Chapter 3.6 - “Nightmare Battle”

The Decision That Should Never Have Been Made

At thirteen forty-six, USS Ironwake's captain decided that the island had insulted him for the last time.

He arrived at this decision while standing on the bridge of a battleship that was, by any reasonable naval assessment, in serious danger of becoming a wreck.

One of her smokestacks had been destroyed.

The surviving exhaust arrangements were operating under emergency restrictions, and the engineering department had already warned that sustained high-power operation would require closer monitoring than the captain seemed interested in providing.

Much of the port five-inch secondary battery was a ruin.

Several ready-ammunition fires had been contained only through the work of men who had entered smoke-filled compartments knowing perfectly well that the next explosion might kill them.

The after sixteen-inch turret no longer existed in its proper position.

Its enormous armored housing lay twisted across the afterdeck, having been torn from its barbette by an eighteen-point-one-inch shell from Horizon's Yamato-class Keelborn.

Below it, magazine isolation boundaries were still being inspected.

Elsewhere, compartments damaged by the Type 93 torpedo remained flooded or under pumping arrangements intended to keep the water from spreading.

The ship's list was small enough to be controlled.

That was good.

It was not small enough to ignore.

That was bad.

And the full list of casualties had still not reached the bridge.

Men were missing.

Men were dead.

Men were undergoing emergency surgery or lying beneath blankets on the mess-deck tables that had been turned into treatment stations.

Ironwake had not merely lost equipment.

She had lost people.

Yet her captain remained occupied by the question of how to force Horizon Atoll to surrender.

His executive officer stood opposite him at the damaged navigation table, reading the latest report from Fleet Command.

Or rather, what remained of Fleet Command.

Several of the organization's Keelborn had departed without authorization.

Some had surrendered outright.

Others remained within the formation but refused offensive assignments.

The conventionally crewed Tribal-class destroyer had requested permission to begin rescue operations around the damaged ships, a request that was being debated with increasingly strained patience by the remaining command staff.

The original blockade had become porous.

The landing group had withdrawn.

And the two carriers now in Horizon's custody represented a loss of aviation capability that could not be disguised by any amount of enthusiastic language.

The executive officer lowered his report.

“Captain.”

The man at the chart did not look up.

“Yes?”

“We need to consider withdrawal.”

The captain's pencil stopped moving.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he raised his eyes.

“Do we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

The executive officer stared.

For a moment, he seemed unable to believe the question.

Then he glanced toward the shattered windows facing the afterdeck.

The destroyed turret was partially visible beyond them.

Its enormous barrels rested at an angle no gun crew would ever again correct.

He looked back.

“Because we've lost our after battery, much of our port secondary armament, a funnel, and part of our underwater protection. Our machinery is damaged, our escorts are scattered, and the landing attempt has failed.”

The captain regarded him.

His expression remained cold.

The executive officer continued.

“Baltimore has been abandoned. Chapayev is withdrawing under restricted power. Several Keelborn have surrendered to Horizon. We have wounded personnel aboard ships that need to reach a proper medical facility.”

The captain slowly set down his pencil.

“Are you finished?”

The executive officer swallowed.

For one second, he looked as though he might retreat from the conversation.

Then he remembered the men beneath the afterdeck.

The damage-control parties.

The wounded.

The exhausted sailors who had kept the ship afloat.

His expression hardened.

“No, sir.”

The captain raised an eyebrow.

The executive officer continued.

“We came here to collect five Pendants. Now our ships are burning. Whatever the Authority told us about this installation, it was wrong.”

Silence.

For several seconds, the captain stared at him.

Then he spoke.

“We came here to enforce regional command authority.”

The executive officer lowered his eyes.

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“That's what the orders say.”

The captain folded his arms.

“And?”

The younger officer looked toward the smoke beyond the windows.

Then back.

“I don't think that's worth another hundred dead sailors.”

The bridge became quiet.

Several men at the neighboring stations had heard.

Nobody spoke.

The captain regarded his executive officer for a long moment.

Then he turned toward the operations plot.

“Horizon has fired on our vessels.”

The executive officer's expression tightened.

“After we shelled their island.”

“They have seized our personnel.”

“They accepted surrender.”

“They are withholding military assets.”

The younger man went still.

For a moment, his face became almost painfully weary.

Then he asked:

“Are we really still calling people assets?”

The captain did not answer.

Instead, he pointed toward a newly marked position on Horizon's coastal chart.

“Reconnaissance has finally identified their Operations complex.”

The executive officer looked.

His stomach tightened.

The marked location lay within the defended portion of the atoll.

Near administrative buildings, communications facilities, and access routes connecting several inhabited sectors.

The plotting officer had labeled it:

HORIZON COMMAND — PROBABLE PRIMARY OPERATIONS CENTER

The executive officer stared at the notation.

For several seconds, he didn't speak.

Then he looked up.

“Sir?”

The captain's expression was determined.

“If we destroy their command post, the defenders will lose coordination. Their Keelborn units will have to act independently. We can recover the initiative.”

The executive officer felt cold.

“That's inside the base.”

“Yes.”

“Near their administrative district.”

“I can read the chart.”

“There may be medical personnel and civilian support staff in the surrounding buildings.”

The captain looked toward him.

A pause.

Then he answered:

“They were warned.”

For several seconds, nobody moved.

The executive officer stared.

Then he spoke very quietly.

“Captain.”

The man turned.

“Yes?”

“Please reconsider.”

The captain's expression hardened.

For one moment, there was a strange silence on the bridge.

Only the distant machinery.

The faint creak of damaged structural members.

The low voices of men moving through compartments that still smelled of smoke.

Then the captain turned toward Gunnery.

“Prepare the forward main battery.”

The gunnery officer looked up.

For a moment, his expression became uncertain.

“Sir?”

“Target the Operations complex.”

The officer glanced toward the chart.

Then toward the damaged ship's status board.

He swallowed.

“The forward turrets haven't completed the post-impact inspection.”

The captain stared.

“Are they functional?”

“They were functional before the underwater hit, but Engineering has requested—”

“Can they fire?”

A pause.

The officer lowered his eyes.

“Probably.”

The captain's expression sharpened.

“Then prepare them.”

The executive officer stepped forward.

“Sir, I formally object.”

The bridge became absolutely silent.

For several seconds, the captain stared at him.

Then he answered:

“Your objection is noted.”

The younger man clenched his jaw.

The captain continued.

“Carry out the order.”

The gunnery officer hesitated.

Then turned toward the communications equipment.

The command began traveling through the ship.

Down toward the surviving forward turrets.

Into the fire-control spaces.

To men whose training had taught them how to load and fire sixteen-inch rifles, but not what to do when their captain became more frightened of humiliation than of the consequences of his own decisions.

The forward main turrets began traversing.

Slowly.

The enormous barrels moved toward Horizon.

And far below the battleship, something in the water answered with a deep, metallic groan.

 

On the outer portside observation platform, a sailor was watching the sea.

He had been assigned to inspect for floating debris after the torpedo hit.

The explosion had scattered damaged equipment into the water.

Some fragments could threaten the ship's remaining propulsion arrangements if they drifted beneath the hull.

The sailor's job was simple.

Watch.

Report.

Do not lean beyond the safety rail.

He had been following those instructions for nearly twenty minutes when he noticed the birds were gone.

That was the first strange thing.

Earlier, several seabirds had circled the damaged ships.

They'd been attracted by floating debris, disturbed fish, and the general chaos produced by a naval battle.

Now the sky immediately above the water was empty.

The sailor looked toward the western horizon.

A haze lay across the sea.

Smoke from Baltimore drifted among the distant clouds.

Beyond the damaged cruiser's position, the sunlight glittered across the swell.

Nothing unusual.

Then the sailor heard a sound.

A deep vibration.

Not a battleship's propellers.

Not the ordinary hum of machinery traveling through the hull.

Something lower.

Almost beneath hearing.

He frowned.

Looked toward the water.

The sea was moving.

Not in the broad, regular movement of the swells.

A darker disturbance passed beneath the surface several hundred meters away.

The sailor leaned forward.

For a moment, he thought it was a submarine.

Then the disturbance became wider.

Far wider.

As though something immense were moving under the water.

The sailor swallowed.

He reached for his radio.

Then the sea opened.

Not directly beside Ironwake.

Farther north, beyond the scattered PCA escort line.

A vast shape broke the surface beneath an eruption of black water and white spray.

The sailor froze.

For one impossible moment, he saw only jagged steel.

