The native SIA officer continued quietly.

"Not in the way she meant it."

The technician looked down.

She seemed to understand enough.

Her expression crumpled.

"She didn't know."

Alina closed her eyes briefly.

Another former player.

Another young woman who had entered the world expecting a game.

And who had been caught in something terrible before she understood what had changed.

Mara wiped her face with her good hand.

"They caught her."

Her voice became almost inaudible.

"They caught Belle. She was trying to keep them away from us."

The damaged speaker crackled.

"Personnel recovery."

Mara flinched violently.

"They took her into the old vehicle hall."

Mira looked toward the site map.

"Where?"

Mara raised a trembling hand.

She pointed toward the eastern section of the industrial complex.

A large rectangular building stood beyond the warehouses, connected to an overhead machinery yard and an old gantry-crane line.

It had once been used for repairing industrial vehicles and heavy cargo equipment.

Mira examined the chart.

"Building Four?"

Mara nodded.

"Yes."

The voice repeated.

"Personnel recovery."

Mara squeezed her eyes shut.

Then whispered:

"She says that now."

Cassidy felt her stomach drop.

Zofia stared.

Alina looked toward Mira.

The native officer didn't speak immediately.

She studied the map.

The location.

The access routes.

The distance from the landing beach.

Then she looked toward the damaged door through which they'd entered.

A slow mechanical vibration moved through the floor.

Barely noticeable.

But real.

Greta felt it first.

Her eyes narrowed.

Darya looked down.

Réka froze.

Then the vibration came again.

A distant rumbling.

A heavy metallic sound.

And from somewhere beyond the corridor, a voice called:

"Personnel recovery."

A pause.

Then something struck steel.

Hard.

Mara began crying.

"Please."

She looked toward Mira.

"Don't let her find me."

 

Mira did not order an immediate advance.

That was the first thing Alina appreciated.

The second was that the native SIA officer didn't look at the fifteen former players and decide that their weapons made them an appropriate solution to every problem.

Instead, she checked the map.

Confirmed the available withdrawal routes.

Contacted the landing craft.

And requested an updated assessment from the Keelborn holding the approaches.

The answer wasn't reassuring.

The outer waters remained provisionally secure.

No major enemy reinforcements had been identified.

But the shore party had already encountered hostile contamination, and the industrial complex's interior was far less predictable than the reconnaissance photographs suggested.

Mira contacted Horizon.

"Ground Element to Horizon Command. Civilian survivor identifies a hostile contaminated Sensha within Building Four. Sherman-class, exact configuration not yet confirmed. We are maintaining the recovery perimeter."

Static hissed.

Then Kade's voice answered.

"Copy, Ground Element. Do not pursue the Sensha. Assess whether you can extract the civilian without entering its engagement area."

Mira nodded.

"Understood."

She looked toward Alina.

"Morozova."

"Yes?"

"Prepare your personnel for a controlled withdrawal to the landing point."

Alina nodded immediately.

"Understood."

The Russian woman turned toward Morgan.

"Get everyone organized."

Morgan nodded.

Piper began gathering her three-person team.

Lara and Ingrid helped Mara to her feet.

The injured technician cried out when her contaminated arm shifted.

Lara stopped immediately.

"Sorry."

Mara shook her head.

"No. No, it's—"

Her voice broke.

She could barely stand.

Irena's medical instructions had been clear: avoid unnecessary contact with the contaminated tissue, prevent further injury, and move the patient to an isolated recovery area as soon as practicable.

That was what the team intended to do.

The first problem appeared when they reached the western loading passage.

A heavy steel shutter had fallen across it.

Not completely.

But enough to block the route.

Réka examined the obstruction from a safe distance.

Then looked toward Darya.

"That's new."

Darya nodded.

"The frame is twisted."

Morgan frowned.

"Can we move it?"

Greta looked toward the shutter.

Then shook her head.

"Not quickly."

Mira consulted the map.

There was another route around the building.

A service passage leading through the southern yard.

It would add distance.

But it remained within the approved inspection area.

She ordered the group to move.

They obeyed.

The second problem appeared forty minutes later.

The southern yard was no longer empty.

Something had moved through it.

Not recently enough for anyone to have witnessed it.

Recently enough that the ground bore fresh marks.

Deep tracks crossed the concrete.

A section of the pavement had been crushed.

A loading barrier lay bent against a wall.

And near the far entrance, a heavy equipment trailer had been overturned.

Alina stopped.

Her breath caught.

Greta crouched near the marks.

For several seconds, she examined them.

Then looked toward Mira.

"Tracked vehicle."

The native officer nodded.

"Agreed."

Réka swallowed.

"Big one."

Nobody needed to ask what that meant.

Mira looked toward the western passage.

Then toward the northern industrial yard.

A new route would be required.

She contacted the landing craft.

The crew acknowledged.

The withdrawal option remained available.

But reaching it was becoming more complicated.

Cassidy looked toward Zofia.

The Polish girl was staring at the deep marks in the concrete.

For a moment, she looked very young.

Then she glanced toward Cassidy.

"Hey."

Cassidy nodded.

"Yeah?"

"Remember when we were bored?"

The American considered the tracks.

Then looked toward her friend.

"Vaguely."

Zofia swallowed.

"I'd like to apologize to the universe."

Cassidy smiled weakly.

"Get in line."

A mechanical roar echoed from somewhere beyond the buildings.

The group froze.

Mara made a small, terrified noise.

The sound came again.

Lower.

Closer.

Not a voice.

An engine.

A real one.

The kind that moved something very heavy.

Greta's expression changed.

She looked toward Mira.

"Officer."

Mira nodded sharply.

"I hear it."

The engine note rose.

Metal clattered.

Then something struck a warehouse wall.

Dust drifted down from the old roof.

Mira raised her radio.

"Ground Element to Horizon Command. Possible Sensha movement near our withdrawal route. We are revising our position and maintaining contact."

The answer came quickly.

"Copy. Do not let yourselves become trapped inside the industrial district. Withdrawal remains the priority."

Mira acknowledged.

Then looked at the women around her.

"Move."

And they moved.

Not because they were eager.

Not because they wanted a fight.

Because somewhere beyond the buildings, a tank was moving.

And not one person in VESPER wanted to discover what happened when a Sherman found them standing in an open road.

The third problem announced itself with a seventy-six-millimeter cannon.

There was no warning.

At least, none that Cassidy recognized as a warning until afterward.

The group had crossed the service yard and entered a narrow passage between a machinery warehouse and the old vehicle-repair building. Rusted pipes hung overhead, and the concrete beneath their boots was uneven where roots and water had worked through the cracks. Mara was walking between Lara and Morgan, leaning heavily on them, while the rest of the detachment moved under Mira's direction.

They could hear the engine intermittently.

Sometimes it seemed far away.

Sometimes the sound rolled through the buildings as though the machinery was right beside them.

The worst part was the uncertainty. The industrial complex was a collection of echoing spaces, connected courtyards, half-collapsed workshops, and storage buildings large enough to conceal heavy vehicles. The sound bounced between walls and traveled along overhead pipes. Darya couldn't reliably identify its direction, and Réka's attempts to compare the engine note with the echoes only confirmed that something substantial was moving.

Then the wall on their right shuddered.

A deep metallic grinding passed through it.

Something struck the other side.

Concrete dust fell from the joints.

Greta turned.

Her eyes widened.

"Down!"

The next moment, the warehouse wall exploded outward.

Not from a shell.

From impact.

A mass of blackened steel and moving armor forced its way through a broad maintenance doorway that had long since been blocked by collapsed material. Concrete fractured around the frame. A rusting overhead sign tore loose. The massive front of a tracked vehicle emerged through a cloud of dust, its transmission growling as the tracks ground against broken masonry.

A Sherman.

There was no mistaking the profile beneath the contamination.

The cast front of the hull.

The broad tracks.

The familiar turret.

The long barrel of a seventy-six-millimeter gun.

But the thing moving through the doorway had been altered.

Black organic growths spread along the armor seams, collecting around the hatches and engine grilles. Dark cords stretched between the suspension assemblies and flexed whenever the tracks moved. Part of the turret looked as though it had been covered in hardened tar, except the material contracted and expanded with a slow, nauseating rhythm.

The vehicle's headlights were dark.

The engine sounded real.

And where the commander's hatch should have been, a young woman's upper body rose from the turret.

Her hair had once been light brown.

Perhaps.

It was difficult to tell beneath the contamination.

A torn military jacket clung to her shoulders. Black material crossed her throat and disappeared beneath the rim of the hatch, joining her body to the machinery around her. One arm remained recognizably human. The other was encased in an irregular growth that resembled a mixture of armor plating and hardened roots.

Her head turned.

Farther than it should have.

Her face was pale.

Her eyes did not focus.

And a dark pendant hung against her chest, half hidden beneath the growths.

For one instant, Cassidy thought the girl might be trying to speak.

Then the turret traversed.

The seventy-six-millimeter gun began moving toward the narrow passage.

Mira shouted.

"Clear the lane!"

The world became noise.

Alina grabbed Zofia's shoulder and pulled her toward a concrete support. Morgan shoved Mara and Lara behind the remains of a loading platform. Piper and Ren moved into cover on the opposite side, while Tamsin stumbled over a broken piece of masonry and caught herself against a wall.

Cassidy saw the gun barrel moving.

Not quickly.

The turret was heavy.

It took time to traverse.

But it was moving with dreadful certainty, and nothing about the thin warehouse wall beside them looked capable of protecting anyone from a direct hit.

She threw herself behind a support pillar.

The cannon fired.

For a fraction of a second, the industrial passage became a white flash.

The report was overwhelming.

A concussive blow that struck Cassidy through her protective vest and seemed to empty the air from her chest. A shell tore through the far end of the passage and struck the corner of an abandoned warehouse behind them. Concrete erupted. Steel fragments shrieked through the air. A section of overhead piping collapsed, striking the ground with a crash that drowned beneath the echoes of the gun.

Cassidy curled against the pillar.

Dust swallowed everything.

Her ears rang again.

Somebody screamed.

She couldn't tell who.

The ground shook as the tank continued advancing.

Through the cloud, the young woman's voice emerged.

"Personnel..."

Metal clattered.

"...recovery..."

Zofia was lying beside Cassidy, her scarf covered in dust.

Her eyes were wide.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Cassidy reached toward her.

"You hit?"

Zofia shook her head.

Cassidy couldn't hear the answer.

She pointed at herself, then toward her friend.

Zofia understood and shook her head again.

Not hit.

Good.

Cassidy looked toward the ruined warehouse corner.

A deep hole marked where the shell had struck. Dust rolled out of it. Somewhere inside, broken machinery continued collapsing.

The girl on the tank had fired once.

One shot.

And an entire section of the industrial complex had come apart.

Cassidy looked down at the revolver in her hand.

The absurdity of it struck her with unexpected force.

Five rounds.

A short barrel.

An enormous amount of power for a handgun.

And absolutely nothing she wanted to put in front of a Sherman.

She almost laughed.

The sound never came.

Mira's voice cut through the ringing.

"Move! Move!"

Cassidy got up.

Zofia followed.

They ran.

Behind them, the Sherman ground through the broken doorway, tracks crushing masonry and old metal fittings. Its turret shifted toward the sound of retreating boots, but the narrow passage forced the vehicle to maneuver around a collapsed support.

That delay saved lives.

The women cleared the passage and entered a machine room crowded with inactive industrial presses. Morgan and Alina helped Mara across the threshold. Lara followed, carrying her medical kit.

The old technician was crying again.

"Belle!"

Her voice rose.

"Belle, please!"

The tank engine grew louder outside.

Mira turned sharply.

"Mara, stay with the medical team."

But the woman was staring toward the ruined doorway.

She looked utterly devastated.

"She was trying to save us."

Alina caught her arm.

"I know."

Mara shook her head.

"No, you don't."

Her voice cracked.

"She was just a girl."

The words settled over the room.

Somewhere outside, the Sherman struck another obstacle.

The crash sent dust drifting from the ceiling.

Mira glanced toward the exit.

"We cannot remain here."

She was right.

The machine room had one broad industrial entrance and two smaller service passages. The tank couldn't easily enter through the narrower doors, but it could destroy the building around them. Its main gun would make short work of the walls, and the old roof had already begun shedding fragments after the nearby explosion.

Alina looked toward her friends.

"Everybody accounted for?"

Morgan began counting.

Darya.

Réka.

Greta.

Johanna.

Ingrid.

Natsuki.

Élodie.

Lara.

Zofia.

Cassidy.

Alina.

Then Piper, Tamsin, and Ren.

All fifteen.

Mira.

Mara.

The native security personnel.

For now.

Morgan nodded.

"All here."

Then the ceiling shook.

A heavy impact struck the exterior wall.

The sound rolled through the machinery.

And the industrial presses began vibrating on their foundations.

Mira looked toward the northern service door.

"Out. That way."

Cassidy helped Zofia to her feet.

The Polish girl was breathing hard.

She looked toward the entrance where the tank had appeared.

Then toward Cassidy.

"That was a tank."

Cassidy nodded.

"Yes."

"A real tank."

"Yes."

Zofia stared.

Cassidy smiled without humor.

"Feel better about the boredom?"

The Polish girl made a strangled sound.

Then they ran again.

 

The first hour of the encounter did not feel like an hour.

To Alina, it felt like a sequence of doors.

The first door opened into a narrow maintenance corridor. They crossed it while the Sherman battered its way around the machine room, its tracks grinding against damaged concrete.

The second led into a small electrical chamber where Darya immediately noticed that the power distribution equipment was still partly energized.

The third opened into a ruined storage room full of overturned metal racks.

The fourth was locked.

Réka swore in Hungarian.

The fifth was blocked by rubble.

Morgan cursed.

The sixth opened into a warehouse they had already passed through forty minutes earlier.

Nobody found that amusing.

Mira had them stop long enough to check the map.

The native officer's composure remained intact, but Alina could see the strain beginning to accumulate. The industrial complex was larger and more interconnected than the reconnaissance photographs had suggested. Several passages had been modified or blocked after the Blackwake occupation, and the sound of the Sherman made it difficult to determine whether a route remained safe until they were already committed to it.

They couldn't simply outrun the tank indefinitely.

Not while escorting a badly injured civilian.

Not while carrying heavy weapons and medical equipment.

Not inside a facility whose walls could be smashed apart.

And not while additional infected personnel wandered through the buildings.

The first of those appeared in the old electrical chamber.

A man in torn industrial clothing emerged from behind a distribution cabinet, moving with a stiff, irregular gait. One side of his face had been covered by the same dark fibrous material growing through Mara's arm. His left hand dragged along the wall, leaving a wet streak.

He turned toward them.

Lara raised one hand.

"Wait."

The man stopped.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to focus.

Then his mouth moved.

"Please..."

Nobody fired.

Mira approached carefully, speaking to him.

The man took one unsteady step.

Then another.

His expression twisted.

The black growth across his shoulder contracted.

He lunged.

The exchange that followed was brief and ugly.

Piper's carbine sounded once.

The man fell.

Lara flinched.

Then moved toward him when Mira indicated it was safe enough to assess.

She knelt.

Checked what she could.

And went still.

Alina watched her expression change.

A few seconds later, Lara looked up.

She shook her head.

No chance.

They moved on.

The second infected person was a native SIA frame with one arm missing.

It emerged from a collapsed office.

Its movements were uneven.

More like a damaged machine than a person.

But its remaining hand held a length of metal pipe, and when it saw them, it charged without hesitation.

Tamsin fired.

The old Sten Mk V rattled sharply in the confined corridor.

The frame stumbled.

Ren moved to cover Lara and Mara.

Mira directed the others away from the passage.

Nobody celebrated when the infected frame finally stopped moving.