Then something that resembled the bow of a warship rose beneath a framework of malformed armor and dark, coral-like growths.

Two cold blue lights burned within its forward structure.

Water poured from openings that did not resemble proper scuppers.

The silhouette was wrong.

Its proportions seemed to have been stretched and folded around a spine of blackened machinery.

A second shape surfaced beside it.

Then another.

And another.

The sailor's mouth fell open.

He knew those designs.

At least, he thought he did.

Ordinary Blackwake surface enemies.

The things that had been stalking the Pacific since Hour Zero.

Destroyers.

Cruisers.

Heavier shapes following farther back.

The sailor felt his stomach turn.

He raised the radio.

“Blackwake contacts!”

The words came out too loudly.

He swallowed.

Then tried again.

“Blackwake! Multiple surface contacts north of the formation!”

The bridge did not answer immediately.

He looked toward the rising shapes.

Then he saw something beyond them.

Something standing above the water.

A slender figure.

Pale.

Almost white.

Surrounded by immense dark machinery that spread around her like the ruined wings of a ship.

The sailor stared.

For a moment, he could not understand what he was seeing.

Then the figure lifted one arm.

And the Blackwake fleet began turning toward Ironwake.

 

Aircraft That Should Not Have Been There

Alice Lasky heard the Blackwake fleet surface.

Not all of it.

Not with perfect clarity.

The PCA's damaged formation continued producing enormous quantities of underwater noise, and the explosions from the earlier torpedo attacks had left the acoustic environment thoroughly confused.

But the sounds she'd been following since the previous night had changed.

The low vibrations were no longer moving beneath the surface.

They had climbed.

Then something tremendous had broken through the water above them.

The transition created a series of overlapping disturbances that Alice had never heard from an ordinary ship.

The sudden roar of displaced water.

A strange, irregular mechanical vibration.

The sharp, scraping sound of structures moving against one another.

Then the unmistakable underwater signature of large surface vessels beginning to move under power.

Alice pressed the headphones tighter against her ears.

For several seconds, she listened.

Her heart began pounding.

One contact.

Two.

Several more.

The bearing spread widened.

She reached for the radio.

“Harbor Three to Operations. Multiple contacts have surfaced beyond the PCA's northern formation. Large displacement signatures. New propulsion noise.”

The response came immediately.

“Harbor Three, can you identify?”

Alice swallowed.

Then checked the sound again.

Some of the machinery signatures were broadly recognizable.

Not conventional naval propulsion.

Not Keelborn rigging.

The harsh, irregular rhythms associated with Blackwake surface units.

Her expression tightened.

“Blackwake. Probable. Multiple surface combatants.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Recommend immediate visual confirmation.”

Operations acknowledged.

Alice lowered the microphone.

For one moment, she felt something almost like relief.

The strange sounds had finally become identifiable.

They were Blackwake.

Terrible.

Dangerous.

But known.

Then another sound arrived.

High above the sea.

Aircraft engines.

Many of them.

She raised her head.

The distant western sky was filling with dark specks.

Alice stared.

The PCA had been recovering aircraft and moving its surviving carriers away from the heavy-gun threat.

These new aircraft were approaching from farther north.

From beyond the surface contacts.

They were not following the known PCA recovery routes.

They were not using its established radio frequencies.

And their formations were moving with a discipline that made Alice's stomach tighten.

She reached for her binoculars.

The first aircraft crossed a bright patch of sky.

For a moment, she thought it was a carrier fighter.

Then the sunlight caught its underside.

Black.

Not dark paint alone.

Something like an oily, almost reflective blackness beneath an airframe whose proportions were recognizable yet subtly distorted.

A pale shape glimmered along one wing.

Two cold lights shone near the forward fuselage.

The propeller blurred.

The aircraft banked.

And its movement was terribly precise.

Alice lowered her binoculars.

“What?”

A second formation appeared.

Larger aircraft.

Dive-bomber silhouettes.

Then low-flying torpedo bombers beneath them.

The Sumner girl's eyes widened.

There were too many.

And they were coming straight toward the PCA fleet.

She raised the radio again.

“Harbor Three to Air Defense! New aircraft group from the northern Blackwake contacts! Multiple types! Fighters, dive bombers, and torpedo aircraft!”

The controller answered.

“Confirmed hostile?”

Alice stared through the binoculars.

A dark fighter was already descending toward Ironwake's nearest combat-air patrol.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then she answered:

“Blackwake origin strongly suspected. Aircraft configurations unfamiliar. Do not classify as PCA!”

The controller acknowledged.

A pause.

Then the voice became sharper.

“All air-defense stations, stand by for new contact identification.”

Alice kept watching.

The aircraft were closing.

Fast.

And the enormous fleet beyond the reef was about to discover that the Pacific had another enemy.

 

The first Blackwake fighter fired on a PCA aircraft without warning.

The defending pilot was a fairy from the Shōkaku-class carrier.

She'd been flying a combat-air patrol on the northern side of the damaged formation, attempting to maintain coverage while the remaining carrier groups recovered exhausted crews.

The assignment had been unpleasant but ordinary.

Until the unfamiliar fighter appeared above her.

At first, she mistook it for another friendly aircraft.

The silhouette possessed a vaguely familiar arrangement of wings, fuselage, and propeller.

Then she saw the color.

The dark surfaces.

The pale markings.

The strange light near the cockpit.

She frowned.

Raised her radio.

“Northern patrol, unidentified fighter approaching. No response to recognition signal.”

Her wingman looked upward.

He saw it too.

For a moment, neither knew what to do.

Then the unfamiliar aircraft rolled.

Its guns flashed.

A burst of tracer fire crossed the gap.

The fairy pilot jerked her fighter into a turn.

Several rounds passed beneath her wing.

Another struck the rear fuselage.

The aircraft shuddered.

She gasped.

Then the Blackwake fighter swept past and climbed.

It did not linger.

Did not circle.

Did not wait for a challenge.

It simply repositioned for another attack.

The fairy looked toward its retreating shape.

Her mouth became dry.

“Blackwake!”

The word came out almost as a scream.

She raised the radio.

“Northern patrol! Blackwake fighter! We're under attack!”

The response arrived amid static.

“Confirm Blackwake aircraft?”

She looked toward the sky.

Three more unfamiliar fighters were descending.

Then another group beyond them.

Her stomach turned.

“CONFIRMED!”

The nearest Blackwake aircraft opened fire.

The fairy rolled away.

Her wingman attempted to intercept.

For several seconds, the sky became a violent confusion of crossing aircraft.

Then the first PCA fighter took a direct burst through the engine.

The propeller slowed.

Oil sprayed across the canopy.

The pilot tried to turn toward her carrier.

The engine caught fire.

She looked down.

The ocean seemed terribly far away.

Then the flames spread.

For one desperate instant, she considered attempting a water landing.

The controls no longer responded properly.

Her aircraft rolled.

The little fairy screamed.

And the fighter fell into the Pacific.

Her wingman watched it strike the water.

For a moment, he froze.

Then another Blackwake fighter passed overhead.

Its guns flashed.

He ducked instinctively.

The rounds missed.

He turned toward the Shōkaku-class carrier.

And began shouting for help.

 

On Ironwake, the first Blackwake aircraft were initially mistaken for another PCA aviation group.

That mistake lasted approximately nine seconds.

The battleship's remaining antiaircraft directors began tracking the unfamiliar contacts.

The bridge received a report that several aircraft were approaching from the northwest.

The captain was still reviewing the firing solution against Horizon's Operations complex.

He looked up.

“Whose aircraft?”

The air officer hesitated.

“Unknown, sir.”

“Which carrier?”

“We're checking.”

The captain frowned.

For a moment, he looked toward the western sky.

Then he heard gunfire.

Not from the island.

Not from his main battery.

From above the fleet.

A distant fighter erupted in flame.

Another aircraft rolled sharply away.

Then several unfamiliar silhouettes crossed the bright sky above the northern screen.

The air officer stared.

His expression changed.

“Captain.”

The man turned.

“What?”

“Those aren't ours.”

The captain looked toward the approaching aircraft.

For several seconds, he remained still.

Then the first dark dive bomber rolled over its wing and began descending toward Ironwake.

The captain's eyes widened.

“Air attack!”

The warning spread.

But the battleship's antiaircraft defenses were not what they had been before Horizon's counterattack.

Several port five-inch mounts had been destroyed.

Others were out of action.

A portion of the fire-control network remained under emergency repair.

The shattered funnel and aft turret complicated the ship's internal communications and crew movement.

Some antiaircraft positions were still functional.

Their crews responded immediately.

But the coverage was uneven.

And the approaching aircraft were not making an ordinary single-direction attack.

Fighters crossed the sky ahead of the bombers.

Dive bombers approached from several bearings.

Torpedo bombers remained low over the water.

The defenders could not concentrate every available gun against all of them at once.

The first surviving five-inch mounts opened fire.

Shells burst in the air.

A Blackwake fighter flew directly through the edge of an explosion.

Fragments tore across its wing.

The aircraft rolled.

For a moment, the gunners thought they'd destroyed it.

Then it continued flying.

One wing trailing pieces.

The propeller still turning.

The pale lights near its forward fuselage remaining fixed.

The gunners stared.

Then the aircraft banked and came back.

Not because it was invulnerable.

Its engine was damaged.

Its wing had been torn.

It would not remain airborne indefinitely.

But the thing operating it did not appear to care that the aircraft was coming apart.

The gun crew resumed firing.

Another burst struck the fighter.

Its engine finally failed.

The aircraft plunged into the ocean.

The crew didn't cheer.

They had already seen three more behind it.

And then the torpedo bombers began their attack runs.

 

The first torpedo aircraft approached from the port bow.

Low.

Extremely low.

Its wings seemed almost to skim the swell.

The aircraft's dark fuselage carried distorted pale markings, and its torpedo hung beneath it in an arrangement that made the weapon's purpose unmistakable.

Ironwake's forward automatic weapons opened fire.

Tracers crossed the water.

The aircraft banked.

Corrected.

Then released.

The torpedo struck the sea.

The aircraft climbed away.

A second followed.

Then a third.

The battleship's captain watched the splashes through his binoculars.

For one horrible moment, he remembered Horizon's Type 93 attack.

The warning.

The attempted turn.

The underwater explosion.

Now the same kind of threat was coming again.

Only these weapons had been dropped by aircraft flying almost directly over his ship.

He lowered the binoculars.

“Hard starboard!”

The helmsman turned toward him.

“Captain, the flooding—”

“Hard starboard!”

The man obeyed.

Ironwake began turning.

Her damaged machinery responded.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

The first torpedo passed ahead.

The captain felt a brief surge of relief.

Then a second torpedo struck the port quarter.

The explosion lifted water against the hull.

The ship shuddered.

A deep metallic groan traveled through the damaged after structure.

Men were thrown from their feet.

A section of emergency piping ruptured.

The flooding alarms began again.

Before the captain could ask for a report, a third weapon struck farther forward.

Another tremendous shock.

The battleship heeled.

The bridge crew grabbed for handrails.

The captain felt the deck shift beneath him.

He looked toward the water.

For a moment, he could see nothing except smoke and spray.

Then the dive bombers arrived.

One released a heavy bomb over the damaged afterdeck.

The weapon struck near the fallen turret.

Steel fragments erupted.

Emergency repair equipment vanished beneath the blast.

A second bomb hit the superstructure near the already damaged secondary-battery region, tearing apart temporary fire hoses and reopening compartments the crew had spent an hour trying to secure.

A third struck farther forward.

It penetrated an exposed upper deck and detonated below.

The shock traveled through the bridge.

Glass shattered.

An officer fell.

The captain ducked.

For a moment, he could not hear anything except ringing.

Then another explosion came.

And another.

And another.

The Blackwake aircraft kept coming.

Not infinitely.

Not magically.

But in sufficient numbers, with enough coordination, that every time Ironwake's gunners forced one group away, another entered the exposed sector left by the previous attack.

The Iowa-class battleship had survived Horizon's guns.

She had survived a Type 93 torpedo.

Her damage-control crews had fought desperately to keep her afloat.

Now the Blackwake was attacking the injuries they had not yet managed to repair.

And the ship was beginning to lose the battle.

 

The Destroyer That Stopped Taking Orders

Captain Eliza Ward had been arguing with Fleet Command for nearly twenty minutes when the Blackwake aircraft arrived.

Her Tribal-class destroyer had been operating on the southern portion of the PCA screen, where she'd spent much of the morning watching friendly ships sink, surrender, or turn away from an operation whose purpose had become increasingly difficult to defend.

The Tribal was a full-sized conventional destroyer.

Not a Keelborn girl.

Not a small rigging moving independently across the water.

An actual warship crewed entirely by former-player women.

Her machinery required engineers.

Her guns required trained crews.

Her damage-control stations needed people.

Her captain couldn't simply turn her head and make the ship change course.

Orders had to pass through real systems, to real sailors, each of whom had spent the preceding two months discovering exactly how exhausting naval life could become.

Some had once belonged to the same gaming community.

Others had joined the ship after Hour Zero.

All had signed on believing they were helping restore order to a Pacific that had become terrifyingly dangerous.

Now they were watching Ironwake burn.

And Eliza Ward had reached the point where she was no longer willing to pretend the Pacific Campaign Authority understood what it was doing.

She stood beside the chart table with her executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Ruth Mercer, and listened to the latest rescue request.

“Baltimore survivors requesting assistance. Several wounded remain in lifeboats. Blackwake aircraft entering the recovery sector.”

Eliza looked toward Ruth.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the captain raised the fleet radio.

“Tribal to PCA Command. Requesting authorization to commence search-and-rescue operations around the damaged cruisers and Ironwake's outer screen.”

The reply came after a delay.

“Tribal, maintain your assigned screen position.”

Eliza closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she remained still.

Then she opened them.

“There are people in the water.”

“Rescue assets have been assigned.”

Eliza looked toward the sea.

A PCA lifeboat was drifting beyond the southern formation.

Its motor had failed.

Several sailors were waving.

Blackwake fighters passed overhead.

One attacked a nearby rescue craft.

The captain's expression hardened.

“Those assets are under attack.”

A pause.

Then the reply came.

“Maintain position. Fleet Command will coordinate.”

Eliza looked toward her executive officer.

Ruth's face was very still.

For a moment, the captain considered obeying.

She understood the necessity of orders.

Understood that a naval formation could become a disaster if every commanding officer decided to improvise without considering the others.

But the formation was already falling apart.

Ironwake was under air attack.

The surviving Keelborn escorts were maneuvering independently to avoid bombs and torpedoes.

Several PCA vessels had requested surrender to Horizon.

And the men in those lifeboats were going to die if somebody did not reach them.

Eliza raised the microphone.

“Tribal acknowledges.”

She lowered it.

For several seconds, she looked toward Ruth.

Then she spoke.

“Helm.”

The helmswoman straightened.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Come left. Bring us toward the survivor group.”

The bridge became quiet.

The executive officer looked toward her.

“Eliza.”

The captain met her eyes.

“I know.”

Ruth considered that.

Then nodded.

She turned toward the communications officer.

“Prepare the rescue stations.”

The woman blinked.

Then smiled faintly.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Eliza looked toward the weapons officer.

“Main guns remain ready against Blackwake aircraft and surface units. Do not fire on Horizon vessels unless we are attacked.”

The officer stared.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain.

Then asked:

“Captain, are we changing sides?”

Eliza considered the question.

Outside, another Blackwake bomber descended toward Ironwake.

A great explosion rose from the damaged battleship.

The captain looked toward it.

Then answered:

“We're saving people.”

A pause.

“And I'm not asking the Pacific Campaign Authority's permission anymore.”

 

The Tribal turned toward the lifeboats.

Her engines increased power.

The narrow destroyer hull cut across the disturbed water.

On deck, sailors hurried toward the rescue stations carrying lines, flotation equipment, medical bags, and everything else they might need to bring survivors aboard.

The ship's gun crews watched the sky.

The first Blackwake fighters were now moving south.

Their formations were no longer concentrated exclusively on Ironwake.

Several had turned toward the damaged ships and rescue craft.

Eliza saw them.

Her expression hardened.

“Air-defense stations. Track the northern group.”

The weapons officer acknowledged.

The Tribal's available antiaircraft weapons began moving.

The destroyer was not a modern guided-missile warship.

Her weapons were those of a historical destroyer brought into physical reality with the rest of the Crisis.

They had real limits.

But they could still shoot.

And her gunners intended to make the most of them.

A Blackwake fighter descended toward a lifeboat.

The pilot—or whatever occupied the cockpit—aligned its guns with the floating survivors.

Eliza stared.

For one instant, she hoped it might be aiming at the nearby damaged cruiser.

Then the aircraft fired.

Tracers struck the water around the lifeboat.