The third contact wasn't a person at all.

Something black and rope-like hung from an overhead pipe, swaying gently despite the absence of wind.

Réka noticed it first.

She stopped.

Looked up.

Then whispered:

"Don't touch that."

Zofia followed her gaze.

The material contracted.

A thin strand unfolded from its surface.

Cassidy stared.

For a moment, she remembered Aster's story about the mine.

The organic tendrils.

The feeling that something might grab her.

She understood the destroyer girl's fear considerably better now.

Mira ordered the group around the obstruction.

They obeyed.

Then the Sherman fired again.

The sound came from the far side of the complex.

A deep, violent crack.

The building shuddered.

Somewhere overhead, a window burst.

Glass fell into the corridor.

Mara cried out.

Lara helped her away from the falling fragments.

Alina looked toward Mira.

"We can't keep doing this."

The native officer nodded.

"I know."

Morgan glanced toward the map.

"Can we get back to the beach another way?"

Mira considered the available passages.

Then shook her head.

"Not while the Sensha is controlling the western yard."

Alina's expression tightened.

"What about the northern road?"

"Open ground. It may have a clear field of fire."

Darya looked toward the industrial complex.

The tank was moving.

They could hear it through the walls.

Sometimes near.

Sometimes farther away.

Always searching.

Or perhaps merely following a pattern that its corrupted mind no longer understood.

She studied the map.

Then looked toward the old vehicle-repair hall.

"There's something wrong."

Alina glanced at her.

"What?"

"The tank isn't moving directly toward us."

Morgan frowned.

"Feels like it is."

Darya shook her head.

"No. It keeps circling the main industrial block."

Réka leaned closer.

She considered the marked passages.

Then looked toward the ground.

"The tracks."

Darya nodded.

"Exactly."

The Hungarian girl frowned.

"It's patrolling."

Mira looked toward them.

Darya explained.

"The route isn't efficient if it's trying to intercept us. It keeps returning to the same machinery yard."

Alina considered that.

"What does it mean?"

Darya hesitated.

"I don't know."

Réka looked toward Mara.

"Maybe it doesn't want us to leave."

The injured technician shuddered.

Then whispered:

"That's what they made her do."

Everyone turned.

Mara looked toward the map.

Her expression was exhausted.

"She keeps people inside."

Mira crouched beside her.

"What do you mean?"

The woman's breathing quickened.

"After they caught Belle, she started moving through the buildings. Whenever somebody tried to reach the docks, she came after them."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"She wouldn't let us leave."

Alina looked toward the road leading to the beach.

Then toward the vehicle hall.

The implication became clear.

The Sherman wasn't simply pursuing them.

It was guarding the facility's exits.

A prison sentry.

A very large one.

Mira stood.

Her expression hardened.

"Then we need to stop it."

Nobody argued.

Not because they wanted the fight.

Because every alternative was beginning to disappear.

The decision was made in an office that no longer had a roof.

Technically, the room had once been part of the industrial station's administrative wing. Its remaining walls were reinforced concrete, and a portion of the ceiling still clung to the western side. Rusted filing cabinets lay overturned beneath the rubble. A broken desk rested against a pillar. Old photographs had fallen from the walls, leaving pale rectangles in the grime.

It was not a good place to hold a military planning conference.

It was simply the least terrible place available.

Mira spread the surviving site map across the desk.

Alina stood beside her.

Darya and Réka examined the maintenance plans recovered from a wall cabinet.

Greta studied the eastern machinery yard.

Morgan remained near the entrance with Piper and Tamsin.

Ren watched the corridor.

Ingrid and Natsuki had taken observation positions where they could see portions of the adjoining roads without exposing themselves unnecessarily.

Johanna helped Lara check Mara's condition.

Élodie stood beside the broken window, studying the industrial structures beyond the courtyard.

Cassidy and Zofia remained near the door.

Neither had much to contribute to the engineering discussion.

This was, Cassidy felt, a deeply unfortunate time to discover that a lifetime of making jokes about powerful handguns did not constitute an education in defeating armored vehicles.

She looked toward the map.

Then toward Greta.

"Question."

The German woman glanced up.

"Yes?"

"How difficult is it to stop a Sherman?"

Greta stared.

Cassidy waited.

Then the machine-gunner answered.

"With what?"

Cassidy considered that.

"...Handguns?"

Greta looked toward the ceiling.

A long silence followed.

Then she said:

"Very."

Cassidy nodded.

"Excellent."

Zofia covered her mouth.

Greta continued.

"Please tell me you're not considering shooting through the front armor with that revolver."

Cassidy smiled faintly.

"Not anymore."

"Good."

"Was a brief consideration."

"Do not reconsider."

"Understood."

Morgan glanced over.

"Can we not discuss revolvers and tanks right now?"

Cassidy looked toward her.

"Technically, it's relevant."

Morgan's expression suggested that she had begun reconsidering every decision that had led her to join VESPER.

Mira interrupted before the discussion could deteriorate.

"We are not equipped for a conventional engagement against an armored vehicle."

Everyone turned.

The native SIA officer indicated the map.

"Our firearms are primarily intended for infantry threats. Miss Marchand's anti-materiel rifle may damage certain vulnerable components, but we cannot assume it will defeat a functioning tank through its main armor."

Élodie nodded.

"Correct."

Greta folded her arms.

"And my MG08 is not an anti-tank weapon."

Cassidy glanced toward her.

"Even with enough determination?"

Greta gave her a look.

Cassidy raised both hands.

"Understood."

Mira continued.

"The objective is not to destroy the Sensha at any cost. We need to prevent her from controlling our withdrawal route, protect the civilian, and preserve any opportunity to recover her Pendant if possible."

Mara raised her head.

Her eyes widened.

"Her Pendant?"

Mira turned.

The technician swallowed.

"Belle had one."

Nobody spoke.

She looked toward the floor.

"It was blue."

Darya raised an eyebrow.

"Blue?"

Mara nodded.

"Not like the ordinary Sensha Pendants I've seen."

Alina became very still.

She looked toward Darya.

Then toward Mira.

The native SIA officer's expression changed.

"Describe it."

Mara struggled to remember.

"It was silver, mostly. But there was a blue light in the middle. Sometimes purple when she turned it toward the sun."

She looked toward the industrial yard.

"She wore it around her neck. She said it was important."

Cassidy remembered the dark object hanging against the corrupted girl's chest.

She'd barely noticed it while the cannon was turning toward them.

Now she tried to recall its shape.

A small pendant.

Partly buried beneath the contamination.

Perhaps silver.

Perhaps blue.

There had been too much happening to be certain.

Mira considered the description.

Then looked toward the site map.

"That would be consistent with the former-player registration coloration."

Zofia blinked.

"Wait."

Everyone turned.

She looked toward Alina.

Then Mira.

"Belle was one of us?"

Mira answered carefully.

"Possibly."

Mara looked confused.

"One of you?"

Alina hesitated.

Then spoke.

"A newer Sensha. Assigned through the same unusual commissioning arrangements as some of the people at Horizon."

The technician considered that.

Then nodded faintly.

"She was new."

Her voice softened.

"She kept saying the equipment felt different than it was supposed to."

Cassidy looked toward the eastern yard.

The implication settled over her.

Belle hadn't been some ancient Blackwake war machine.

She'd been a young woman.

Probably around their age.

A former player who had chosen a Sherman because she liked the idea of becoming a living armored vehicle.

And now that same vehicle had been altered into something hunting people through an industrial station.

Zofia looked down at her hands.

For once, she had no sarcastic observation ready.

Mira addressed Mara again.

"Did Belle ever tell you what class of Sherman she operated?"

The technician hesitated.

"She said something about the seventy-six."

Greta nodded.

"Then the main gun fits."

Mara looked toward her.

"Can you save her?"

The question was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

Nobody answered immediately.

Mira considered the map.

Then the injured woman.

"I can't promise that."

Mara closed her eyes.

The native officer continued.

"If the Pendant survives, there may still be a chance for recovery."

Mara looked up.

"Really?"

"Possibly."

The distinction mattered.

A Sensha's Pendant was not an ordinary necklace.

Like a Keelborn's Ship Pendant, it was associated with the embodied military class and the extraordinary connection between the woman and her vehicle.

But the detailed restoration requirements were different, and the station did not possess unlimited facilities capable of rebuilding damaged Sensha equipment.

Stolen story; please report.

More importantly, nobody knew what the Blackwake contamination had done to Belle's body or Pendant.

A recovery attempt might preserve a possibility.

It could not promise a miracle.

Mara nodded weakly.

"Please."

She looked toward Mira.

"Please don't leave her there."

The native officer's expression softened.

Then she answered.

"We'll do what we can."

Cassidy looked toward the map again.

For a moment, she thought of Camille Duret and the five Pendants she'd carried out of that terrible battle.

She'd heard the story in the mess hall.

Everybody had.

At the time, it had seemed distant.

A tragedy elsewhere.

Something involving unfamiliar people and a fight Cassidy hadn't witnessed.

Now she stood inside a ruined office while a frightened woman begged them to save the Pendant of a girl whose tank had almost killed them.

The world suddenly seemed much smaller.

And much crueler.

 

Élodie Marchand had been studying the overhead machinery for eleven minutes before anybody realized she'd stopped paying attention to the map.

It wasn't deliberate discourtesy.

She had heard the discussion.

Understood the proposed withdrawal routes.

Accepted Mira's assessment of the armored threat.

But her attention kept returning to the industrial yard outside.

Specifically, the old gantry crane.

The structure rose above the eastern loading area, its steel framework spanning a wide concrete apron between the vehicle hall and a machinery warehouse. Thick beams supported an overhead trolley, with cables and lifting fittings descending toward a massive industrial assembly hanging several meters above the ground.

The suspended object looked like part of an enormous press.

Or perhaps a gearbox housing.

Élodie couldn't identify it precisely from her position.

It was dark with age.

Covered in corrosion.

And, more interestingly, it hadn't been left untouched.

Fresh scrape marks showed where something had moved it.

The crane's trolley sat away from its original resting position.

Several supporting cables appeared taut.

And one section of the retaining assembly showed obvious signs of damage.

Élodie studied the arrangement through her observation optics.

Then lowered them.

"Officer."

Mira looked up.

"Marchand?"

Élodie indicated the yard.

"That crane."

Réka immediately turned.

Darya followed.

Mira approached the broken window.

"What about it?"

Élodie pointed.

"The load."

Réka leaned closer.

She examined the suspended machinery.

Then frowned.

"Oh."

Darya narrowed her eyes.

"What?"

Réka looked toward the crane's support structure.

"Somebody's been using it."

Élodie nodded.

"Yes."

"And that retaining assembly is damaged."

"Also yes."

Darya considered the arrangement.

Then looked toward the yard.

"The load could fall."

Élodie turned toward her.

"Precisely."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Greta approached.

She examined the structure.

Her expression became thoughtful.

Mira looked between them.

"Explain."

Élodie indicated the open concrete apron beneath the crane.

"The Sensha keeps circling the industrial buildings."

She pointed toward the vehicle hall.

"If we can draw her into the open yard, we may be able to use the machinery overhead."

Alina looked toward the suspended assembly.

"How?"

Réka answered.

"The gantry looks damaged. Somebody overloaded it or moved the load without maintaining the supports."

Darya nodded.

"The visible damage suggests the suspension is already under abnormal stress."

Greta studied the equipment.

Then looked toward Élodie.

"Your rifle?"

The Frenchwoman nodded.

"Possibly."

Mira's eyes narrowed.

"Can you guarantee the result?"

Élodie shook her head immediately.

"No."

The answer came without hesitation.

She continued.

"The structure may fail unpredictably. My rifle may not damage the relevant component sufficiently. And the load could fall somewhere other than where we intend."

Mira considered that.

Élodie looked toward the tank tracks in the road.

"But it is a more plausible way of stopping her than attempting to defeat the main armor with our infantry weapons."

Greta nodded slowly.

"Agreed."

Cassidy considered the crane.

Then the damaged factory buildings.

She looked toward Élodie.

"You're proposing to drop a building on her."

The Frenchwoman glanced over.

"Not a building."

A pause.

"Part of a machine."

Cassidy nodded.

"Ah."

Élodie returned to the window.

"An important distinction."

For a moment, Cassidy looked genuinely impressed.

Then she smiled.

"I like you."

Élodie sighed.

"I am aware."

Mira did not smile.

She studied the proposal carefully.

The yard was open enough for a Sherman to maneuver.

That meant the tank could also traverse its turret and fire.

The suspended industrial assembly offered an opportunity, but reaching that opportunity would require somebody to draw the corrupted Sensha into the proper area.

And the gunner would need a clear view of the damaged retaining assembly.

An unsuccessful attempt could leave them exposed.

A successful one might bring down the crane along with the machinery, turning the entire loading yard into a collapse hazard.

The plan was ugly.

Dangerous.

Incomplete.

It was also the first idea they'd developed that offered a credible way to interfere with the tank's mobility without relying on weapons they didn't possess.

Mira contacted Horizon.

The report took longer than usual to transmit.

There was increasing interference.

The communications staff requested a repeat of the damaged machinery description.

Mira provided it.

Then explained the situation.

"Horizon Command, Ground Element. Withdrawal routes remain compromised by the contaminated Sensha. We have identified a possible opportunity to immobilize the vehicle using existing industrial machinery. Request authorization to conduct a limited defensive action to reopen our route."

Kade's response came after several seconds.

"Ground Element, confirm whether the alternative is continued withdrawal."

Mira looked toward the map.

"No safe route currently confirmed."

A pause.

Then the Commander's voice returned.

"Understood. You may act to protect the landing group and civilian, but do not extend the mission or advance into additional buildings. If the attempt creates an opening, use it to withdraw."

Mira nodded.

"Acknowledged."

Kade continued.

"And make sure your people understand what they're attempting. This is not a salvage objective."

The native officer looked toward the young women around her.

"Understood, Commander."

The channel fell quiet.

Élodie stepped away from the window.

She looked toward the others.

"I'll need a position overlooking the yard."

Mira nodded.

"We'll evaluate one."

"And..."

Élodie hesitated.

Then glanced toward the map.

"I'll need her in the open."

The room became still.

Cassidy slowly looked toward Zofia.

Zofia looked back.

Neither said anything.

For once, the implication was too obvious to require an explanation.

Somebody was going to have to get the attention of a tank.

A corrupted tank.

With a seventy-six-millimeter cannon.

And convince it to follow them.

Cassidy considered that.

Then looked down at her revolver.

A terrible smile threatened to appear.

She suppressed it.

Mostly.

Alina noticed.

"Cassidy."

The American woman looked up.

"Yes?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

Cassidy considered that.

Then sighed.

"Probably not."

"Good."

Zofia folded her arms.

Then looked toward the yard.

"What if the tank doesn't follow?"

Réka considered the question.

"Then we have to find another way."

"And if it does?"

Mira answered.

"Then everyone follows the withdrawal plan. Nobody improvises a pursuit or remains in the yard after the signal."

Zofia nodded.

Slowly.

Cassidy glanced toward her.

For a moment, the two exchanged the kind of look they'd shared countless times before doing something ridiculous in an online game.

Except this time, neither smiled.

The consequences were sitting only a few meters away, wrapped in a thermal blanket, struggling to breathe.

And the tank they needed to stop had once been a girl named Belle.

 

Preparation consumed another forty-three minutes.

It felt like an eternity.

The group couldn't simply race out into the yard and hope Élodie found the right piece of machinery to damage.

Mira insisted on inspecting the available approach without exposing the landing party to the tank's direct line of fire. Darya and Réka studied the surviving maintenance drawings. Greta helped identify sections of the old industrial structure that might support the weight of the proposed firing position.

Morgan coordinated the movement of the injured civilian.