A man screamed.

The captain's expression changed.

“Engage!”

The Tribal's antiaircraft guns answered.

A stream of fire climbed toward the fighter.

The aircraft rolled.

Several rounds struck its wing.

The Blackwake machine continued its dive.

Then another burst hit its engine.

A bright flash appeared.

The aircraft shuddered.

Its nose dropped.

And it crashed into the sea beyond the lifeboat.

Eliza watched it disappear.

For a moment, she felt a savage surge of relief.

Then she looked toward the floating sailors.

“Get them aboard.”

The rescue crew moved.

A line was thrown.

One man caught it.

Another had to be helped.

The destroyer reduced speed.

The sailors hauled the first survivor toward the ladder.

He was shaking.

Oil covered his uniform.

His face was pale.

One of the women reached down.

“Come on!”

The man looked up.

For a moment, he seemed unable to believe anyone had come.

Then he caught her hand.

She pulled.

Another sailor helped.

Together, they brought him aboard.

The man collapsed onto the deck.

A medic knelt beside him.

For several seconds, he stared toward the sky.

Then he began crying.

Quietly.

The women around him continued working.

More sailors remained in the water.

 

The PCA's central command channel noticed Tribal's movement.

A male officer demanded an explanation.

“Tribal, you are leaving your assigned screen. Return immediately.”

Eliza regarded the microphone.

For a moment, she considered responding politely.

Then she looked toward the rescue deck.

A wounded Baltimore sailor was being carried toward Medical.

Another had begun coughing seawater into a blanket.

The captain's expression became cold.

“Negative.”

Silence.

Then:

“Captain Ward, your movement is unauthorized.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow.

“I'm aware.”

“You are required to return to formation.”

“There are wounded personnel in the water.”

“Assigned recovery assets will handle them.”

Eliza glanced toward the sky.

Blackwake aircraft continued circling.

One of the supposed recovery assets was burning.

The captain took a breath.

“Then assign somebody who can actually get here.”

The voice sharpened.

“Captain, this is a direct order.”

Eliza looked toward Ruth.

The executive officer met her eyes.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Eliza answered.

“No.”

The response was so quiet that the radio operator almost wondered whether she'd heard correctly.

A long silence followed.

Then the PCA representative spoke again.

“Tribal, confirm your last transmission.”

Eliza leaned toward the microphone.

“I said no.”

A pause.

“We are conducting search and rescue. We will not abandon wounded sailors to Blackwake aircraft.”

The representative's voice became harsh.

“You are defying Fleet Command.”

The captain's expression hardened.

“Yes.”

Ruth looked toward her.

For a moment, a small smile appeared.

Then the PCA representative delivered his threat.

“You will be treated as a mutinous vessel if you continue.”

Eliza considered that.

Then looked toward the injured men on her deck.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Finally, she answered:

“Put it in the report.”

She lowered the microphone.

The communications officer looked up.

“Captain?”

Eliza turned.

“Yes?”

“Should we change our identification?”

The captain considered the question.

Then nodded.

“Transmit our intentions openly. We are suspending offensive operations against Horizon. We will maintain rescue duties and defend ourselves from Blackwake attack.”

The radio operator straightened.

“Yes, Captain.”

Eliza looked toward the island.

The distant shoreline remained covered in smoke.

Somewhere there, Commander Kade Bher was probably having an equally unpleasant day.

She wondered whether he would believe her.

Then she decided that belief could wait.

There were still people in the water.

And she had a ship capable of reaching them.

 

The Tribal's announcement reached Horizon amid an extraordinary volume of communications.

Victor listened.

Then looked toward Kade.

“Commander. PCA Tribal-class destroyer is broadcasting suspension of hostilities. She's conducting rescue operations and requesting protection from Blackwake attacks.”

Kade turned.

“Conventional Tribal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The all-female former-player crew?”

“Confirmed.”

The Commander considered that.

Then looked toward the western chart.

The Tribal's marker was moving toward the damaged ship recovery sector.

She was not advancing on Horizon.

Not screening landing craft.

Not pursuing defecting Keelborn.

She was turning toward survivors.

Kade nodded slowly.

“Good.”

Aaron looked up.

“Do we recognize her as a defector?”

The Commander considered the question.

“She's declared that she's no longer conducting offensive operations against us. That is enough to change her immediate engagement status.”

Mara nodded.

Kade continued.

“Tell her we recognize the rescue mission. Require identification, safe operating boundaries, and no interference with our patrols.”

Victor relayed the message.

A moment later, the Tribal answered.

“Horizon Atoll, Tribal receiving. Captain Eliza Ward. We will comply with the rescue corridor and identification procedures. We have wounded sailors aboard.”

Kade raised his microphone.

“Captain Ward, Commander Bher. We understand. Continue recovering survivors. Our medical facilities will accept urgent casualties if transport is feasible and safe.”

The response came after a short pause.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Kade considered that.

Then added:

“And Captain?”

“Yes?”

He looked toward the Blackwake aircraft circling the western sea.

“Watch your sky.”

A pause.

Then Eliza answered:

“We are.”

The channel closed.

Kade lowered the microphone.

For several seconds, he stared toward the Tribal's marker.

Then he looked toward Mara.

“Another one.”

The Chief nodded.

“Yes.”

The Commander folded his arms.

His expression became serious.

“This is going to get complicated.”

Aaron looked toward the chart.

A pause.

Then he answered:

“It already is.”

Kade sighed.

“Fair.”

Outside, the Blackwake air attack continued.

And the distinction between enemy and ally was beginning to change faster than the plotting officers could replace their markers.

 

The Fleet That Started Shooting at Itself

The first confirmed exchange of fire between PCA units occurred at fourteen oh-nine.

It began with an order that should never have been given.

The central PCA control officer had received reports of additional Keelborn attempting to withdraw from the formation.

Two destroyers.

A light cruiser.

One heavy cruiser whose machinery had been damaged during the morning's fighting.

The girls were not attacking Ironwake.

Not yet.

They were attempting to leave the blockade and establish contact with Horizon's surrender channel.

Under ordinary circumstances, the PCA might have sent escorts to investigate.

Under the circumstances now developing around Ironwake, its remaining commanders were becoming increasingly desperate.

Several believed that surrender requests would spread if even one more ship escaped.

Others argued that the Blackwake attack required every available warship to defend the formation.

A few understood the obvious problem.

You could not force unwilling Keelborn to fight a common enemy by threatening to shoot them.

Unfortunately, those officers were not the ones giving the orders.

A PCA destroyer squadron received instructions to intercept the withdrawing girls.

Its senior Keelborn commander—a stern Asashio-class girl—listened to the transmission.

For several seconds, she remained quiet.

Then she asked:

“Are we authorized to use weapons?”

The reply came.

“Disable propulsion if necessary. Prevent further desertion.”

The Asashio-class girl stared.

For a moment, her expression changed.

She looked toward the sea.

The withdrawing vessels were already moving away.

One of them was an Arethusa-class girl whose damaged steering had forced her into a broad arc near the southern screen.

Another was a Mahan-class destroyer with a damaged gun mount.

Farther away, a La Galissonnière-class cruiser had transmitted a request for protected withdrawal.

The Asashio looked toward them.

Then toward the Blackwake aircraft attacking Ironwake.

Her expression became deeply unhappy.

“Control, Blackwake contacts are actively attacking the fleet.”

“Acknowledged.”

“We should be defending against them.”

“Your assignment is to enforce formation discipline.”

The destroyer girl closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she seemed to be struggling with herself.

Then she opened them.

“Understood.”

She lowered the microphone.

A nearby Yūgumo-class girl looked toward her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Yūgumo asked:

“Are we really doing this?”

Asashio's expression tightened.

“We're intercepting them.”

“With guns?”

The senior destroyer hesitated.

For a moment, her answer seemed to hurt.

“I don't know.”

Yūgumo looked toward the Blackwake contacts.

The dark surface vessels were moving closer.

Their guns had begun firing on PCA escorts.

The aircraft above them were attacking indiscriminately.

And somewhere behind the destroyer screen, Ironwake was struggling to survive.

Yūgumo looked back toward Asashio.

Then whispered:

“This is stupid.”

The senior girl lowered her eyes.

For a moment, she did not answer.

Then she nodded.

“Yes.”

 

The actual shooting began when a PCA cruiser attempted to disable the withdrawing Mahan-class destroyer.

The cruiser had received a direct command.

Prevent escape.

She was frightened.

Angry.

And convinced that disobedience would result in punishment if the Authority regained control of the situation.

She warned the destroyer to stop.

The Mahan refused.

The cruiser fired a warning shot.

It struck the water ahead of the fleeing girl.

The destroyer turned.

The cruiser fired again.

This time, the shell landed dangerously close to the Mahan's propulsion equipment.

Fragments struck a support.

The destroyer cried out.

Her rigging shuddered.

For a moment, she nearly lost balance.

Then she looked back.

Her expression changed.

“YOU'RE FIRING AT ME?!”

The cruiser answered over the radio.

“Stop! Return to formation!”

The Mahan stared.

For several seconds, she seemed unable to believe it.

Then another explosion sounded behind the cruiser.

A Blackwake heavy cruiser had opened fire on the PCA formation.

Its dark guns discharged with a deep, irregular report.

A shell struck the water near the cruiser.

The girl flinched.

Then looked toward the Blackwake threat.

For one brief moment, she was exposed.

The Mahan raised her radio.

“Blackwake behind you!”

The cruiser turned.

Saw the dark shape.

Then another shell struck closer.

Water erupted around her.

She cried out.

The Blackwake cruiser fired again.

The Mahan could have continued escaping.

She was already beyond the immediate gunfire.

Her propulsion was damaged but functioning.

Horizon lay ahead.

Safety.

Or at least something resembling it.

Instead, she saw the PCA cruiser stagger beneath the next near miss.

The girl who had just fired at her was now in danger of being destroyed.

The Mahan swore.

Then turned back.

“Get away from it!”

The cruiser stared.

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For a moment, she looked confused.

Then the Mahan's guns opened fire against the Blackwake ship.

The shells struck the dark armor.

One burst across the enemy's forward structure.

Another exploded near an exposed gun mount.

The Blackwake cruiser changed course.

Its next salvo fell short.

The PCA girl blinked.

Then looked toward Mahan.

“Why?”

The destroyer stared back.

For a moment, she seemed furious.

Then she shouted:

“BECAUSE I'M NOT LETTING THAT THING KILL YOU!”

The cruiser went still.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the Mahan continued.

“Now are you coming or not?!”

The cruiser looked toward the Blackwake ships.

Then toward Ironwake.

The distant battleship was burning.

PCA command was still transmitting orders to stop defectors.

And the girl she'd just fired upon was risking herself to save her.

For a moment, her expression crumpled.

Then she nodded.

“I'm coming.”

The two turned toward Horizon.

Behind them, the Blackwake cruiser continued advancing.

 

Elsewhere, the infighting was uglier.

One PCA destroyer refused to abandon her assigned screen and opened fire across the path of a fleeing companion.

The shot missed.

The companion answered with her own gunfire.

A shell struck an external mount.

The first girl cried out.

A third destroyer moved between them, attempting to force both to cease fire.

For several seconds, the three were surrounded by spray and smoke.

Then a Blackwake destroyer appeared behind the formation and launched torpedoes.

The girls saw the wakes.

Their argument ended immediately.

They turned away.

One of the torpedoes passed between them.

Another struck a nearby PCA cruiser.

A violent explosion rose beneath the water.

The cruiser staggered.

Her equipment listed.

The destroyers stared.

For one terrible moment, the consequences of their infighting became obvious.

While they had been shooting at one another, the real enemy had entered firing range.

The third destroyer raised her radio.

“All PCA units, cease friendly fire! Blackwake torpedoes in the screen!”

The warning spread.

Some obeyed.

Others did not.

Several officers attempted to reassert PCA command.

A few threatened disciplinary action.

At least one conventional ship transmitted an order for departing Keelborn to return or be treated as hostile.

The threat accomplished almost nothing.

The Blackwake did not care who was deserting.

Its ships were attacking everyone.

And the Pacific Campaign Authority's already damaged formation began coming apart under the combined pressure of fear, disobedience, and a new enemy that had arrived at precisely the worst possible moment.

 

The First Photograph

At Horizon, the air-defense watch had run out of ordinary classification labels.

Victor stared at the incoming imagery feed.

Then at the radar plot.

Then back at the feed.

For several seconds, he seemed unable to reconcile the two.

The aircraft were Blackwake.

That much was becoming obvious.

Their attack behavior matched the enemy's familiar brutality.

Their dark surfaces and distorted structures resembled known Blackwake aircraft.

Several had already engaged both PCA and Horizon reconnaissance units.

But their organization did not match any Blackwake formation Horizon had previously encountered.

The fighters were providing deliberate cover.

The dive bombers were exploiting the damage Ironwake had already sustained.

The torpedo aircraft were attacking from coordinated bearings rather than simply rushing toward the nearest vessel.

And the surface forces were maneuvering beneath the air groups as though somebody were giving them a common plan.

Somebody.

Or something.

Kade stood beside the plotting table, watching the reports accumulate.

Aaron remained near the intelligence board.

Mara was speaking with the harbor-defense coordinator.

The room sounded like the inside of a very expensive argument.

Kade looked toward the screen.

“Aircraft classification?”

Victor swallowed.

“Blackwake origin strongly supported. Exact types unknown.”

“Numbers?”

“Still changing. Multiple groups, possibly operating from more than one source.”

“Where's the carrier?”

The communications officer hesitated.

“We haven't identified one.”

Kade's expression tightened.

For a moment, he stared toward the western chart.

Aircraft had to come from somewhere.

Even Blackwake aircraft possessed physical structures and operating limitations, though some of those limitations were poorly understood.

A formation that size required launch capability.

Fuel.

Weapons.

And some kind of coordination.

The island had observed Blackwake aircraft before.

But this was different.

Deliberate.

Organized.

Almost surgical in its choice of wounded targets.

Kade looked toward Aaron.

“Any Blackwake command-carrier design in the archive?”

The lieutenant was already searching.

“Nothing matching this formation.”

“Check the pre-Crisis data.”

“I am.”

The Commander looked toward the air plot.

Then toward the surface contacts.

His expression became thoughtful.

Something was missing.

An organizing element.

A reason the ordinary Blackwake vessels were behaving with this level of coordination.

Then the reconnaissance officer called in.

“Horizon Reconnaissance Two to Operations. New visual contact within the Blackwake surface formation. Unidentified humanoid command-type entity.”

Kade turned.

For a moment, he seemed uncertain.

Then he raised his microphone.

“Reconnaissance Two, repeat.”

The aircraft's pilot answered.

“Humanoid figure operating above the water among Blackwake cruiser units. Large integrated machinery. Not matching standard Blackwake ship profiles.”

The Operations Room became quiet.

Kade looked toward Aaron.

The intelligence officer slowly raised his eyes.

Both had heard the same thing.

Humanoid.

Integrated machinery.

Among Blackwake cruisers.

The Commander looked toward the photograph transmission equipment.

“Can they image it?”

Victor relayed the request.

A moment passed.

Then the reconnaissance officer answered.

“Camera has visual. Transmitting selected frame now.”

The first image appeared on the Operations screen.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

The photograph was imperfect.

Taken from a distance.

Partially obscured by spray, smoke, and atmospheric haze.

But the figure at its center was unmistakable.

A girl.

Or something that had once been one.

Her hair was pale silver-white, faintly touched by blue, gathered into flowing sections that curled away from her head like ribbons caught beneath the sea.

Her face was almost porcelain.

Her eyes burned with a strange amber-orange light.

The expression beneath those eyes was terribly calm.

Around her stood enormous black naval machinery.

Dark armored structures rose at her sides like the broken wings of an immense creature.

Mechanical openings and rounded recesses broke the surfaces of the rigging.

Some appeared to resemble damaged flight equipment.

Others suggested gun housings or structural components grown into shapes no conventional shipyard would have constructed.

Black metal curled around white material.

The contrast was startling.

And across the machinery, flowers were blooming.

Pale white flowers.

Large.

Delicate.

Almost translucent against the dark steel.

They clustered around her shoulders.

Along the edges of her clothing.

Across sections of the monstrous structures surrounding her.

Their petals looked impossibly clean.

Not even the spray from the sea seemed to stain them.

Kade stared.

For a long moment, he could not speak.

Then he slowly turned toward Aaron.

“What am I looking at?”

The lieutenant's mouth was slightly open.

For several seconds, he remained motionless.

Then he swallowed.

“I don't know.”

The Commander looked back toward the photograph.

A white-haired girl.

Black naval machinery.

Glowing amber eyes.

Flowers growing from armored structures.

The image was horrifying in a way he could not immediately explain.