Lara checked Mara repeatedly.

The contamination was not visibly retreating.

That worried her.

She was not qualified to diagnose its precise nature, and Irena's remote instructions emphasized stabilization and evacuation rather than attempting unfamiliar treatment in the field.

Mara had become quieter.

Her breathing was shallow.

But she remained conscious.

Whenever the distant engine sounded, she flinched.

Lara stayed beside her.

"We're going to get you out."

Mara looked toward her.

"You said that before."

Lara hesitated.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

The technician's eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"I shouldn't have—"

"Mara."

Lara held her gaze.

"You're frightened. That's understandable."

The woman looked down.

Her good hand trembled.

Lara continued gently.

"We're frightened too."

Mara stared.

The admission seemed to surprise her.

Lara smiled faintly.

"But we're still working on getting you out."

For several seconds, Mara said nothing.

Then she nodded.

"Okay."

Lara squeezed her uninjured hand.

Across the room, Cassidy watched.

The Swiss woman had been nearly killed less than an hour earlier.

Now she was comforting a stranger.

Cassidy looked toward her.

Then toward the revolver resting safely in its holster.

Her earlier pride in the weapon felt embarrassingly distant.

It had stopped an immediate threat.

It had saved Lara.

That mattered.

But Lara was doing something Cassidy couldn't accomplish with five enormous cartridges and a steady hand.

She was making a frightened person believe she might still have a future.

Cassidy considered that.

Then turned toward Morgan.

"Hey."

The American automatic riflewoman glanced over.

"What?"

"When we get back..."

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

Cassidy hesitated.

Then shrugged.

"I think I owe Lara dinner."

Morgan's expression softened.

"Probably."

"And Eliza."

"Why Eliza?"

"For telling me to eat breakfast."

Morgan stared.

Then smiled faintly.

"You're becoming sentimental."

Cassidy nodded.

"Terrible disease."

Morgan laughed quietly.

Then the building shook.

A distant crash rolled through the walls.

Both women turned.

The tank was moving again.

And the time for sentimental reflection was ending.

 

The first attempt to draw Belle into the machinery yard failed.

Not catastrophically.

Simply failed.

The corrupted Sensha approached the western side of the complex, moving along the same damaged roadway she had patrolled earlier.

Her tracks crushed fragments of concrete.

The turret shifted between buildings.

The girl protruding from the commander's hatch remained almost motionless above the black growths.

Occasionally, her mouth moved.

The speakers echoed.

"Personnel recovery."

Then the tank stopped.

Waited.

And turned away.

Élodie watched from her selected observation position inside an upper maintenance gallery.

She had a clear view of the gantry crane.

The industrial assembly hung above the yard.

The damaged retaining equipment remained visible.

But Belle had not entered the open area.

The Frenchwoman lowered her rifle slightly.

"No."

Darya's voice came through the local radio.

"What?"

Élodie answered.

"She isn't coming beneath the load."

A pause.

Then Réka spoke.

"She may be following the old access route. The eastern yard isn't part of it."

Élodie looked toward the tracks.

The Hungarian girl's observation seemed correct.

Belle was moving in a repeated circuit around the vehicle hall and outer loading passages.

She might deviate to pursue a perceived threat, but she repeatedly returned to the same route.

It was almost as though the Blackwake had turned her into a guard patrolling a specific boundary.

Élodie watched her disappear behind a warehouse.

Then contacted Mira.

"The first approach failed. She returned to the patrol route."

The native officer acknowledged.

"Understood. Maintain your position. No one advances until the revised movement is agreed."

Élodie settled back against the support.

Her rifle rested securely.

The waiting began again.

The second attempt nearly killed Tamsin.

The Sten-carrying girl had been supporting Piper and Ren along the southern access road when the tank abruptly changed direction.

Nobody knew why.

Perhaps it had detected movement.

Perhaps the Blackwake controlling it had recognized a particular signal.

Perhaps its patrol pattern had simply changed.

The reason didn't matter.

Tamsin heard the engine first.

Then saw the turret moving through a gap between buildings.

She immediately warned the others.

The three women withdrew.

But the tank's machine gun opened fire.

The sound was sharp and rapid.

Rounds struck a concrete wall beside the passage.

Fragments tore loose.

Tamsin threw herself behind a heavy support as pieces of masonry scattered across the road.

Something struck her upper arm.

Not a bullet.

A fragment of concrete.

It cut through her sleeve and left a shallow, bleeding injury.

She cried out.

Piper reached her.

Ren reported the contact.

Mira ordered the entire element to remain under cover.

And the tank continued past the southern entrance, its engine growling as though nothing had happened.

By the time the medical team reached Tamsin, the wound was already being cleaned.

She sat on the floor of the storage room with her back against a wall, staring at the blood on her sleeve.

Lara examined the injury.

"You're lucky."

Tamsin swallowed.

"Feels like it."

"It's superficial."

"Good."

Lara checked the dressing.

"You'll still need a proper examination when we return."

Tamsin nodded.

"Okay."

Piper sat beside her.

For once, the cheerful American looked shaken.

Ren stood nearby, her hands trembling slightly.

Tamsin noticed.

She tried to smile.

"Hey."

Ren looked up.

"It's okay."

The MP7 girl nodded.

But her eyes remained fixed on the bandage.

Cassidy watched from the doorway.

A month of training.

One of their first real ground engagements.

And they'd already come close to losing someone to a tank they couldn't even see properly.

The thought settled heavily in her stomach.

Then Mira received another report.

The civilian's condition was worsening.

The contamination along Mara's arm had begun reacting to something.

A faint twitch.

Then another.

Lara was frightened enough to admit it over the radio.

Mira looked toward the tank's patrol area.

Then toward the map.

They were running out of time.

 

Élodie noticed the solution only after the third failed movement.

It wasn't an elegant solution.

It was an ugly relationship between two pieces of damaged machinery.

The gantry crane's load was not hanging directly above the center of the yard.

It was offset toward a broad maintenance platform near the old vehicle hall.

The machinery beneath it was crushed and disused, leaving an open space wide enough for the Sherman to enter.

One of the crane's main supporting fittings had been damaged.

She could see corrosion around the metal housing and a line of fresh deformation where the Blackwake had apparently moved the suspended load.

The old equipment had been designed to carry extraordinary weight.

It had not been designed to remain damaged, overloaded, and partly altered by Blackwake material.

Élodie studied the assembly.

Then the adjacent road.

Then the tank's patrol route.

Aster's voice came faintly over the broader support channel, reporting that the naval approaches remained secure.

For a moment, Élodie barely registered it.

Her attention remained fixed on the crane.

Then she reached for her radio.

"Mira."

The native officer answered.

"Go ahead."

Élodie spoke carefully.

"I've identified a better opportunity. The load is offset toward the eastern maintenance platform. If the Sensha can be brought through the vehicle-hall entrance, it should pass beneath the suspended machinery."

Mira considered the information.

"Can you reach the damaged fitting from your position?"

Élodie looked through her optics.

"Yes."

A pause.

"Can you bring the structure down?"

The Frenchwoman hesitated.

Then answered honestly.

"I believe I can compromise the retaining assembly. I cannot guarantee where the load will fall."

Mira's voice remained calm.

"Understood."

Élodie continued.

"And if she enters the yard, everyone must leave the immediate area before I fire."

The native officer acknowledged.

"Agreed."

A moment later, Alina's voice joined the channel.

"Then we'll need to give her a reason to enter."

Élodie looked toward the road.

She considered the young tank girl.

The contaminated machinery.

The suspended load.

Then she closed her eyes briefly.

"I am sorry, Belle," she whispered.

Not because she intended to kill her.

Because she intended to stop her.

And the distinction might not matter to the girl underneath the corruption.

Élodie opened her eyes.

Checked the position again.

Then settled into the long, patient stillness that had always made her comfortable.

The Hécate II was heavy.

Demanding.

Its ammunition was expensive.

The rifle didn't reward haste.

It required deliberate judgment about what was worth the shot.

Élodie had spent years appreciating that discipline from the comfortable distance of screens, simulations, and historical discussions.

Now the decision carried a different weight.

If she fired too early, the machinery might fall harmlessly.

If she fired too late, the tank might kill one of her friends.

And if the structure failed unpredictably, she might bring the entire gantry down on the people she'd intended to protect.

She looked toward the yard.

Waited.

And listened to her friends preparing below.

Cassidy Boone did not volunteer to distract the tank.

Not immediately.

She was learning.

In fact, she had become extremely interested in the prospect of letting somebody else do the distracting.

Preferably a person with a larger weapon.

Or an actual armored vehicle.

Or a battleship.

She briefly considered asking whether Breakwater could simply sail through the industrial complex.

Then she remembered that Breakwater was a real ship, several kilometers away, and that the harbor was not deep enough.

A disappointing limitation of naval warfare.

The plan that Mira approved involved no heroic individual running across an open yard while shouting insults at the Sherman.

Instead, the group would use the Sensha's established patrol behavior against it.

A native SIA security pair would watch the road leading out of the vehicle hall. Alina, Piper, and Morgan would coordinate the small groups moving between protected positions. The rest would hold the adjacent approaches, keep Mara out of danger, and remain prepared to withdraw if Belle failed to enter the intended area.

Réka and Darya had identified a route through the northern maintenance building that allowed observation of the yard without requiring anybody to stand in its center.

It wasn't safe.

The word had stopped being useful.

It was merely less dangerous than the alternatives.

Élodie remained in the gallery with her Hécate II.

Greta had finally been able to establish a stable position for the MG08 near a reinforced industrial opening. The heavy water-cooled gun looked absurdly out of place among the ruined factory machinery, but its support equipment was properly arranged and its limited firing sector covered one of the approaches where contaminated infantry might appear.

Greta had no intention of firing at the Sherman's main armor.

That would have been wasteful.

And Greta Falk possessed a deeply personal objection to wasteful ammunition expenditure.

She checked the equipment once more.

Then looked toward Morgan.

"You understand the withdrawal signal?"

Morgan nodded.

"Yes."

"Good."

A pause.

Then Greta added:

"And if the tank turns toward this building, we leave."

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

"Even you?"

Greta looked offended.

"Especially me."

Morgan smiled faintly.

"I'll remember that."

Nearby, Zofia crouched beside Cassidy.

The two were waiting for the next movement.

Neither liked the waiting.

Cassidy studied her revolver's holster.

Then looked toward Zofia.

"Remember when I said my handgun could solve most problems?"

Zofia turned.

"You never said most."

Cassidy considered that.

"Did I say all?"

"Several times."

The American nodded slowly.

"Unfortunate."

Zofia smiled weakly.

Cassidy glanced toward the tank's route.

"I'd like to revise my position."

"To?"

"Most problems smaller than a Sherman."

Zofia stared.

Then began laughing.

Quietly.

Nervously.

But genuinely.

Cassidy smiled.

For a moment, the world felt less terrible.

Then the engine began again.

Both women stopped.

The deep mechanical growl rolled through the industrial complex.

Something struck metal.

A turret motor whined.

And the voice came through the damaged announcement speakers.

"Personnel recovery."

Mira's radio clicked.

"All elements, maintain positions. Sensha contact approaching the vehicle hall."

Alina looked toward her friends.

Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.

She counted.

Twelve VESPER.

Three additional former players.

Mira.

The native security support.

Mara.

Everyone where they should be.

She took a slow breath.

Then raised her radio.

"Understood."

The Sherman emerged from the western passage.

It moved slowly.

Almost cautiously.

Its tracks rolled over rubble that had accumulated beneath the old vehicle-hall entrance. Black material flexed around the suspension assemblies, and the engine note rose when the vehicle climbed a broken section of concrete.

The girl in the turret remained upright.

Her head turned.

Her eyes moved over the empty yard.

For an instant, the setting sun caught something at her throat.

A faint blue-violet reflection.

Élodie saw it through her optics.

Her expression tightened.

The Pendant.

There.

She looked away from it deliberately.

That was not her target.

Below, the Sherman continued moving.

The turret traversed toward the northern warehouse.

Then stopped.

The announcement system crackled.

"Personnel recovery."

A thin black strand emerged from the edge of the commander's hatch.

It lifted.

Twisted.

Then pointed toward the building where Alina's group waited.

Mira's voice came over the radio.

"Contact responding. Remain under cover."

The tank moved forward.

Its engine roared.

The tracks climbed another broken obstruction.

Then the hull entered the yard.

Élodie watched.

Her rifle remained ready.

She had the damaged crane fitting in view.

The industrial assembly hung above the ground.

Its cables trembled with the vibration carried through the structure.

A small piece of rust fell from the overhead beam.

Élodie tracked the tank's movement.

Closer.

Closer.

Then the Sherman stopped.

Not beneath the load.

Just short of it.

The turret moved.

The seventy-six-millimeter cannon began traversing toward the northern warehouse.

Alina saw the barrel through a narrow gap in the wall.

Her breath caught.

The tank had found them.

Or thought it had.

Mira's voice became sharp.

"All elements, prepare to withdraw from the northern structure."

Morgan touched Alina's shoulder.

"Move."

They began retreating through the service passage.

But the tank had already committed to the turn.

The gun barrel shifted.

The commander's hatch opened farther.

Belle's contaminated upper body twisted toward the warehouse.

Her mouth moved.

For a moment, a different voice emerged.

Not the mechanical announcement.

A girl's voice.

Thin.

Painful.

"...Mara?"

Alina froze.

Just for an instant.

The name was barely audible above the engine.

But she heard it.

So did Morgan.

Belle's head tilted.

Her unfocused eyes stared toward the building.

"...Mara?"

Then the black growth across her throat contracted.

Her expression twisted.

The announcement system shrieked.

"PERSONNEL RECOVERY."

The gun barrel rose.

Élodie saw the muzzle aligning with the warehouse opening.

She looked toward the tank.

Then the machinery overhead.

Not yet.

The Sherman needed to move another few meters.

But its cannon was already almost ready to fire.

Below, Morgan grabbed Alina's arm.

"Now!"

They ran.

The tank's machine gun opened fire.

Rounds hammered the warehouse facade.

Concrete chipped.

A window shattered.

Alina felt fragments strike the back of her protective vest.

She stumbled.

Morgan caught her.

They reached the service passage.

Behind them, the Sherman accelerated.

Not quickly.

Not like a light vehicle.

But with enough force to crush the broken material beneath its tracks.

The tank entered the center of the loading yard.

Right beneath the suspended machinery.

Élodie saw it.

Her breath slowed.

She reached for the radio.

"All elements. Clear the gantry area."

Mira answered.

"Clearing."

The tank continued.

The turret swung.

The seventy-six-millimeter gun settled toward the northern building.

Élodie looked through her optics.

The damaged retaining assembly filled her sight picture.

Old steel.

A warped fitting.

A structural joint that had already begun to separate beneath the enormous load.

She had spent the previous hour studying it.

She understood the uncertainty.

She also understood that waiting any longer meant Belle might fire into a building containing her friends.

Her voice became very quiet.

"Everyone clear?"

Alina answered.

"Clear."

Morgan.

"Clear."

Piper.

"Clear."

Mira's final confirmation came.

"All personnel outside the collapse zone. Marchand, proceed."

Élodie took a breath.

Then spoke.

"Get down."

She fired.

The Hécate II's report struck the maintenance gallery like a physical blow.

The powerful rifle recoiled against its support.

Dust jumped from the old concrete.

The shot crossed the open yard and struck the damaged retaining assembly high above the Sherman.

For one awful fraction of a second, nothing happened.

Then metal snapped.

Not the entire crane.

Not the massive supporting beams.

A smaller fitting within the already damaged suspension assembly failed.

The sound was sharp.

Almost delicate.

The remaining load shifted.

A cable jerked.

The trolley lurched against its stops.

Then something heavy tore loose.