Not simply because it was unfamiliar.

Because it looked too much like a Keelborn.

He had lived alongside Keelborn for nearly two months.

He knew their equipment.

The strange but practical arrangement of ship-derived machinery around human bodies.

The way class features could remain recognizable even when a rigging configuration differed from a historical vessel.

This figure possessed that same fundamental relationship.

A person.

And a ship.

But the machinery was wrong.

Profoundly wrong.

The human and naval elements seemed to have been fused together beneath the influence of something that had no interest in preserving the distinction between them.

Kade looked toward the central display.

Then spoke quietly.

“Aaron.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me that's not what I think it is.”

The lieutenant didn't answer.

For several seconds, he examined the image.

Then he looked toward the naval recognition details.

Some of the machinery remained recognizable beneath the corruption.

An aviation handling area.

A cruiser-derived structure.

The placement of equipment that might once have belonged to a Mogami-class aviation cruiser.

Aaron swallowed.

For a moment, he seemed unable to speak.

Then he whispered:

“Commander.”

Kade turned.

The lieutenant's face had gone pale.

“I think that's a Keelborn.”

The Operations Room fell silent.

No one laughed.

No one corrected him.

Kade looked toward the photograph again.

For several seconds, he stared.

Then he took a slow breath.

“Corrupted.”

Aaron nodded.

His voice was barely audible.

“Yes.”

The Commander lowered his eyes.

For a moment, something cold settled in his stomach.

He had seen corrupted SIA Dolls.

He knew reports of Sensha Girls altered by Blackwake contamination.

Those threats were frightening enough.

But Keelborn?

A person whose very identity was connected to a real warship.

Whose Pendant preserved a living naval soul signature.

Whose body and rigging possessed physical properties that nobody fully understood.

The Blackwake had found a way to change one.

Kade looked toward Aaron.

Then spoke.

“Check Halcyon Roads.”

The lieutenant blinked.

“What?”

“Check the Halcyon casualty records.”

Aaron stared.

For a moment, he seemed uncertain.

Then his expression changed.

The Commander continued.

“An aviation cruiser went down there. During the Blackwake action before Ironwake attacked.”

Aaron swallowed.

“Maki.”

Kade nodded slowly.

“Check her class. Her appearance. Her last known equipment.”

The lieutenant turned toward the archive.

His hands moved quickly.

A personnel photograph appeared.

The Operations Room waited.

Aaron compared it with the image from the battlefield.

Not the white hair.

Not the flowers.

Not the eyes.

Those were unrecognizable.

He looked instead toward the surviving mechanical features.

The portions of the rigging that still suggested a Mogami-class aviation cruiser.

Then he checked the recorded damage from Halcyon.

And stopped.

Kade noticed immediately.

“What?”

Aaron swallowed.

“There are structural correspondences.”

“Enough to identify her?”

“Not conclusively.”

Kade nodded.

“Then don't.”

The lieutenant looked toward him.

For a moment, his expression tightened.

Then he nodded.

“Understood.”

The Commander looked toward the photograph.

Then spoke quietly.

“But contact Halcyon.”

Aaron straightened.

“Yes.”

“Ask for somebody who knew her.”

The lieutenant reached for the communications system.

Kade remained standing before the image.

The girl in the photograph stared toward the sea with luminous amber eyes.

White flowers surrounded her.

Behind her, Blackwake destroyers and cruisers moved in a coordinated formation.

And the Commander realized that whatever she was, the enemy was following her.

Not merely moving nearby.

Following.

She had raised one arm in the preceding observation sequence.

The Blackwake vessels had changed course immediately afterward.

Their attacks were timed to her movements.

Their formation remained centered around the strange, pale figure.

Kade watched the next frames.

Then whispered:

“She’s commanding them.”

Mara turned.

The Chief looked toward the screen.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Then her expression changed.

“Oh, no.”

The Commander nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

And the name that would eventually terrify naval stations across the Pacific had not yet been spoken.

Because nobody at Horizon knew what to call her.

Not yet.

 

A Voice from Halcyon Roads

Rafael Ortiz received Horizon's urgent transmission while sitting beside a radio set that had been repaired so many times its original manufacturer might no longer have recognized it.

Halcyon Roads was still recovering.

The attack by Ironwake had left damage across the installation.

Several facilities remained under restricted operation.

The surviving defenders had spent days working around broken infrastructure, lost personnel, and the terrible absence of girls who should have been standing beside them.

Rafael knew those absences.

Everyone did.

Maki.

Reina.

The names had become part of Halcyon's daily routine in the worst possible way.

A chair left empty.

A maintenance checklist bearing a signature that would never be written again.

A personal object somebody could not bring themselves to move.

An aircraft servicing record with no carrier available to sign it.

Rafael had tried to keep the communications station functioning through all of that.

Now an unfamiliar urgency entered the receiving circuit.

“Halcyon Roads, this is Horizon Atoll. Priority intelligence request. We have visual imagery requiring comparison with your missing Keelborn records.”

The radio operator straightened.

Then looked toward Rafael.

He approached.

“Which records?”

The woman covered the microphone.

“Mogami aviation cruiser. Kaga fleet carrier.”

Rafael went still.

For a moment, he couldn't speak.

Then he reached for the receiver.

“Who is requesting?”

“Horizon Intelligence, sir.”

The man swallowed.

He looked toward the damaged station outside the window.

For several seconds, his expression remained troubled.

Then he answered.

“Forward the imagery.”

 

Shizuku was summoned from the eastern repair area.

The Nagato-class girl arrived carrying a maintenance report she no longer remembered picking up.

She'd been told Horizon had discovered something connected to Halcyon's lost Keelborn.

That was all.

The message had been carefully worded.

No conclusions.

No identification claims.

No speculation about restoration.

Just an urgent request for someone who had known Maki and Reina.

Shizuku entered the communications room with a terrible feeling.

Rafael stood beside the display.

For a moment, he looked toward her.

His expression was so strained that she immediately stopped.

“What happened?”

The man swallowed.

“Shizuku.”

She stared.

“What?”

He looked toward the screen.

“I need you to look at something.”

The Nagato-class girl's eyes narrowed.

For a moment, she seemed irritated.

Then she approached.

The first photograph appeared.

The white-haired figure.

The amber eyes.

The enormous black machinery.

The pale flowers.

For several seconds, Shizuku stood completely still.

Then the color left her face.

Rafael noticed.

“Shizuku?”

She didn't answer.

Her eyes moved across the image.

The strange hair.

The flowers.

The dark structures.

She did not recognize the girl immediately.

There was too much wrong.

The face was different.

The rigging had been altered almost beyond recognition.

The human figure seemed to belong to something that no longer observed ordinary boundaries between flesh and machinery.

Then Shizuku noticed the surviving structural arrangement beneath the black growths.

The broad outlines of an aviation-cruiser conversion.

The location of an equipment mount.

A particular support whose geometry she had seen countless times in Halcyon's maintenance yard.

Shizuku raised one hand toward the screen.

Her fingers trembled.

“No.”

Rafael's expression tightened.

“Do you recognize her?”

For several seconds, the Nagato-class girl couldn't answer.

Then she whispered:

“Maki?”

The word sounded impossibly small.

Rafael looked toward the photograph.

Then back at Shizuku.

The battleship girl shook her head.

Her expression became distressed.

“No. No, that's not—”

She stopped.

Looked again.

Then pointed toward the damaged structure along the left side of the rigging.

“That's where she was hit.”

Rafael leaned closer.

“What?”

Shizuku swallowed.

“The torpedo damage. The last report from the Blackwake attack. Her rigging was damaged along that side before she went down.”

The man looked toward the archive.

A technician brought up the final equipment record.

The correspondence was not perfect.

The blackened material had changed the apparent shape.

Several components were missing.

Others had grown or been rebuilt into monstrous forms.

But the surviving geometry was deeply troubling.

Shizuku stared.

For a moment, her breathing became uneven.

Then she whispered:

“She sank.”

Rafael lowered his eyes.

“I know.”

“She went down.”

The man's throat tightened.

“Yes.”

The Nagato-class girl pressed one hand against the desk.

For several seconds, she seemed unable to remain steady.

Then she raised her eyes again.

The girl in the photograph stared back with luminous amber eyes.

Surrounded by flowers.

Surrounded by dark steel.

Surrounded by Blackwake ships.

Shizuku's expression crumpled.

“Oh, Maki.”

Rafael looked toward her.

He did not tell her she was mistaken.

He did not tell her the image proved anything it could not prove.