Élodie saw the suspended machinery begin to tilt.

Her eyes widened.

It was going to fall.

Below, Belle's cannon fired.

The seventy-six-millimeter report rolled across the yard.

The shell struck the edge of the northern warehouse, tearing through the structure just as the last of Alina's group cleared the passage. The impact shattered concrete, sent fragments through the adjoining room, and ripped a section of overhead piping from its supports.

The blast shook the gantry.

The damaged suspension assembly twisted violently.

Then the industrial load fell.

A vast steel housing dropped through the space above the Sherman.

For a moment, the machinery seemed almost to hang in the air.

Then it struck.

The impact was monstrous.

A crash so violent that Cassidy felt it through the soles of her boots in the adjoining building.

Steel slammed against armored steel.

The tank's turret rocked.

The enormous housing struck the upper structure at an angle, crushing a section of the blackened equipment and driving the vehicle sideways against a concrete loading platform.

The left track assembly twisted.

One suspension unit collapsed.

The turret stopped moving.

The heavy machinery bounced once, broke apart against the platform, and dragged several smaller components down with it.

The gantry shuddered.

A shower of rust and metal fragments fell from overhead.

Then one of the secondary support beams tore loose.

It struck the ground beside the tank.

Dust erupted across the yard.

And the entire industrial complex seemed to tremble.

Cassidy threw herself over Zofia as fragments struck the wall beside them.

The Polish girl cried out.

For several seconds, neither could see anything.

The air became gray.

Thick.

Full of dust and the bitter smell of hot machinery.

Somewhere in the cloud, the Sherman engine screamed.

Then stalled.

Silence followed.

A terrible, ringing silence.

Cassidy looked up.

Her ears hurt.

Her chest ached.

She could taste concrete dust.

Zofia lay beneath her, blinking.

Cassidy swallowed.

"You okay?"

The Polish girl stared.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

Cassidy looked toward the yard.

A massive shape stood half hidden behind dust.

The crane's load had struck the tank.

The Sherman was still there.

But something about its silhouette had changed.

The turret sat at an unnatural angle.

The main gun pointed toward the sky.

The left side of the hull was buried beneath broken industrial machinery.

Black material writhed along the damaged armor.

Cassidy stared.

Then whispered:

"Oh."

Zofia followed her gaze.

"...Oh."

The tank moved.

Not far.

The engine coughed.

The remaining track dragged against the concrete.

The vehicle lurched.

And Belle screamed.

The sound was unlike anything Cassidy had heard.

Not an announcement.

Not machinery.

A young woman's voice, full of pain.

It echoed across the yard.

Then the corrupted speakers erupted again.

"PERSONNEL RECOVERY."

The words broke apart beneath a rising electronic howl.

Black tendrils thrashed around the damaged turret.

The remaining track ground against the pavement.

The tank was trying to move.

Trying to recover.

Trying to continue its patrol.

Even with half its running gear crushed beneath industrial machinery.

Mira's voice came over the radio.

"Sensha immobilized. All personnel hold positions. Do not approach."

Cassidy lowered herself behind cover.

Zofia followed.

The tank lurched again.

A strand of black material stretched from the damaged hull toward the nearby platform.

Then another.

For a moment, Cassidy thought the corrupted growths were attempting to pull the machinery away.

She felt sick.

Élodie's voice came over the radio.

"Turret movement appears restricted. Vehicle still active."

Mira acknowledged.

"Understood. Maintain observation."

The Sherman engine coughed.

The remaining track scraped against the ground.

Then the machine-gun mount shifted.

Not much.

Enough.

A burst of fire struck the wall near the northern passage.

Cassidy flinched.

Zofia ducked.

Mira's voice snapped through the radio.

"Remain under cover! Vehicle not neutralized!"

The corrupted Sensha screamed again.

The sound rolled across the ruined yard.

And Cassidy realized, with a dreadful kind of certainty, that they had not won.

They had merely hurt her badly enough that she couldn't chase them.

Yet.

The next twenty minutes were among the longest of Cassidy's life.

The Sherman could no longer move freely.

That was something.

Its left running gear had been crushed beneath the fallen machinery, and the turret's rotation appeared severely restricted. One section of the hull was pinned against the loading platform.

But the vehicle remained dangerous.

The engine started and stalled twice.

The surviving track continued grinding against the concrete.

Black growths pulled at the damaged machinery, contracting with an unnatural force that made steel fittings creak.

And whenever the tank's weapons found a line of fire, somebody had to move.

The machine gun was the worst immediate problem.

Not because it was more destructive than the main cannon.

Because it was quicker to bring to bear against the personnel sheltering in the adjoining buildings.

The gun swept across the western entrance once.

Rounds struck the concrete.

The wall held.

Mostly.

Fragments still scattered through the room, and Morgan suffered a painful bruise when a piece of masonry struck her protective vest.

She remained on her feet.

Cassidy helped her behind a stronger support.

Morgan winced.

"I'm fine."

Cassidy raised an eyebrow.

"That sounded convincing."

"Shut up."

"Very convincing."

Morgan laughed weakly.

Then looked toward the tank.

The laughter vanished.

Beyond the doorway, Belle's upper body remained trapped amid the black material surrounding the turret hatch.

Her human arm reached toward the damaged steel.

For a moment, her fingers grasped the edge.

Then the contamination tightened around her shoulder.

She jerked.

Her mouth opened.

And the speaker system repeated its announcement.

"Personnel recovery."

The words sounded increasingly distorted.

The phrase that had once been an ordinary industrial instruction had become a horrible imitation of help.

Mira watched the vehicle carefully.

She wanted to preserve the Pendant.

But she wasn't going to sacrifice another person merely to retrieve it.

The immediate priority was preventing the tank from firing again.

Greta's MG08 covered the western approach against any additional contaminated infantry.

Piper, Tamsin, and Ren protected the route toward Mara.

Alina's section remained prepared to withdraw.

Élodie continued observing the disabled tank from the gallery.

Her initial shot had accomplished more than anybody had expected.

It had also demonstrated exactly how dangerous improvised industrial destruction could be.

A section of the gantry had collapsed unpredictably.

One of the upper beams still hung at an angle.

The suspended machinery had scattered heavy debris across the yard.

And several nearby buildings were no longer structurally trustworthy.

Nobody would be crossing the collapse area simply because the tank had stopped moving.

Mira knew that.

So did Darya and Réka.

The two had been studying the damaged vehicle through the surviving windows, trying to distinguish ordinary machinery from the Blackwake growths surrounding it.

They couldn't identify everything.

That was frustrating.

Darya hated uncertainty.

Réka usually enjoyed mysteries, but this one had stopped being entertaining the moment a tank fired at her friends.

She looked toward the hull.

Then toward the dark strands pulling against the fallen machinery.

"That's not normal."

Darya stared at her.

"Thank you."

Réka ignored the sarcasm.

"Look."

The black growths were concentrated around the damaged engine deck and turret.

Whenever the vehicle attempted to move, the material contracted.

Not in perfect coordination with the mechanical parts.

Sometimes before them.

Sometimes afterward.

The result was a horrible struggle between machinery and organic force.

Darya frowned.

"It's compensating."

Réka nodded.

"Trying to."

Mira joined them.

"What do you see?"

Darya explained.

The corrupted material appeared to be forcing movement through parts of the vehicle that had been physically damaged.

It couldn't restore the broken track.

It couldn't straighten the crushed suspension.

But it continued pulling.

Tugging.

Attempting to move the tank despite the damage.

Mira listened.

Then nodded.

"Understood."

She contacted Élodie.

"Marchand, can you still observe the turret area?"

"Yes."

"Any movement from the main gun?"

A pause.

Then:

"Minimal. The turret structure is badly damaged. But I cannot confirm the gun is unusable."

Mira considered that.

The tank could still kill them if they approached carelessly.

And even if Belle stopped moving, the surrounding contamination might remain active.

She looked toward the withdrawal route.

Then toward Mara.

The injured technician was struggling to remain conscious.

Lara checked her condition.

Then looked toward Mira.

"We need to move her."

The native officer nodded.

"I know."

The radio crackled.

"Ground Element, Horizon Command. Status?"

Mira raised the handset.

"Sensha immobilized by falling industrial machinery. Vehicle remains hostile. One minor injury in Piper's team and one additional impact injury; no confirmed fatalities. Civilian condition worsening."

Kade answered.

"Understood. Is the withdrawal route open?"

Mira looked toward the eastern road.

The tank remained between them and the safest passage.

"Not yet."

A pause.

Then the Commander's voice returned.

"What do you need?"

Mira considered the damaged machine.

The ruined yard.

The frightened personnel.

The exhausted medical team.

She answered.

"Time to verify that the vehicle can no longer threaten the route."

Another pause.

Then:

"Take the time you need. Don't rush people into the open because the objective looks nearly complete."

Mira nodded.

"Understood."

The radio fell quiet.

Cassidy heard the exchange.

She looked toward the tank again.

The black strands were still moving.

Slowly.

Unevenly.

Then Belle's human arm rose.

Her fingers trembled.

And for a moment, the girl's head turned toward the building where Mara waited.

Her mouth moved.

No announcement came.

Instead, a thin voice escaped.

"...Please..."

Cassidy went still.

The voice was barely audible.

But it was unmistakably human.

"...Mara..."

The technician heard it too.

She raised her head.

Her eyes widened.

"Belle?"

Lara caught her before she could stand.

"Mara, wait."

The woman struggled.

"Belle!"

Mira turned sharply.

"Keep her back!"

Morgan helped Lara steady the civilian.

Mara was crying.

"She's still there!"

Cassidy looked toward the tank.

Belle's eyes appeared to focus for one fraction of a second.

Then the black growth across her throat tightened.

The corrupted loudspeaker shrieked.

"PERSONNEL RECOVERY."

The Sherman lurched.

The remaining track rotated.

The turret shifted several degrees.

And the seventy-six-millimeter cannon began lowering.

Toward the building containing Mara.

Cassidy felt the blood leave her face.

"No."

Élodie saw the movement immediately.

Her voice cut through the radio.

"Main gun moving! Everyone clear the western building!"

Mira ordered the medical team away.

Morgan helped Lara lift Mara.

Piper and Ren covered the adjoining passage.

The women moved.

Fast.

Not elegantly.

Not quietly.

Mara cried out when her injured arm shifted.

The tank continued lowering its gun.

Its movement was slow.

Painfully slow.

But the barrel was coming down.

Cassidy stood beside the doorway, watching.

For an instant, she considered firing at the turret.

Her hand moved toward the revolver.

Then stopped.

No.

Not through the armor.

Not with that weapon.

The realization was cold and immediate.

She couldn't fix this by being louder.

She couldn't make the revolver solve a problem simply because she wanted it to.

She turned.

Then ran after Lara.

Behind them, the Sherman tried to fire.

The cannon did not discharge.

Instead, a terrible grinding sound came from the damaged turret.

Something inside the gun mounting strained.

The barrel jerked.

A dark growth contracted around the damaged mechanism.

Then a sharp metallic crack echoed through the yard.

The turret moved abruptly.

Stopped.

And Belle screamed.

The sound was so human that Cassidy stumbled.

She caught herself against the wall.

Then looked back.

The girl in the hatch had arched against the contamination.

Her uninjured hand pressed against her chest.

Against the small pendant hanging there.

For a moment, a blue-violet light flickered through the black growths.

Élodie saw it.

So did Mira.

Then Belle sagged.

The tank engine coughed once.

Twice.

And stopped.

The corrupted speakers hissed.

"Personnel..."

Static.

"...recov..."

A long silence.

Then nothing.

The black tendrils continued moving for several seconds.

Slowly.

Then they began losing tension.

One fell against the damaged armor.

Another slid from the loading platform.

The machinery remained still.

Mira waited.

Nobody approached.

The native officer insisted on further observation.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

No movement.

No engine.

No gunfire.

Only the creaking of damaged industrial machinery and the faint sound of wind passing through the ruined buildings.

Finally, Mira contacted Élodie.

"Any activity?"

The Frenchwoman watched.

Waited.

Then answered.

"None."

Mira nodded.

She looked toward the other security personnel.

"Maintain observation."

Then she turned toward Alina.

"Prepare the medical team to move."

Alina nodded.

"What about Belle?"

Mira looked toward the tank.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she answered.

"We'll recover what we can."

 

The Pendant was found forty-seven minutes later.

By then, the immediate area had been examined for further movement, and the damaged structure had been assessed sufficiently for a small, carefully supervised recovery approach.

The tank was dead.

That was the simplest description.

Its engine had stopped.

The main gun remained trapped at an awkward angle.

The left side was crushed beneath machinery.

And the black growths no longer moved.

But Belle was still there.

Her body remained partially joined to the damaged turret by the contamination that had imprisoned her.

She looked terribly young.

Cassidy hadn't noticed that during the fight.

There had been too much machinery.

Too much noise.

Too much fear.

Now, with everything still, it was impossible to ignore.

She was a girl.

Perhaps twenty.

Perhaps a little younger.

Her face was pale beneath the grime, and the dark material around her neck had hardened into an irregular shell.

Her eyes were closed.

One hand rested against the front of her jacket.

Beneath it, something glimmered.

Mira approached with the authorized recovery personnel.

Alina remained nearby.

Cassidy had been ordered to stay back.

She obeyed.

Without argument.

Zofia stood beside her.

The two watched in silence.

Mira carefully examined the pendant once the damaged material around it had been cleared.

It was small.

Silver-colored.

Fitted around a central stone or core that held a striking blue-violet hue.

The color was different from the ordinary warm or pale resonance associated with native Sensha Pendants.

It was the distinctive coloration appearing in the records of former-player Keelborn and Sensha.

A registration characteristic that had become especially important since the Crisis.

Mira studied it.

Then looked toward Alina.

"Former player."

The Russian woman's expression tightened.

She nodded.

"Yes."

Cassidy swallowed.

Zofia looked down.

Mira examined the Pendant's exterior.

There were scratches.

Contamination residue.

Damage to the mounting.

But the central structure appeared intact.

She did not declare it safe.

Or functional.

Or capable of restoration.

Those conclusions required specialists.

Instead, she placed it in an appropriate protective container and recorded the recovery.

The small object settled inside the case.

Its blue-violet glow remained faintly visible through the examination window.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Mira looked toward Mara.

The injured technician sat nearby, supported by Lara and Morgan.

She was exhausted.

Her face was wet with tears.

Mira approached.

"Mara."

The woman looked up.

The native officer held the protected container where she could see it.

"We recovered Belle's Pendant."

Mara stared.

For a moment, she didn't seem to understand.

Then she reached toward it.

Stopped.

And covered her mouth.

"Oh..."

Her voice broke.

"Belle..."

Mira knelt beside her.

"The Pendant needs specialist examination. I cannot promise restoration."

Mara nodded rapidly.

"I know."

Her eyes remained fixed on the small blue-violet light.

"But..."

She struggled to speak.

"...you didn't leave her."

Mira shook her head.

"No."

Mara began crying.

Not loudly.

Not with the panic that had consumed her earlier.

Quietly.

As though she'd finally been given permission to stop holding herself together.

Lara sat beside her.

Morgan looked away.

Alina lowered her eyes.

And Cassidy found herself thinking of a girl she'd never met properly.

Belle.

A Sherman Sensha.

A former player.

Someone who had tried to protect workers during an attack.

Someone who had been captured, corrupted, and turned into a weapon guarding the people she had once wanted to save.

Cassidy looked toward the wreck.

Then toward the small container.

The entire fight had begun because they needed to escape.

It had taken hours.

Exhausting, terrifying hours.

And when it finally ended, the only thing left that might preserve Belle was small enough to hold in one hand.

Zofia spoke quietly.

"Cass."

Cassidy glanced over.

The Polish girl's eyes were wet.

"Yeah?"

Zofia looked toward the Pendant.

Then whispered:

"I don't think I want to call them extra lives anymore."

Cassidy considered that.

Then nodded.

"Me neither."

They stood together in the ruined yard.

The wind moved through the broken gantry.

Dust drifted from the collapsed machinery.

Somewhere in the distance, the ocean rolled against the reef.

And for a brief, fragile moment, the industrial complex was quiet.

The time on Mira's field watch was thirteen thirty-eight.

They had been fighting, running, hiding, and struggling to survive the corrupted Sherman for nearly three hours.

Cassidy stared at the time.

It felt impossible.

She could remember the first shot.

The broken doorway.

The tank emerging through the wall.

The cannon firing.

The endless movement between buildings.

The crane collapsing.

Belle's scream.

It all seemed to occupy one continuous, terrible moment.

Three hours.

Almost three hours since they'd first encountered the Sensha.

Three hours of fear.

Three hours in which every decision seemed to matter more than it should.

Cassidy looked toward Zofia.

The Polish girl was trembling.

So was she.

Then Alina approached.

Her face was tired.

Her uniform covered in dust.

Her ponytail had partly come loose.

But she was standing.

All twelve of VESPER were standing.

Piper, Tamsin, and Ren were standing too.

Injured.

Shaken.

Exhausted.

But alive.

Alina looked toward the group.

Then spoke.

"We're going home."

Cassidy felt something loosen in her chest.

Zofia closed her eyes.

For a moment, the words seemed almost too good to believe.

Home.

Horizon Atoll.

The barracks.

The mess hall.

The ceiling fan.

The endless training schedules.

The repairs.

The paperwork.

Cassidy would have gladly accepted all of it.

Then the radio crackled.

Not the local security channel.

The wider naval support circuit.

Static hissed.

Somebody was shouting.

At first, Cassidy couldn't understand the words.

Then a familiar voice came through.

Aster.

"Breakwater, Aster! Multiple aircraft inbound! Bearing northeast! They're coming out of the cloud cover!"

The ground party stopped.

Mira reached for her radio.

Another voice followed.

Calla.

Sharp.

Urgent.

"All units, air warning! Large hostile formation! Repeat, large hostile formation!"

A terrible silence settled over the ruined yard.

Then Breakwater's voice came through.

"This is Breakwater. General quarters! All hands to battle stations!"

Cassidy looked toward Zofia.

Zofia looked back.

The Polish girl whispered:

"...No."

Far beyond the industrial buildings, over the open Pacific, the first distant thunder of anti-aircraft gunfire began.

And Horizon Atoll's landing party discovered that surviving the tank had only solved half their problem.

The Sea Beyond the Burnt Narrows

At thirteen forty-one, Captain Daniel Mercer was informed that the sky had become a problem.

He had been expecting problems from the sea.

That was the usual arrangement.

Blackwake warships appeared over the horizon, naval officers identified their weapons and probable courses, and the ships involved attempted to prevent one another from surviving the encounter.

Aircraft complicated that arrangement.

A great deal.

Mercer stood on Breakwater's bridge, one hand resting against the chart table while the communications officer repeated the warning from Calla.

Multiple hostile aircraft.

Approaching from the northeast.

Altitude and formation still being assessed.

The first contacts had emerged from broken cloud cover beyond the reef.

Mercer looked toward the windows.

The sky above the Pacific was a pale, hazy blue.

Scattered clouds drifted across the upper horizon.

The sea below looked almost gentle.

Nothing about the weather suggested the violence now moving toward them.

He disliked that.

A great deal.

"General quarters," he ordered.

The alarm sounded through the ship.

Sailors moved.

Compartment doors were secured.

Damage-control teams reported to their stations.

The gun crews began preparing the weapons.

Officers reviewed the latest enemy positions.

The practiced movements of the ship's company replaced the ordinary rhythm of a patrol.

Mercer listened to the reports.

This was what they'd spent weeks training for.

Not an exercise.

Not a scheduled drill in Horizon's harbor.

A real attack.

Breakwater's crew had survived one serious engagement during the convoy battle.

That experience had changed them.

Some of the younger sailors no longer smiled when the main guns fired.

Others had developed an almost obsessive interest in damage-control procedures.

A few still struggled with the sound of alarms.

But they knew what the alarm meant.

And they moved.

Adrian Cole approached the chart table.

"Captain."

Mercer looked toward him.

"Report."

"Air-warning confirmation from Calla. Estimated strength increasing. She's tracking separate groups."

Mercer's expression tightened.

"How many?"

"Still uncertain. More than a routine scout element."

The captain nodded.

"Any identification?"

"Not yet."

He looked toward the northeastern horizon.

Then toward the chart.

The Burnt Narrows lay astern of the main support position.

The landing party was still ashore.

The LCVP was near the beach, waiting to recover them.

The Keelborn had spread into a defensive screen around the approaches, but several remained closer to the industrial island than Mercer would have preferred for a sudden air engagement.

Breakwater couldn't simply accelerate away.

Not without abandoning the landing craft.

Not without leaving the SIA detachment exposed.

Not without forcing the Keelborn to cover an evacuation under attack.

Mercer took a slow breath.

"Signal the ground element. Inform them the landing area may be threatened."

The communications officer nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

Cole looked toward the navigation chart.

"We can maneuver in the support area."

"Somewhat."

"Enough?"

Mercer considered that.

Breakwater was a rebuilt Tennessee-class battleship with enormous firepower and substantial armor.

It was also an old capital ship.

The rebuild had improved many aspects of its fighting capability.

It hadn't transformed the vessel into a fast battleship.

She could make roughly twenty-one knots under favorable conditions.

Not enough to outrun modernized high-speed surface combatants.

Not enough to escape a determined carrier strike by simply turning away.

And certainly not enough to ignore torpedo aircraft.

Mercer looked toward the bridge windows.

"We'll make it enough."

Cole nodded.

Then the first aircraft appeared.

At first, they looked like dark specks moving beneath the cloud layer.

Tiny.

Almost harmless at that distance.

Then the formations spread.

The shapes became clearer.

Some approached high.

Others lower.

Several moved in groups with the deliberate spacing of aircraft preparing an attack.

And from the forward observation stations came the first proper identification.

Blackwake carrier aircraft.

Dive bombers.

Torpedo planes.

Possibly fighters or attack aircraft accompanying them.

Mercer felt his stomach tighten.

He remembered Senko's convoy.

The first aircraft appearing over the water.

The escort cruisers opening fire.

The screams of men and women as bombs fell.

The Blackwake heavy cruiser arriving while the convoy was already under attack.

He remembered the shape of the aircraft.

The irregular silhouettes.

The black markings.

The grotesque modifications around their engines and wings.

He looked toward the approaching formations.

Then asked quietly:

"Same type?"

The air-defense officer checked the incoming report.

"Captain, Calla reports several silhouettes consistent with the convoy attack."

Mercer went still.

Cole looked toward him.

The captain studied the horizon.

For a moment, the pieces began arranging themselves into a very unpleasant pattern.

The aircraft that had attacked Senko's convoy had come from somewhere.

The Blackwake heavy cruiser they'd destroyed had been operating with them.

The enemy had possessed enough aviation capability to coordinate a strike against the convoy and threaten it with a surface force.

Horizon had never identified the carrier.

Now they'd found a Blackwake support installation.

And, apparently, the carrier had found them.

Mercer looked toward the reef.

Then toward the sky.

"Oh."

Cole glanced over.

"Captain?"

Mercer slowly exhaled.

"I think we've come to the wrong neighborhood."

The first anti-aircraft guns opened fire.

 

Calla saw the aircraft before Breakwater's crews had a complete picture.

Her Atlanta-class rigging was built around anti-aircraft firepower.

The fitted twin five-inch dual-purpose mounts moved through their assigned arcs, supported by the machinery and fire-control systems integrated into her equipment. Smaller weapons occupied positions around her compact hull-inspired fittings, and the balance of the rigging shifted subtly as she adjusted her course.

She was moving over the water at speed.

Not simply floating.

Her feet skimmed across the surface while the propulsion equipment drove her forward, and every small change in posture translated through the fitted machinery.

Aster had once described the sensation as skating on a sea that occasionally tried to murder you.

Calla considered the description crude.

Not entirely inaccurate.

She watched the aircraft spread into separate groups.

Her expression tightened.

The formation was larger than she'd hoped.

Far larger.

Her radio crackled.

"Calla, June. I've got the low group. They're coming around the western side!"

Calla glanced toward her sister-class cruiser.

June was maneuvering to maintain a useful anti-aircraft position without crossing Breakwater's firing sectors.

A month earlier, she had struggled with the more demanding coordination exercises.

Now she adjusted her course with growing confidence.

Still not as practiced as Calla.

But much better.

And there was no time for another lesson.

"June, maintain separation and coordinate with Breakwater's fire-control plot."

"Understood!"

Calla raised her head.

The first aircraft began their attack.

Black shapes descended toward the fleet.

The air filled with engine noise.

Then Breakwater's anti-aircraft battery joined the fight.

Five-inch guns thundered.

Forty-millimeter mounts began their rapid, hammering fire.

Smaller weapons added their sharper voices.

Across the water, Calla and June answered with their own dual-purpose batteries.

The sky filled with bursting shells and tracer fire.

The first Blackwake aircraft broke apart before reaching the ships.

One caught fire.

Another lost a wing.

A third dived into the sea, leaving a dark splash and a brief trail of smoke.

But more kept coming.

Calla adjusted her course.

The fitted equipment responded instantly.

Her guns tracked another group.

She fired.

The recoil struck through the rigging's supports.

She absorbed it with practiced control.

Another aircraft broke apart.

Then she saw the torpedo planes.

Low.

Fast enough to be dangerous.

Moving toward Breakwater.

Her expression hardened.

"Breakwater, Calla! Torpedo attack developing from your starboard quarter!"

The battleship acknowledged.

Calla changed course.

Her guns continued firing.

Beside her, June swung her rigging through another controlled turn and opened fire on the approaching group.

The air became smoke.

Noise.

And flashes.

A torpedo aircraft lost its engine.

It struck the water short of the attack position.

Another broke through.

Calla saw it begin its release.

Then Breakwater's forty-millimeter battery struck the aircraft.

The plane disintegrated.

But the weapon beneath it had already fallen.

A dark object struck the sea.

White spray rose.

Then a narrow wake began moving across the water.

Calla's eyes widened.

"Torpedo in the water! Breakwater, torpedo in the water!"

The battleship began turning.

Mercer had already ordered the maneuver.

The helmsmen responded.

The massive ship leaned into the course change.

Its engines worked.

Its stern shifted.

But the hull was enormous.

Its response was nothing like a destroyer's.

Mercer watched the torpedo wake through the bridge windows.

For one terrible moment, he thought it would strike.

He saw the white line moving toward the ship.

Saw the distance closing.

Then Breakwater's turn changed the angle.

The wake slid past the stern.

Close.

Far too close.

The torpedo continued into the open water beyond.

Mercer released a breath.

Cole looked toward him.

"Missed."

The captain nodded.

"By enough."

Neither smiled.

There were more aircraft.

And the first wave was not finished.

 

Aster was farther toward the reef when the dive bombers arrived.

She had been watching the shallower approaches, prepared to intercept anything attempting to reach the landing beach.

Now she found herself looking up at black aircraft dropping from the sky.

Her stomach tightened.

She remembered the mine.

The explosion.

The wet concrete.

The awful moment when she thought something beneath the water might drag her down.

She also remembered the weeks of training afterward.

The careful checks.

The repeated emergency procedures.

The younger girls watching her because she was supposed to know what she was doing.

She took a breath.

Then raised her radio.

"Aster to June. I've got aircraft breaking toward the beach!"

June's answer came quickly.

"Understood. Can you engage?"

Aster glanced toward the incoming shapes.

They weren't heading directly for Breakwater.

Several had broken from the main formation.

Their course would carry them toward the shallower waters near the industrial island.

Toward the landing craft.

Toward the beach.

Toward the fifteen SIA personnel who had just survived an encounter with a contaminated Sherman.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh, absolutely not."

She accelerated.

The Fletcher-class propulsion machinery answered with a sharp increase in thrust.

Her compact equipment moved with her.

She shifted her weight.

Corrected her heading.

And began skating across the sea at speed.

The bow-inspired fittings cut through spray.

Her gun mounts traversed.

The torpedo launchers remained secured.

This wasn't their problem.

The problem was above her.

Aster raised her head.

The first Blackwake aircraft banked toward the shore.

She fired.

The five-inch guns cracked.

The recoil traveled through her supports.

The shells burst near the aircraft.

One veered sharply.

Another continued.

Aster adjusted her course.

Fired again.

A flash appeared beneath the second aircraft's wing.

The plane rolled.

Then struck the sea beyond the reef.

Aster grinned despite herself.

"Got you."

Another aircraft came in from the side.

She saw it too late to line up a proper shot.

The machine guns opened fire.

Rounds struck the water around her.

Sharp splashes erupted beside her legs.

Aster flinched.

Then twisted away.

The rigging moved with her.

Her speed carried her through the attack line.

A few fragments struck one of the outer support plates.

Pain flashed through her shoulder.

She hissed.

But she remained upright.

The aircraft passed overhead.

Aster turned after it.

Her red ribbon whipped in the wind.

She raised the guns again.

The aircraft banked toward the landing beach.

Aster's expression changed.

"No."

She fired.

The shells burst around the Blackwake plane.

It continued.

She adjusted.

Fired again.

The next burst struck close enough that the aircraft's wing broke apart.

The machine rolled.

Its engine screamed.

Then it fell into the sea short of the beach.

Aster exhaled.

For a moment, relief washed through her.

Then the radio crackled.

"Aster, Elsa! Enemy surface contacts confirmed northeast of Breakwater! Multiple vessels!"

Aster went still.

She looked toward the horizon.

Beyond the attacking aircraft, dark shapes were emerging beneath the clouds.

Not one.

Several.

Her expression tightened.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The sea had just become considerably more crowded.

 

The first confirmed surface contact was a destroyer.

Fast.

Low.

Blackened along the hull.

It emerged from the northeastern haze with a wake of pale foam spreading behind it.

The second destroyer appeared moments later.

Then a light cruiser.

Its superstructure was twisted by dark growths.

Its gun mounts moved with disturbing precision.

Behind them came a heavier silhouette.

A cruiser.

Broad.

Armed with larger turrets.

And farther back, something far worse.

A long, powerful warship with an elevated forecastle, heavy gun turrets, and the unmistakable proportions of a fast battleship.

The final contact remained near the horizon.

Broad flight deck.

Island structure.

Aircraft launching from its forward section.

A carrier.

Mercer watched the reports accumulate.

One destroyer.

Two.

A light cruiser.

A heavy cruiser.

A fast battleship.

And the carrier.

Six hostile warships.

One of them an aviation capital ship.

All moving toward the Burnt Narrows.

The captain looked toward the chart.

Then toward Cole.

"That's not a patrol force."

The executive officer shook his head.

"No."

Mercer studied the enemy positions.

The Blackwake vessels weren't wandering.

They were approaching with purpose.

The escorts had arranged themselves around the carrier in a recognizable defensive formation, with the destroyers moving ahead and the heavier ships occupying positions from which they could engage threats approaching the aviation vessel.

The carrier remained farther offshore.

The fast battleship moved on a course that would threaten Breakwater if the American ship tried to close the range.

The enemy had returned to protect something.

Mercer looked toward the industrial island.

The occupied warehouses.

The machinery.

The landing party.

Then the answer became obvious.

"Of course."

Cole glanced toward him.

"What?"

Mercer pointed toward the chart.

"This isn't a random strike."

The executive officer looked down.