Instead, he quietly asked the technician to forward the comparison.

Shizuku remained standing before the screen.

For a long moment, she seemed to be waiting for the image to change.

For the white-haired stranger to become the girl she'd known.

To smile.

To complain about maintenance.

To make some ordinary, exasperated remark.

The photograph did not change.

The machinery remained black.

The eyes remained amber.

And somewhere far away, the thing that might once have been Maki continued leading a fleet of Blackwake warships toward the people who had fought beside her.

 

The preliminary identification reached Horizon within minutes.

Aaron read it.

Then slowly looked toward Kade.

“Halcyon reports strong structural correspondence with Maki's Mogami-class rigging. Shizuku recognizes several distinctive features.”

Kade lowered his eyes.

For a moment, he was quiet.

Then he asked:

“Confidence?”

The lieutenant swallowed.

“High enough to treat it as a probable identity. Not definitive enough to claim we understand what happened to her.”

Kade nodded.

“Good.”

Aaron looked toward the photograph.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the Commander asked:

“Where was Maki last seen?”

The intelligence officer checked the report.

“Sinking during the Blackwake action at Halcyon.”

Kade's expression hardened.

“Pendant?”

“Not recovered.”

A pause.

The Commander looked toward the white-haired girl on the screen.

Then slowly lowered his eyes.

Not recovered.

Two words.

Very small.

Almost harmless when written on a report.

But now they seemed to carry a terrifying new meaning.

He thought of Camille.

The case beside her bed.

Five Pendants.

Five names.

A frightened girl who had nearly destroyed herself trying to bring them ashore.

He had understood why she refused to leave them.

He had not understood that there might be something worse waiting beneath the water.

The Commander raised his eyes.

Then looked toward Aaron.

“Don't tell Camille.”

The lieutenant blinked.

“Sir?”

“Not like this.”

Kade indicated the image.

“She deserves to know when we can explain it responsibly. Not while she's under medical care and the island is under attack.”

Aaron nodded slowly.

“Understood.”

The Commander looked toward the photograph again.

For several seconds, he remained quiet.

Then he whispered:

“What did you do to her?”

Nobody answered.

The Blackwake had not supplied an explanation.

It had supplied a fleet.

And that fleet was firing.

 

The Second Photograph

The next image arrived at fourteen twenty-six.

Its transmission began with a warning from Reconnaissance Two.

“Horizon Operations, new humanoid contact identified within the Blackwake aviation formation. Large carrier-derived machinery. Transmitting image.”

Kade turned toward the screen.

Aaron looked up.

Mara stopped speaking with the casualty coordinator.

The first photograph had been disturbing enough.

Now they were being told there was another.

The image appeared.

For several seconds, nobody in Operations moved.

A woman stood above the water.

Tall in bearing, with extremely long white hair flowing around her body and over the dark machinery surrounding her.

Her eyes shone red.

Not the warm amber of the first figure.

A fierce, unnatural red that seemed almost luminous beneath the shadow of an elaborate black headpiece.

Her clothing was dark.

Black armor covered portions of her arms and shoulders, contrasting with pale fabric and exposed white skin.

The naval structures around her were immense.

Gun housings.

Dark armored forms.

Mechanical supports that had been twisted into shapes resembling the jaws and limbs of something living.

Long red-lit surfaces extended from the machinery at sharp angles.

Other pieces resembled gun barrels or flight equipment whose ordinary functions had been warped into something almost ritualistic.

White flowers bloomed among the black structures.

Large pale blossoms, their petals arranged against the dark armor like memorial offerings placed on a coffin.

The effect was beautiful.

Horribly beautiful.

The woman's pale face remained almost expressionless.

Her red eyes appeared to stare directly toward the camera.

And behind her, aircraft were climbing from an arrangement of dark flight-deck structures integrated into the monstrous rigging.

Kade felt his stomach turn.

For a moment, he thought the image had been altered.

A false photograph.

A mistake in the transmission.

Some impossible composite assembled by damaged equipment.

Then a second frame appeared.

The same woman.

The same machinery.

The same white flowers.

This time, her head was slightly turned.

A Blackwake fighter was passing above her.

Farther behind, another aircraft had begun its launch.

The Commander stared.

For several seconds, he couldn't speak.

Then he looked toward Aaron.

The lieutenant was already moving.

“Carrier-derived structure,” Aaron whispered.

He opened the recognition archive.

The machinery proportions remained deeply corrupted.

But fragments of the original design survived.

A recognizable flight-deck arrangement.

The distinctive organization of certain aviation-handling components.

The broad structural pattern of a large Japanese fleet carrier.

Kade looked toward the screen.

Then slowly spoke.

“Kaga.”

Aaron went still.

For a moment, neither looked at the other.

Then the lieutenant swallowed.

“Possibly.”

Kade closed his eyes.

He remembered the Halcyon report.

Maki.

Reina.

Two girls lost.

One a Mogami aviation cruiser.

The other a Kaga-class fleet carrier.

He opened his eyes.

“Send it.”

Aaron nodded.

“To Halcyon?”

“Yes.”

The Commander looked toward the photograph again.

His expression became terribly serious.

“Immediately.”

 

At Halcyon Roads, Shizuku was still in the communications room when the second image arrived.

Rafael saw it first.

He opened the transmission.

Then froze.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

The long white hair.

The red eyes.

The enormous dark machinery.

The flowers.

The corrupted carrier structures.

He swallowed.

Then slowly looked toward Shizuku.

She noticed immediately.

“What?”

He didn't answer.

The Nagato-class girl approached.

For a moment, she looked toward the screen.

Then she stopped.

Her face went white.

No.

The thought came before she could form words.

No.

Not again.

Not her.

Shizuku stepped closer.

The image remained.

The woman's red eyes.

The black armor.

The tremendous carrier-derived structures spreading around her.

A pale blossom resting against the dark machinery.

The Nagato-class girl felt her knees weaken.

She caught the desk.

Rafael reached toward her.

“Shizuku—”

She shook her head.

For several seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she whispered:

“Reina.”

The room became quiet.

Rafael lowered his eyes.

Shizuku stared toward the screen.

Her breathing became uneven.

For a moment, she remembered the last moments of Halcyon.

The Blackwake attack.

The damage.

The retreat.

Maki going down.

Then Ironwake opening fire.

The sea erupting around the surviving Keelborn.

Reina disappearing beneath the water.

Her Pendant rising.

Then vanishing from sight before anyone could reach it.

They had never recovered her.

Not her body.

Not her Pendant.

Nothing.

Shizuku had hoped.

For a while.

Then the days passed.

The search reports stopped.

The wreckage was examined.

And hope became something painful enough that she could barely bear to touch it.

Now Reina was on the screen.

Not as the girl Shizuku remembered.

Not smiling.

Not speaking.

Not commanding her fairy crews with that familiar quiet authority.

Something else.

A pale woman with red eyes and corrupted carrier machinery.

Something the Blackwake aircraft were following.

Shizuku raised one shaking hand.

Her fingers almost touched the screen.

Then she whispered:

“No.”

Rafael swallowed.

The battleship girl looked toward him.

Her eyes were wet.

“That's her.”

The man lowered his eyes.

For a moment, he could not answer.

Then Shizuku's voice broke.

“That's Reina.”

She looked toward the image again.

The long white hair moved across the woman's shoulders.

The dark machinery surrounded her.

Her expression remained cold.

Unrecognizable.

Yet something about the structure, the bearing, the arrangement of the corrupted rigging made denial impossible for the woman who had known her.

Shizuku pressed one hand against her mouth.

For several seconds, she struggled to breathe.

Then she whispered:

“We lost her.”

Rafael nodded.

“Yes.”

“We couldn't reach her.”

His expression tightened.

“I know.”

The Nagato-class girl's eyes filled.

For a moment, she looked toward the floor.

Then she spoke so quietly Rafael almost didn't hear.

“We left her down there.”

He went still.

“Shizuku.”

She shook her head.

For a moment, she seemed unable to stop.

“We couldn't reach her. The shells were coming. The water was—”

Her voice broke.

Rafael stepped closer.

“Shizuku.”

She looked up.

He met her eyes.

“You were under attack.”

The girl swallowed.

“You did everything you could.”

Her expression crumpled.

For several seconds, she couldn't answer.

Then she looked toward the image.

Reina's corrupted form remained on the screen.

The enormous carrier machinery.

The flowers.

The red eyes.

The blackened naval structures.

For a moment, Shizuku seemed to be searching for any trace of the person she remembered.