The carrier.

The escorts.

The air attack.

The occupied industrial station.

Cole's expression changed.

"Oh."

Mercer nodded.

"We attacked their base."

The words settled between them.

Then the captain looked toward the dark carrier on the horizon.

Or, more accurately, they had attempted to disrupt a Blackwake forward installation without realizing that its main naval force was temporarily absent.

Now the force was coming back.

And it had discovered Breakwater sitting just outside the front door.

Mercer felt an almost ridiculous urge to laugh.

Not because it was funny.

Because the sheer awfulness of the timing deserved some kind of response.

Instead, he reached for the radio.

"All units, Breakwater. Multiple hostile surface contacts confirmed. Two destroyers, one light cruiser, one heavy cruiser, one fast battleship, and one carrier. Repeat, six hostile warships."

The answer from Elsa came immediately.

"Copy. I have them."

Calla's voice followed.

"Still engaging aircraft. Enemy surface force approaching from northeast."

Then Nadya.

"Fast battleship confirmed. Large-caliber turrets visible."

Mercer studied the chart.

Breakwater had enormous firepower.

The Keelborn were experienced.

But the enemy possessed numbers, speed, aviation capability, and a powerful surface escort.

And the ground team was still ashore.

Cole looked toward him.

"Captain."

Mercer raised his eyes.

The executive officer's expression was grave.

"We can't just withdraw."

Mercer knew.

He'd known the moment the carrier appeared.

Leaving might preserve Breakwater in the short term.

But the LCVP was still near the beach, and its passengers needed the sea approaches to remain open.

If the Blackwake surface force moved between the shore and the battleship, the landing party could be trapped.

If aircraft found the boat, fifteen young women and their native escorts might never leave the island.

If the enemy pursued Breakwater toward Horizon, the station itself could be endangered.

The choice wasn't simply between fighting and going home.

The fighting had found them.

Mercer reached for the handset again.

His voice remained controlled.

"Breakwater to Horizon Command. We have a major hostile surface force approaching the Burnt Narrows. Request immediate tactical authorization to engage."

The response took several seconds.

Then Kade's voice came through.

"Breakwater, Horizon. We confirm the contact picture. Ground evacuation remains a priority. Assess whether a fighting withdrawal can preserve the landing route."

Mercer looked toward the chart.

The enemy fast battleship was turning.

The destroyers were accelerating.

The carrier continued launching aircraft.

He shook his head.

"Negative confidence in a clean withdrawal, Commander. Enemy force has superior speed in several elements and can threaten the landing craft. We may have to defeat the screen to get our people out."

A pause followed.

Then Kade answered.

"Understood. You have tactical discretion to protect the landing group and participating vessels. Keep the force together and do not pursue beyond what the situation requires."

Mercer nodded.

"Copy."

He returned the handset.

For a moment, the bridge was quiet except for the voices of the watch.

Then Cole spoke.

"Orders?"

Mercer looked toward the enemy formation.

The fast battleship.

The cruisers.

The destroyers.

The carrier behind them.

He considered the next few minutes.

Then his expression hardened.

"First, we keep their torpedoes away from us."

Cole nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

"Second, we stop their aircraft from reaching the beach."

"Understood."

"And third..."

Mercer looked toward the distant carrier.

The source of the aircraft that had attacked Senko's convoy.

The ship that had apparently returned to defend its occupied industrial station.

The enemy that might continue threatening Horizon's supply routes if it escaped intact.

He took a breath.

Then reached for the fleet radio.

His next words were not spoken lightly.

They were an order given because the alternatives had become worse.

"All units, Breakwater. The hostile carrier force threatens the landing group and our withdrawal route. Enemy escorts are to be engaged as necessary to reach the carrier. Preserve your own ships where possible, but do not allow that force to close on the beach."

He glanced toward Cole.

Then toward the men waiting for his decision.

And his voice rose.

"ELIMINATE THE CARRIER STRIKE FORCE!"

Across the Pacific, the order reached five Keelborn.

Elsa's eyes narrowed.

Calla turned toward the enemy aircraft.

June swallowed and steadied herself.

Aster looked toward the approaching destroyers.

And Nadya, watching the hostile fast battleship through her fire-control equipment, smiled without humor.

"Well," she murmured.

"Now that's a worthy opponent."

Then Breakwater's forward fourteen-inch turrets began turning toward the enemy.

The first salvo was six fourteen-inch shells.

Not twelve.

Breakwater had not yet brought every main turret onto the target bearing, and Mercer had no intention of forcing a broadside maneuver simply to create a more impressive opening.

The forward turrets were sufficient for ranging.

The gun crews had spent weeks practicing the complicated sequence required to operate real naval artillery. Ammunition had to be handled properly. Charges and shells had to be brought into position. Fire-control information had to reach the mounts. Every safety procedure mattered, because a mistake inside a turret could kill sailors before the enemy fired a single shot.

Now the machinery performed exactly as it had been designed to perform.

The forward guns elevated.

The firing solution was passed.

And the bridge received the report.

"Main battery ready."

Mercer looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

"Fire."

Six great guns spoke.

The sound struck Breakwater from bow to stern.

The entire ship seemed to shudder around the men inside it. Smoke and blast rolled outward from the forward turrets, and the shells departed in a violent sequence that momentarily overwhelmed the smaller noises of the anti-aircraft battle.

High above the sea, six heavy projectiles began their flight.

Mercer watched through the available observation equipment.

The shells crossed an enormous distance.

Seconds passed.

Then tall white columns erupted around the Blackwake fast battleship.

Short.

The splashes rose ahead of the enemy formation.

Mercer nodded.

"Observe."

The fire-control team began correcting.

The enemy replied.

The Blackwake fast battleship's forward turrets flashed.

A heavy salvo departed.

Mercer watched the muzzle flashes through the haze.

For an instant, his mind supplied an absurd thought.

Those are beautiful guns.

Then he remembered they were aimed at him.

He stopped appreciating them.

"Incoming!"

The warning moved through the bridge.

Seconds stretched.

The first shell landed well short.

A towering column of water rose off the port bow.

The second struck farther aft.

The third landed so close that spray and fragments hammered the outer plating.

The ship shuddered.

Mercer gripped the chart table.

Cole glanced toward him.

"Straddling."

The captain nodded.

"They've got our range."

Not precisely.

Not yet.

But close enough to be frightening.

The enemy was a fast battleship.

Its heavy guns were real.

Its fire-control equipment might be corrupted, altered, or connected to systems they didn't understand, but its shells were not harmless.

Breakwater's armor could withstand tremendous punishment.

That did not make the ship invulnerable.

Shells could damage exposed weapons.

Destroy fire-control equipment.

Penetrate less heavily protected areas.

Rupture pipes.

Start fires.

And kill the people standing in the wrong place when steel began breaking apart.

Mercer looked toward the enemy.

Then toward the positions of the Keelborn.

"Maintain the engagement. Keep the secondary batteries on the destroyer threat."

Cole acknowledged.

The battleship's guns began preparing the next salvo.

And the Blackwake surface formation continued closing.

 

Elsa had seen enough naval engagements to understand that the enemy light cruiser was becoming a problem.

It was moving ahead of the heavy cruiser, using its guns to pressure June while attempting to maintain a protective position between the incoming Keelborn and the carrier.

The Blackwake ship's hull was narrow.

Its superstructure uneven.

Dark growths surrounded its gun mounts, and its funnel emitted a thin black smoke that did not disperse naturally.

But the ship moved with purpose.

It fired rapidly.

And it appeared to be coordinating its movements with one of the destroyers.

Elsa adjusted her course.

Her Admiral Hipper-class rigging responded with familiar weight.

Heavy cruiser equipment was not light, even when arranged around a Keelborn rather than constructed as a full-sized ship.

The eight-inch turrets occupied substantial support positions.

The propulsion and armor assemblies had their own balance characteristics.

And every firing movement transmitted force through fittings that had to be maintained properly.

Elsa knew her equipment.

That knowledge was why she could maneuver without the broad assistance structures worn by Horizon's newest Keelborn.

It was also why she noticed immediately when a gun mount's movement felt slightly wrong.

She shifted her weight.

The support mechanism corrected.

Not dangerously.

Not yet.

But she made a mental note.

Another maintenance report for Hana.

Assuming she survived long enough to write it.

The Blackwake light cruiser fired.

Several shells struck the water near June.

One burst close enough to send fragments across the Atlanta-class girl's outer rigging.

June cried out.

Her equipment jerked.

For one terrible moment, she lost her balance.

Then she recovered.

Her training held.

She lowered her center of gravity, reduced propulsion output, and allowed the machinery to settle before correcting course.

Elsa saw it.

A month earlier, June might have tried to fight the movement too aggressively.

Now she understood.

The difference was small.

Critical.

Elsa raised her radio.

"June, report!"

The younger cruiser answered.

"I'm all right! Minor damage! Still moving!"

Elsa glanced toward the enemy light cruiser.

Her expression hardened.

"Good."

Then she turned her guns.

The fitted turrets traversed.

Her fire-control solution settled.

And Elsa fired.

The eight-inch guns answered with a sharp, heavy report.

The recoil struck through the rigging.

She absorbed it.

The shells crossed the sea.

One landed short.

Another struck the Blackwake cruiser along its upper works.

A flash erupted beneath the corrupted superstructure.

Dark material burst outward.

The ship's forward guns stopped firing.

For a moment, its course wavered.

Elsa's eyes narrowed.

"That got your attention."

She adjusted again.

The enemy heavy cruiser answered.

Eight-inch shells began falling around her.

Elsa moved.

Fast.

Not blindly.

She changed course using the practiced movements she'd spent the beta refining and the past month teaching to others.

The first salvo missed.

The second came closer.

A fragment struck one of her side armor fittings.

Pain flashed through her ribs.

She hissed.

But the rigging held.

Elsa gritted her teeth.

Then raised the radio.

"Nadya, Elsa. Light cruiser damaged. Can you finish it?"

The Sevastopol-class girl's voice answered.

"Gladly."

Elsa glanced across the water.

Nadya was already turning toward the enemy.

Her older battleship rigging carried four triple twelve-inch gun turrets, supported by the familiar machinery of an early dreadnought design.

Compared with the sleek modernized silhouettes of some other Keelborn, the old equipment looked almost stubbornly traditional.

Nadya liked it that way.

She planted her feet more firmly against the sea's moving surface.

Adjusted her propulsion.

Checked her firing solution.

Then smiled.

"Old iron still bites."

Her guns fired.

The twelve-inch salvo rolled across the water.

The recoil traveled through her fittings and into her body with a familiar, brutal force.

For an instant, she felt every kilogram of the equipment around her.

Then the shells crossed the distance.

One struck the water beyond the damaged cruiser.

Another landed near its stern.

The remaining impacts disappeared behind smoke.

Then the Blackwake ship erupted.

A violent flash burst from its central section.

Something inside the corrupted hull broke apart.

The ship rolled.

Its guns shifted wildly.

Then the forward structure collapsed into the sea.

Dark water surged around it.

Nadya watched.

The light cruiser continued moving for several seconds.

Then slowed.

Its stern lifted slightly.

And the entire vessel began disappearing beneath the waves.

Nadya exhaled.

One hostile ship destroyed.

Five remaining.

She raised the radio.

"Breakwater, Nadya. Enemy light cruiser sinking."

Mercer's answer came immediately.

"Copy. Good work."

Nadya smiled faintly.

Then looked toward the fast battleship.

It was still firing.

Her smile disappeared.

There was plenty of work left.

 

Aster's problem was faster.

Two Blackwake destroyers.

One Fletcher-class Keelborn.

A reef line.

And an enemy carrier launching aircraft behind them.

It was the sort of tactical situation that could become exciting very quickly.

In the beta, she'd probably have grinned.

Now she was calculating whether her equipment could survive an engagement long enough for the rest of the fleet to help.

The first Blackwake destroyer approached from the northeast.

The second moved farther south, threatening to cut across the landing route.

Aster watched them.

Her compact rigging moved with her as she adjusted speed.

She could outrun plenty of problems.

Not all of them.

And certainly not a spread of torpedoes if she put herself in the wrong position.

She raised the radio.

"Calla, Aster. Two destroyers moving toward the southern approach. I'm engaging the nearer one."

Calla's answer came through a storm of anti-aircraft noise.

"Understood. Don't let them pull you away from the landing route."

"I won't."

Aster lowered the radio.

Then looked toward the enemy.

"All right."

Her expression became serious.

"Come on."

The first destroyer opened fire.

Small-caliber naval shells began bursting around her.

Water rose in sharp white columns.

Aster accelerated.

Shifted her weight.

Turned.

The Fletcher-class rigging responded.

Her feet skimmed across the sea, throwing spray outward as the propulsion units drove her through the maneuver.

A shell struck the water near her left side.

The blast slapped against her outer equipment.

She felt the vibration through a gun support.

Then another shell passed close overhead.

Aster gritted her teeth.

Her guns answered.

The five-inch mounts fired.

The shells struck the Blackwake destroyer near its forward superstructure.

A small explosion burst along the damaged hull.

The enemy continued.

Of course it did.

Aster adjusted course.

The second destroyer moved toward the southern approach.

She saw the torpedo launchers turn.

Her stomach tightened.

Not good.

Very not good.

She raised the radio.

"Breakwater, Aster! Southern destroyer preparing torpedo attack!"

Mercer's answer came through immediately.

"Copy. Can you disrupt it?"

Aster looked toward the enemy.

Then toward the landing route.

Her expression hardened.

"Trying."

She accelerated again.

The equipment hummed.

The water rushed beneath her.

She shifted course to bring her own torpedo launchers toward the nearer destroyer while maintaining enough separation to avoid crossing the line of fire from the other ships.

Aster was a Beta Tester.

She knew the machinery.

She knew how to move.

She knew the difference between a good torpedo opportunity and an attractive mistake.

The enemy destroyer turned.

Its broadside became visible.

For a moment, she had the opening she needed.

Aster committed.

A spread of torpedoes left her fitted launchers and entered the water.

They were real weapons.

Heavy.

Expensive.

Not something she could conjure back into place after using them.

She watched their wakes.

Then immediately changed course.

The enemy destroyer continued turning.

Its guns fired.

A shell burst close to Aster's right side.

Fragments struck the outer portion of her torpedo assembly.

She cried out.

Pain flashed along her hip and lower ribs.

The rigging shuddered.

For a moment, she nearly lost her balance.

She forced herself to keep moving.

Not too aggressively.

Not against the inertia.

She remembered her own lessons.

Let the equipment respond.

Don't fight the whole machine.

Don't panic.

The torpedoes continued toward the enemy.

One passed ahead.

Another missed astern.

Then a violent column of black water erupted against the destroyer's central hull.

The ship lurched.

A second explosion followed farther aft.

The blackened structure twisted.

Its guns stopped firing.

Then the stern began sinking.

Aster stared.

For a moment, relief threatened to overwhelm her.

Then she remembered the other destroyer.

She turned.

The surviving Blackwake vessel was already moving toward the landing route.

Its torpedo launchers were angled toward Breakwater.

Aster's eyes widened.

"Oh, come on!"

She reached for the radio.

"Breakwater, Aster! One enemy destroyer hit and sinking! Second destroyer still active, torpedo threat!"

The reply came.

"Copy. Maintain distance. We have the contact."

Then Breakwater's secondary battery opened fire.

Five-inch shells swept toward the surviving destroyer.

The Blackwake vessel turned.

Its torpedoes entered the sea.

White wakes spread outward.

Aster saw them.

Her stomach dropped.

She changed course immediately.

The torpedoes weren't aimed at her.

They were aimed toward the battleship.

But the danger was close enough that she could feel it.

The destroyer continued firing.

A shell struck the edge of her rigging.

The impact tore through an outer armor support.

Aster screamed.

For one terrible instant, her right side went numb.

Then pain returned.

Sharp.

Hot.

Real.

She stumbled across the water.

The propulsion machinery compensated imperfectly.

One of the damaged supports dragged.

Spray erupted around her legs.

She caught herself before falling.

Barely.

Then heard Calla's voice.

"Aster! Report!"

The Fletcher-class girl swallowed.

Her breath came unevenly.

She looked down.

Blood darkened the fabric along her side.

Not a catastrophic injury.

But enough to frighten her.

Enough to remind her that she was not a collection of numbers.

She raised the radio.

"Hit. Still moving."

Calla answered sharply.

"Withdraw toward my position. Do not continue alone."

Aster opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

A month earlier, she might have argued.

Now she looked toward the damaged fitting.

The blood.

The enemy destroyer.

And the torpedoes racing toward Breakwater.

She swallowed.

"Understood."

Then she turned toward Calla.

Not gracefully.

Not quickly.

But carefully.

And she hoped the battleship could deal with the torpedoes without her.

 

The first torpedo passed ahead of Breakwater.

The second passed astern.

The third struck.

It hit along the port side with a dull, enormous impact that Mercer felt through the soles of his boots.

The explosion came an instant later.

A deep, violent concussion moved through the ship.

The bridge shuddered.

A chart instrument rattled against its mounting.

Somewhere below, a compartment alarm began sounding.

Cole caught himself against the table.

Mercer gripped the rail.

For one second, neither spoke.

Then the damage reports began arriving.

"Port side impact!"

"Flooding reported!"

"Damage-control parties responding!"

"Compartment communications disrupted!"

The captain's expression hardened.

"Get the flooding report."

Cole nodded sharply.

The ship continued moving.

That was good.

The engines remained operational.

That was better.

But Breakwater had taken a torpedo hit.

A real one.

The old battleship's underwater protection had absorbed part of the force, but nothing about the impact was harmless.

Water was entering damaged spaces.

Pipes had ruptured.

A section of electrical equipment had lost power.

Several sailors had been knocked down by the concussion.

And one damage-control team had immediately begun fighting to contain flooding that might become worse if the ship took another hit.

Mercer listened to the reports.

His heart was pounding.

He kept his voice steady.

"Maintain the turn. Damage Control has priority in the affected compartments. Report any loss of propulsion."

Cole nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

The bridge radio crackled.

"Breakwater, Calla. Aster is damaged. I'm covering her withdrawal."

Mercer closed his eyes briefly.

Then answered.

"Copy. Keep her out of the enemy's fire."

Calla acknowledged.

The captain looked toward the sea.

The surviving Blackwake destroyer continued moving.

Its torpedo attack had succeeded.

And behind it, the enemy fast battleship was beginning another salvo.

Mercer watched the heavy turrets flash.

His stomach tightened.

"Incoming!"

The shells arrived.

The first struck the sea off the bow.

The second passed beyond the stern.

The third landed close enough to send a wall of spray across the weather deck.

Then another impact shook the ship.

Not underwater.

Above.

A shell had struck an exposed section near the upper works.

The resulting explosion tore through a portion of an anti-aircraft position.

Metal fragments scattered across the deck.

A secondary mount was damaged.

Men went down.

The shock reached the bridge.

Mercer turned sharply.

"Report!"

The answer took several seconds.

Then the communications officer spoke.

"Upper battery hit. Casualties reported. Fire in the affected section."

The captain's mouth tightened.

"Firefighting teams?"

"Responding."

He nodded.

"Medical?"

"On the way."

Cole looked toward him.

The executive officer's face was pale.

Mercer knew what he was thinking.

They'd done everything they could to prepare the crew.

Training.

Inspections.

Fire drills.

Damage-control exercises.

And now somebody might be dying on the deck because a shell had struck a few meters from where he was standing.

Mercer forced himself to breathe.

He couldn't leave the bridge.

He couldn't rush down to help.

His job was to keep the ship fighting long enough for the damage-control teams to do theirs.

He looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

Its heavy guns were turning again.

The Blackwake ship was faster.

It could choose the range more easily.

And Breakwater had already taken serious damage.

Mercer felt a cold, dreadful certainty settle into his chest.

If they allowed the enemy battleship to continue firing without interference, they might not survive long enough to protect anybody.

He reached for the fire-control report.

"Main battery."

The officer answered.

"Ready to correct."

Mercer studied the enemy's course.

Then nodded.

"Concentrate on the fast battleship. We need to stop it."

A pause.

Then:

"Yes, Captain."

The ship's surviving gun systems continued their work.

And Breakwater answered with another heavy salvo.

The sea around Breakwater had become a battlefield of white water, black smoke, and falling steel.

Through the bridge windows, Mercer could see shells striking the Pacific in enormous columns. Aircraft passed overhead in broken formations, some trailing smoke, others descending toward the ships with dreadful persistence. The remains of the first Blackwake destroyer were disappearing beneath the surface, while farther north the enemy light cruiser burned and settled into the waves.

Two hostile vessels had been destroyed.

It should have felt like progress.

Instead, Mercer was listening to casualty reports from the upper battery and flooding reports from the torpedo impact.

The enemy fast battleship remained active.

The heavy cruiser was still exchanging fire with Elsa.

The second destroyer was maneuvering to regroup with the larger ships.

And the carrier, safely behind the surface screen, continued launching aircraft.

There was no reason for the enemy to stop.

Not yet.

"Port flooding contained to the affected spaces," the communications officer reported. "Damage Control is maintaining the boundaries. Propulsion available, but Engineering recommends reduced speed until the damaged systems are assessed."

Mercer nodded.

"Understood."

Cole checked the latest figures.

"Captain, we can maintain the present fighting course."

"For now."

"Yes."

Mercer looked toward the enemy.

The fast battleship was turning slightly, exposing more of its heavy guns.

Its dark hull rode high over the waves.

Black growths spread around the turrets and superstructure, but the vessel moved with the deliberate authority of a powerful capital ship.

He didn't know what historical design had been copied or corrupted to create it.

He didn't need to.

He could see enough to understand the danger.

Fast.

Heavily armed.

Protected by its escorts.

And willing to stand off at a range where Breakwater's slower speed would make closing difficult.

The captain studied the enemy's movement.

Then spoke.

"Make the next salvo count."

The fire-control officer acknowledged.

Mercer knew that wasn't an order any gun crew could guarantee.

Naval gunnery involved observation, motion, correction, weather, and a great deal of uncertainty.

But the crew understood what he meant.

They were running out of time to keep exchanging misses.

The forward turrets fired.

Then the after turrets joined as the ship's maneuver brought the full battery into a suitable firing arc.

Twelve fourteen-inch guns thundered.

The blast rolled across the weather deck.

The ship shuddered.

Smoke spread outward.

And twelve heavy shells crossed the water.

For a moment, Mercer watched the enemy fast battleship through the optical equipment.

Then the splashes appeared.

One short.

Two long.

Several close.

A towering column rose beside the enemy's bow.

Then a flash burst against its forward superstructure.

Mercer's heart jumped.

"Hit!"

The bridge crew began reporting observations.

A fourteen-inch shell had struck the enemy.

Not the armored belt.

Not one of the main turrets.

A higher section of the forward works.

But the impact was real.

Dark debris erupted.

One portion of the Blackwake superstructure twisted.

Smoke rolled outward.

The enemy ship's forward fire seemed to pause.

Mercer exhaled.

"Good."

Cole looked toward him.

"That'll get their attention."

Mercer nodded.

Then the Blackwake battleship answered.

The next enemy salvo arrived with terrifying accuracy.

A heavy shell struck Breakwater's forward deck near a protected section of the upper works.

The impact shook the entire ship.

Another landed close alongside.

The water rose like a wall.

A third struck a less heavily armored structure and exploded.

For an instant, the bridge windows were obscured by spray and smoke.

Mercer was thrown against the rail.

His shoulder struck metal.

Pain flashed through his arm.

He caught himself.

Cole stumbled into the chart table.

Somewhere below, a sailor screamed.

Then the alarms began again.

"Forward upper works hit!"

"Fire reported!"

"Electrical damage!"

"Casualties!"

Mercer struggled upright.

His ears rang.

A thin cut had opened above one eyebrow.

Blood ran toward his cheek.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Report the main battery."

The answer took too long.

Then:

"Forward turrets remain operational. Fire-control equipment affected. Switching to alternate procedures."

Mercer nodded.

"Good."

Cole was already checking the damage reports.

The executive officer's hands were shaking slightly.

He forced them steady.

"Captain. We have wounded forward."

Mercer looked toward him.

"How many?"

"Still counting."

A pause.

Then the communications officer received another message.

His expression changed.

Mercer saw it immediately.

"What?"

The man swallowed.

"One fatality confirmed in the upper battery."

The bridge went quiet.

Not completely.

The ship was still fighting.

The guns were still preparing.

The engines continued working.

But the words seemed to silence everything around the captain for a moment.

One fatality.

A sailor.

A human being.

Someone who had spent the previous month laughing with the others in Breakwater's mess.

Someone who had probably complained about the heat.

Or the food.

Or the endless drills.

Someone who might have expected to return to Horizon that evening.

Mercer stared at the communications officer.

Then nodded once.

"Name?"

The answer came.

"Seaman First Class Thomas Reed."

Mercer closed his eyes.

He knew Reed.

Twenty-one years old.

From the American Midwest.

One of the younger sailors who had volunteered to help with the ship's anti-aircraft battery because he liked the history of naval weapons.

He'd been particularly enthusiastic about the rebuilt battleship's equipment.

Only last week, he'd asked Mercer whether he thought the old ship could survive another major engagement.

The captain had answered that survival depended on preparation and judgment.

Reed had smiled.

Now he was dead.

Mercer looked toward the deck.

His stomach twisted.

For a fraction of a second, he wanted to leave the bridge.

Go down.

Find the young man.

Do something.

Anything.

But there was nothing he could do for Reed.

There were still hundreds of sailors aboard Breakwater who needed him to remain where he was.

Mercer opened his eyes.

His voice was quiet.

"Record the name. Inform Medical. Continue damage control."

The communications officer nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

Cole watched him.

For a moment, their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

Then Mercer looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

His expression hardened.

"Keep firing."

 

Nadya had been waiting for a chance to help.

Not because she lacked targets.

Quite the opposite.

The Blackwake formation had become a chaotic collection of smoke, maneuvering hulls, shell splashes, and burning wreckage.

But her old Sevastopol-class rigging possessed limitations.

The twelve-inch guns were powerful.

They were also slower to bring around than lighter weapons, and firing them required careful control of her position and balance.

She couldn't simply skate around the enemy formation at full speed and throw shells in every direction.

That was how inexperienced battleship girls got hurt.

Or killed.

Nadya had been in the beta.

She knew the difference between looking impressive and remaining effective.

She watched Breakwater take another hit.

Her expression changed.

A fire had begun near the battleship's forward upper works.

Smoke rose.

The great hull continued moving, but she could see the difference in its course.

The ship was damaged.

And the enemy fast battleship knew it.

Nadya raised her radio.

"Breakwater, Nadya. I can engage the fast battleship's supporting sector."

Mercer's answer came quickly.

"Copy. Coordinate with our fire-control plot. Do not enter the enemy's close torpedo threat."

She smiled faintly.

"Understood."

Then she looked toward the enemy.

"All right."

Her voice became colder.

"You want the old ship?"

She adjusted her heading.

The fitted gun machinery shifted.

The heavy turrets traversed.

She planted herself carefully against the sea's movement.

Then fired.

The twelve-inch salvo burst outward.

The recoil struck through her body.

Pain flared along her shoulders.

Not injury.

The ordinary, brutal strain of operating tremendous machinery.

She absorbed it.

The shells crossed the water.

Several fell around the fast battleship.

One struck near its stern, sending a flash and a cloud of dark fragments above the deck.

The enemy ship's course wavered.

Not much.

Enough for the observers to notice.

Nadya smiled.

"Good."

Then she saw the heavy cruiser.

It was moving toward Elsa.

Fast.

Its forward guns were firing.

The Admiral Hipper-class girl returned fire, but one of her outer armor fittings was damaged and her movement looked less fluid than it had earlier.

Nadya raised the radio.

"Elsa, Nadya. Heavy cruiser approaching your sector."

Elsa's answer came through gritted teeth.

"I noticed."

Nadya smiled faintly.

"Would you like assistance?"

A pause.

Then:

"Very much."

The old battleship girl turned her guns.

Her expression became almost affectionate.

"With pleasure."

The next salvo struck the sea around the Blackwake heavy cruiser.

One shell hit near its forward turret.

An explosion burst across the deck.

The enemy ship turned away from Elsa, briefly abandoning its aggressive course.

The heavy cruiser girl exhaled.

Then raised the radio.

"Thank you."

Nadya nodded.

"Any time."

The old equipment around her hummed.

Her shoulders ached.

Her ammunition was finite.

And somewhere beyond the smoke, a carrier was preparing another wave.

But for the moment, Elsa had breathing room.

Sometimes that was enough.

 

Calla had almost run out of patience with airplanes.

This was an unusual feeling for an Atlanta-class Keelborn.

She had chosen the class because she enjoyed anti-aircraft warfare.

She liked the precision.

The coordination.

The satisfaction of tracking hostile aircraft and denying them the opportunity to attack her comrades.

But there were limits.

And the Blackwake appeared determined to discover them.

The first wave had been costly.

Several aircraft had been destroyed.

Others damaged.

But the survivors had scattered enough to create additional threats across the formation.

June had been struck by fragments.

Aster was wounded and withdrawing under escort.

Breakwater was on fire.

And the enemy carrier had launched another group.

Calla watched the aircraft form up above the northeastern horizon.

Her expression tightened.

"Really?"

June approached from her left.

The younger Atlanta-class girl's rigging was scarred along one side.

Several protective fittings had been damaged.

Her breathing was uneven.

But she was still moving.

Calla looked toward her.

"You should pull back."

June shook her head.

"No."

"June."

"I'm still operational."

"That isn't the same as being unhurt."

The younger cruiser glanced toward Breakwater.

Smoke rose from the battleship.

Then she looked toward the incoming aircraft.

"If I leave, you've got to cover all of them."

Calla hesitated.

June continued.

"I can still help."

For a moment, Calla studied her.

Then nodded.

"All right."

June exhaled.

"But you report any worsening damage immediately."

"Yes."

"And no pretending you're fine if you're not."

June smiled weakly.

"Yes, Calla."

The older Beta Tester nodded.

Then turned toward the approaching planes.

"Good."

Her guns shifted.

The anti-aircraft fire-control equipment continued tracking.

The second wave descended.

Calla raised her radio.

"All units, renewed air attack developing. June and I are engaging."

Breakwater acknowledged.

Elsa.

Nadya.

Aster, from farther south.

Then Calla opened fire.

The sky erupted again.

Five-inch shells burst among the aircraft.

One plane broke apart.

Another caught fire.

A third climbed sharply and disappeared behind smoke.

But the enemy formation continued.

Calla could see the torpedo aircraft now.

More of them.

Enough to threaten Breakwater again.

She gritted her teeth.

"Not this time."

Her guns fired.

June joined her.

The two Atlanta-class girls moved across the water in coordinated patterns, their proper rigging carrying them through turns and accelerations that would have been impossible in the bulky primary training frames worn by Horizon's beginners.

They had practiced.

They had learned.

They were good at this.

And still, aircraft were getting through.

Calla watched a torpedo plane dive toward the battleship.

She fired.

Missed.

Adjusted.

Fired again.

The plane lost part of a wing.

It rolled.

Struck the sea.

Another followed.

June engaged it.

The enemy aircraft came apart beneath a burst of five-inch shells.

The torpedo it carried fell harmlessly into the water.

Calla exhaled.

Then heard a new sound.

A fast, sharp series of reports from above.

She looked up.

Blackwake fighters had descended from the higher formation.

Their guns swept toward the Atlanta-class girls.

Calla turned.

Rounds struck the water around her.

A few fragments struck her rigging.

Pain flashed through her left shoulder.

She hissed.

But continued moving.

June cried out.

Calla turned sharply.

The younger cruiser had been struck along her outer support assembly.

Her rigging jerked.

One propulsion unit sputtered.

She stumbled.

For a terrible moment, her feet broke their controlled contact with the water.

Then she fell.

Spray erupted.

Calla's heart stopped.

"JUNE!"

The younger cruiser disappeared beneath the surface for a fraction of a second.

Her equipment's reserve buoyancy and remaining propulsion systems began responding, but the damaged support made her recovery awkward.

She surfaced.

Coughing.

Disoriented.

One arm pressed against her side.

Calla accelerated toward her.

The aircraft continued attacking.

The water erupted around them.

Calla reached June.

Caught her.

Helped stabilize the damaged rigging.

June gasped.

"I'm—"

"Don't."

Calla's voice was sharp.

The younger girl looked at her.

"Calla—"

"Just breathe."

June obeyed.

Calla checked the visible damage.

The outer propulsion support was bent.

A section of armor had been torn away.

Blood darkened the fabric beneath it.

But June was conscious.

Moving.

Alive.

Calla looked toward the approaching aircraft.

Her expression hardened.

Then she raised the radio.

"Breakwater, Calla. June is damaged and withdrawing. I need anti-aircraft coverage for her recovery."

Mercer's answer came through immediately.

"Copy. We'll cover your sector."

Calla nodded.

Then turned toward June.

"Come on."

The younger cruiser looked frightened.

For a moment, she resembled the inexperienced girl who had arrived at Horizon during the convoy battle.

Then she took a breath.

Adjusted her remaining propulsion.

And moved.

Slowly.

Carefully.

With Calla beside her.

The two began withdrawing toward a safer position.

Behind them, Breakwater's anti-aircraft guns continued firing.

And the enemy carrier's second wave descended toward the wounded battleship.

The People Waiting on the Beach

Cassidy Boone had never been so happy to see a landing craft in her entire life.

Unfortunately, the landing craft was not currently able to take her home.

That was the problem.

The little Higgins boat remained near the designated recovery beach, its crew prepared to receive the infantry element when the naval support force confirmed that departure was safe.

But there was a rather substantial disagreement taking place offshore.

One involving a battleship, several Keelborn, a Blackwake carrier, and enough heavy naval artillery to make Cassidy's beloved revolver look like a particularly enthusiastic paperweight.

The ground element had withdrawn from the ruined machinery yard.

Mara Venn was being sheltered inside a relatively secure concrete utility building near the recovery route, where Lara and the medical support personnel continued monitoring her condition.

The recovered Sensha Pendant remained protected in its case.

Belle's name had been recorded.

Her equipment classification noted.

The unusual blue-violet coloration documented.

Nobody had declared her restorable.

Nobody had declared her lost forever either.

For now, the small object was all they could bring home.

Assuming they could get home.

Cassidy stood beneath the remains of an old loading shelter, looking toward the sea.

The sound of naval gunfire rolled across the water.

Deep.

Heavy.

Terrifying.

She could see smoke rising beyond the reef.

Occasional flashes appeared against the distant sky.

Aircraft moved above the horizon.

Some broke apart.

Others dived.

The noise reached the island seconds later.

Zofia stood beside her.

For once, neither had anything clever to say.

The Polish girl watched a distant shell splash.

Then another.

Her expression was pale.

"Cass?"

Cassidy glanced over.

"Yeah?"

"That's Breakwater, isn't it?"

The American followed her gaze.

The enormous battleship was visible through the smoke.

Not clearly.

But enough.

Its superstructure rose above the water.

Its main guns fired.

And one section of its upper works was burning.

Cassidy swallowed.

"Yeah."

Zofia looked toward the distant ship.

Then whispered:

"She's on fire."

Cassidy nodded.

"Yeah."

For a moment, they stood in silence.

The sea rolled against the shore.

The landing craft moved gently on the swell.

Farther out, anti-aircraft shells burst in the sky.

Zofia looked toward the case containing Belle's Pendant.

Then toward Mara.

The injured woman was conscious, but only barely.

She had stopped asking whether Belle could be saved.

Now she kept asking whether they would reach the boats.

Lara had stopped making promises.

She simply told Mara what they were doing.

One step at a time.

Cassidy looked toward the sea again.

Then took a slow breath.

"Hey."

Zofia glanced over.

"Yeah?"

"Remember our deal?"

The Polish girl considered that.

Then nodded.

"We both come back."

"Yep."

Zofia looked toward Breakwater.

The old battleship fired another salvo.

Its guns flashed through the smoke.

The sound arrived several seconds later.

She swallowed.

"Think they're going to make it?"

Cassidy looked toward the distant ship.

The Keelborn were moving around it.

Small figures compared with the battleship.

But still fighting.

Still firing.

Still trying to protect the water between the shore and the open sea.

She considered the question.

Then answered honestly.

"I don't know."

Zofia looked at her.

Cassidy continued.

"But they're trying."

The Polish girl nodded slowly.

"Yeah."

For a moment, the two stood together beneath the ruined shelter.

Then Cassidy smiled faintly.

"Guess we should do the same."

Zofia returned the smile.

"Yeah."

They turned back toward the recovery building.

There was still work to do.

Mara needed help.

Tamsin needed medical attention.

Morgan's bruising had to be checked.

The equipment needed securing.

The detachment needed to remain organized.

And Belle's Pendant needed to reach a specialist.

Those things were within their power.

The battle offshore was not.

Cassidy hated that distinction.

But she was beginning to understand it.

She couldn't solve every problem with her revolver.

She couldn't save every person simply because she wanted to.

Sometimes the most useful thing she could do was follow instructions, help a frightened woman move, and make sure the people beside her were still breathing.

She considered that.

Then glanced toward Zofia.

"Well."

The Polish girl sighed.

"What?"

Cassidy smiled faintly.

"We're definitely not bored anymore."

Zofia stared.

For a moment, it seemed as though she might punch her.

Then she laughed.

One short, exhausted laugh.

"Idiot."

Cassidy nodded.

"Professionally."

And together, they went back to work.

 

At Horizon Atoll, Kade Bher watched the battle reports arrive with increasing dread.

Not panic.

He couldn't afford panic.

But dread.

A quieter thing.

A heavier thing.

The enemy force was larger than anything Horizon had engaged since the Crisis.

Two Blackwake destroyers.

A light cruiser.

A heavy cruiser.

A fast battleship.

A carrier.

The first destroyer and the light cruiser had been destroyed.

That was good.

Breakwater had taken a torpedo hit and multiple shell impacts.

That was not.

Aster was wounded.

June had been damaged badly enough to require assistance.

Elsa had suffered additional rigging damage.

Calla was attempting to hold the anti-aircraft screen together.

Nadya was still engaging the enemy's heavier ships.

And the carrier remained active.

Kade looked toward the tactical display.

Then toward Chief Fenwick.

"Medical?"

"Ready."

"Repair facilities?"

"Hana and Dain have been informed. They're preparing for casualties and emergency rigging work."

"Good."

"Senko?"

"Standing by at Horizon."

He nodded.

"Keep her there."

Mara considered the order.

Then nodded.

"Yes, Commander."

Kade looked toward the map.

The urge to send reinforcements was strong.

Painfully strong.

But Horizon's available Keelborn did not become combat-ready simply because he was frightened.

Riko had improved.

A great deal.

So had Yuna.

Several newer girls were beginning intermediate training.

But that did not mean they were ready to face a carrier strike force.

Sending them would add more vulnerable people to an already dangerous situation.

And the station still needed defenses of its own.

Kade looked toward the radio operator.

"Any new contact reports near Horizon?"

"None, Commander."

"Continue monitoring."

"Yes, sir."

He turned toward the battle plot.

Breakwater's position had shifted.

The ship was maneuvering under fire.

The enemy fast battleship remained active.

The carrier was still launching aircraft.

Kade considered the distances.

The ammunition expenditure.

The damaged Keelborn.

The landing group waiting on the beach.

The situation had become a brutal problem of priorities.

He couldn't order Mercer to abandon the infantry.

He couldn't order the Keelborn to fight until they were destroyed.

And he couldn't magically produce another battleship from Horizon's warehouses.

He reached for the handset.

"Breakwater, Horizon Command. Status?"

The reply took several seconds.

Then Mercer's voice emerged through static.

"Still fighting, Commander. Port-side flooding contained for now. Main battery operational. Upper works damaged. Casualties aboard."

Kade's expression tightened.

"Can you maintain the landing route?"

A pause.

Then:

"We're trying."

The answer was painfully honest.

Kade nodded.

"Understood. Your withdrawal remains authorized if the force becomes untenable. Do not sacrifice the ship simply to continue an offensive engagement."

Mercer answered.

"Copy."

Another pause.

Then the captain added:

"But the carrier's still launching aircraft. If we turn away now, the landing group may never get off that island."

Kade closed his eyes briefly.

He knew.

That was the problem.

He opened them.

"Then keep the immediate objective clear. Protect the evacuation route. Destroy or disable what prevents it."

Mercer acknowledged.

"Understood."

Kade lowered the handset.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Chief Fenwick approached.

"Commander."

He glanced toward her.

She looked tired.

Worried.

But composed.

"You're doing what you can."

Kade studied the map.

Then nodded.

"I know."

She hesitated.

Then asked quietly:

"Is it enough?"

Kade looked toward the distant battle markers.

The wounded battleship.

The damaged Keelborn.

The infantry waiting on the beach.

The enemy carrier.

He considered the question.

Then answered.

"We're going to find out."

 

Breakwater's next salvo struck the Blackwake fast battleship along its upper armor.

One shell appeared to burst against the superstructure.

Another hit near the forward turret.

The enemy ship shuddered.

Its gunfire paused.

Not permanently.

Not even for long.

But long enough for Mercer to notice.

He leaned toward the chart.

"Did we damage the forward battery?"

The fire-control officer checked the observations.

"Possible, Captain. Smoke obscuring the target."

Mercer nodded.

"Continue observation."

Cole looked toward the damage report.

"Captain, the upper fire is under control."

"Good."

"Main machinery still available."

"Better."

"Casualty teams are moving the wounded."

Mercer's expression tightened.

He nodded.

"Keep them informed."

The executive officer hesitated.

Then continued.

"Thomas Reed's body has been recovered from the damaged position."

For a moment, Mercer closed his eyes.

Then nodded.

"Thank you."

Cole watched him.

Neither spoke.

The battle continued around them.

There would be time to grieve later.

If there was a later.

Mercer looked toward the sea.

The second Blackwake destroyer was turning away from the immediate torpedo attack.

Its launchers had expended their visible spread.

That bought Breakwater some time.

Not safety.

Time.

The heavy cruiser remained engaged with Elsa and Nadya.

The fast battleship continued firing.

And the carrier was turning slightly, moving to maintain distance behind the remaining escorts.

Mercer looked toward the carrier's silhouette.

A broad dark shape beneath the clouds.

Aircraft climbing from its deck.

Smoke trailing from its machinery.

The old naval historian somewhere in the back of his mind could admire the coordination.

The captain responsible for hundreds of real sailors hated every second of it.

He reached for the handset.

"Signal Elsa and Nadya. If they can force the heavy cruiser away from the carrier's approach, we'll have a better chance of bringing our guns to bear on the aviation ship."

Cole nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

Mercer looked toward Calla's position.

The Atlanta-class girl was still helping June withdraw.

Aster was farther south, moving slowly with damaged rigging.

They were running out of healthy escorts.

He couldn't ask them to do everything.

And he refused to pretend they could.

He looked toward the communications officer.

"Can we get the landing craft away from the beach?"

The man checked the latest report.

"Ground element is preparing to embark, but the naval approach remains threatened by aircraft. Mira requests continued coverage."

Mercer nodded.

"Understood."

Then the bridge observer shouted.

"Aircraft approaching from high starboard!"

Mercer turned.

A Blackwake dive bomber had broken through the anti-aircraft screen.

It was descending rapidly.

Smoke trailed from one wing.

Its engine sounded wrong.

A harsh, uneven scream.

But it remained controlled enough to aim.

The aircraft came toward Breakwater.

The anti-aircraft guns tracked it.

Forty-millimeter fire swept upward.

Several rounds struck the fuselage.

The bomber shuddered.

Its wing tore.

For one instant, Mercer thought it would miss.

Then the bomb fell.

A dark shape dropping through the air.

The captain saw it.

The men around him saw it.

Nobody could do anything except hope.

The bomb struck the ship near the aft upper works.

The explosion rolled through Breakwater with a violence that made the previous impacts seem distant.

Metal tore.

Smoke erupted.

A secondary structure buckled.

The shock reached the bridge.

Mercer was thrown against the chart table.

Cole fell to one knee.

Alarms erupted throughout the ship.

Then came a new sound.

A deeper one.

From below.

A fire alarm.

Followed by an emergency report from the ammunition-handling spaces.

Mercer struggled upright.

His heart hammered.

For a moment, he couldn't hear clearly.

Then the words reached him.

"Fire near aft ammunition-handling access!"

The captain went cold.

That was not simply another damaged gun mount.

Not simply another casualty station.

A fire near ammunition-handling spaces was the kind of emergency that could destroy a battleship if it spread.

Mercer looked toward Cole.

The executive officer's face was pale.

Then the captain gave the order.

"Secure the affected ammunition route. Flooding and fire-control procedures as required. Damage Control takes priority."

Cole nodded sharply.

"Yes, Captain!"

The orders went out.

Below decks, sailors moved toward the smoke.

Emergency systems were activated.

Compartment boundaries secured.

The ship's damage-control teams began fighting to prevent the fire from reaching anything it could not be allowed to reach.

Mercer stood on the bridge.

Blood ran down the side of his face.

His shoulder ached.

His ship was wounded.

His crew was fighting fires, flooding, and the enemy at the same time.

He looked toward the horizon.

The Blackwake carrier remained active.

Its flight deck was turning into the wind.

More aircraft were preparing to launch.

And behind its surface screen, the enemy aviation ship seemed almost untouched.

Mercer felt a terrible anger rise in his chest.

Not the reckless anger of someone looking for a fight.

The anger of a man who had already lost a sailor and could see the next attack coming.

He reached for the handset.

His voice was hoarse.

But steady.

"All units, Breakwater. We remain in action. Enemy carrier continues flight operations. Maintain coordinated fire against the remaining escorts and preserve the landing route."

Elsa acknowledged.

Nadya.

Calla.

Aster, weakly, from the southern sector.

June remained under assistance.

Mercer looked toward the enemy.

The fast battleship's forward guns were beginning to turn again.

The heavy cruiser continued maneuvering.

The carrier launched another aircraft.

And Breakwater's gun crews, battered but operational, reported that the main battery was ready.

Mercer took a breath.

Then nodded.

"Fire."

The fourteen-inch guns answered.

Twelve great weapons thundered across the Pacific.

The shells crossed the water.

And as Breakwater shuddered beneath their recoil, the damaged battleship continued fighting for the only thing that mattered.

The chance to bring its people home.

Far beyond the shell splashes, behind the escorts, the Blackwake carrier began another turn.

Not away from the battle.

Toward the opening in the clouds.

Toward the wind.

Toward the launch course for another strike.

And on the beach below the ruined industrial station, fifteen former players watched the sky and waited for the sound of the next wave.

The fight for the Burnt Narrows was nowhere near over.