Then she whispered:

“Is she still in there?”

Rafael did not answer.

He couldn't.

Nobody knew.

The communications technician looked toward them.

For several seconds, the room remained quiet.

Then Rafael slowly reached for the transmitter.

His hands were shaking.

He looked toward Shizuku.

She nodded faintly.

The man swallowed.

Then spoke.

“Horizon Atoll, Halcyon Roads. We have reviewed your second photograph.”

A pause.

Kade's voice answered.

“Halcyon, Horizon receiving.”

Rafael looked toward Shizuku.

The Nagato-class girl stared at the screen.

Then the man took a slow breath.

“Probable identification: Reina. Kaga-class fleet carrier. Lost during the Halcyon engagement.”

The Operations Room at Horizon fell silent.

Rafael continued.

“Her Pendant was not recovered.”

A pause.

Then his voice became strained.

“Commander... please tell me what that thing is.”

Kade looked toward the photograph.

The corrupted carrier woman stared back with red eyes.

For several seconds, the Commander could not speak.

Then he answered honestly.

“I don't know.”

The silence that followed was terrible.

Rafael lowered his eyes.

Shizuku pressed one hand against her face.

And, far across the Pacific, the girl who might once have been Reina continued launching aircraft toward Ironwake.

 

Kade stood before the two images for nearly a minute.

Maki.

Reina.

At least, with enough evidence now to make those names painfully difficult to dismiss.

The first surrounded by monstrous cruiser-derived rigging, her amber eyes shining beneath pale hair and white flowers.

The second bearing the remains of a Kaga-class carrier identity, her red eyes cold and her machinery transformed into something no shipwright would willingly build.

Both associated with the Blackwake attack at Halcyon.

Both lost beneath the water.

Neither Pendant recovered.

And now both commanding Blackwake forces.

Kade slowly lowered his eyes.

For a moment, he felt ill.

Not because the figures were frightening to look at.

They were.

But because the implication was much worse.

The Blackwake could corrupt Keelborn.

Not merely destroy them.

Not merely leave their wreckage on the seabed.

It could somehow take what remained after sinking and transform it into an enemy that still bore recognizable traces of the person who had existed before.

And those transformed Keelborn could lead fleets.

Something the Blackwake had never demonstrated in the original game.

Something nobody had trained for.

Something that had appeared only after Hour Zero.

Aaron stood beside him.

For several seconds, the lieutenant was quiet.

Then he whispered:

“There weren't any of these.”

Kade looked up.

Aaron continued.

“Before the Crisis. In the game. There were ordinary Blackwake enemies. We had records for destroyers, cruisers, heavier forms. We had encounters and classifications.”

He looked toward the photographs.

“But nothing like this.”

Kade nodded.

“No.”

The lieutenant's expression became deeply troubled.

“Then what do we call them?”

The Commander considered that.

For a moment, his eyes moved between the two pale figures.

The white flowers.

The black armor.

The way the ordinary Blackwake ships had formed around them.

The way their aircraft and surface escorts seemed to move according to their intentions.

Not queens.

Not yet.

There was no evidence of a central Blackwake monarchy or a hierarchy extending beyond the two observed commanders.

But the figures themselves possessed an unmistakable, terrible authority.

Mara approached.

For several seconds, she examined the photographs.

Then she spoke quietly.

“They look like royalty.”

Kade glanced toward her.

The Chief looked toward the carrier image.

Her expression hardened.

“Something from a nightmare.”

Aaron lowered his eyes.

For a moment, he seemed to be considering the terminology.

Then he looked up.

“Princess-class command entity?”

Kade stared.

The phrase sounded absurd.

Almost childish.

A word more suited to a fairy tale than a naval intelligence report.

Then he looked toward the images again.

The pale faces.

The flowers.

The monstrous machinery.

The fleets answering their movements.

He felt a chill.

“Provisional,” he said.

Aaron nodded.

“Yes.”

“Not a confirmed classification. Not a name from the original game.”

“Understood.”

The Commander continued.

“Use Blackwake Princess as a temporary designation for the command-type entities. Record precisely how little we know.”

The lieutenant began writing.

Then Kade looked toward the two photographs.

His expression became very cold.

“And make sure nobody confuses a provisional title with an explanation.”

Aaron nodded.

“Of course.”

For a moment, the Commander stared toward the carrier image.

Reina.

A woman lost beneath the sea.

A Pendant that never reached safety.

An entire Blackwake aviation group now following a figure bearing the remains of her identity.

Kade whispered:

“Damn you.”

Nobody asked whom he meant.

The Blackwake.

The PCA.

The circumstances that had brought both girls to this fate.

Perhaps all of them.

He looked toward the window.

Then toward the combat chart.

The enemy had changed.

The world had changed.

And, for one brief moment, the Commander understood with absolute clarity that there was no familiar game left to return to.

No encounter table.

No reset.

No update that would explain the new enemy on a loading screen.

No old strategy guide containing a reliable answer.

The world beyond Horizon was continuing to develop without asking anyone's permission.

Its dangers were real.

Its people were real.

Its dead did not disappear neatly from a roster.

And sometimes the sea returned them as something nobody could recognize.

Kade hated it.

More than he could explain.

Then he looked toward the western chart.

There were still people alive out there.

And he had a job to do.

 

Aster Doesn't Know Either

Aster was sitting beside Camille's bed when the first warning about the new Blackwake formations reached the medical annex.

She'd heard the earlier air-defense alerts.

Heard the naval guns.

Felt the island shake when Ironwake's shells struck the western coastline.

But the latest announcement was different.

The speaker crackled.

“All protected facilities, remain under shelter conditions. New Blackwake air and surface contacts confirmed west of the atoll. Personnel are not to leave designated safe areas without authorization.”

Camille looked up.

The book lay forgotten on her lap.

“Blackwake?”

Aster frowned.

For several seconds, she listened to the announcement.

Then she nodded.

“Sounds like it.”

The Mogador-class girl's hands tightened around the blanket.

For a moment, her expression became frightened.

Then she looked toward the reinforced case.

The five Pendants remained inside.

Aster noticed immediately.

She leaned forward.

“Camille.”

The girl looked up.

“Yes?”

“You're safe here for now.”

Camille swallowed.

Aster continued.

“The protected medical annex is still secure. Security is watching the access routes.”

The Mogador-class girl lowered her eyes.

“I know.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Camille whispered:

“Why does it keep happening?”

Aster's expression softened.

She did not answer immediately.

The question was not really about the current alert.

It was about the Blackwake destroyer that had destroyed Camille's friends.

The coastal defense facility where she had spent nearly two months recovering while administrative pressure mounted around her.

The long voyage to Horizon.

The PCA's demand for her Pendants.

And now another battle.

Aster looked toward the case.

For a moment, she felt an ache in her chest.

Then she spoke quietly.

“I don't know.”

Camille looked up.

The Fletcher-class girl met her eyes.

“I wish I did.”

A pause followed.

Then the Mogador whispered:

“Do you know how to fight them?”

Aster considered that.

She knew the ordinary Blackwake enemies.

She had encountered them during the game.

She understood their general behavior, their recognizable classes, and some of the tactics that could be used against them.

But the warning mentioned unfamiliar aircraft.

New command structures.

Something that had caused Operations to issue an urgent classification request.

Aster's expression became thoughtful.

“Some of them.”

Camille swallowed.

“Some?”

The Fletcher girl nodded.

“Not everything.”

For several seconds, the Mogador remained quiet.

Then she looked toward Aster's hands.

The other destroyer had been sitting with her since the morning, occasionally reading aloud or making ridiculous remarks about the adventure novel.

Camille knew she was still recovering from injuries of her own.

Aster should not have been required to comfort another frightened girl.

And yet she'd stayed.

Camille looked toward her.

“Are you scared?”

Aster smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

For a moment, Camille seemed surprised.

Then she lowered her eyes.

The Fletcher continued.

“But I'd rather be scared here with you than leave you alone because I don't like the feeling.”

Camille's throat tightened.

She looked toward the case.

Then toward the older destroyer.

For several seconds, she could not speak.

Finally, she whispered:

“Thank you.”

Aster smiled.

“You're welcome.”

Then the secure medical-office telephone rang.

Irena Holt answered.

Listened.

And became very still.

Aster noticed from the doorway.

The doctor had not spoken for several seconds.

Then she asked:

“Are you certain?”

A pause.

Her expression changed.

She looked toward the patient ward.

Then answered:

“I understand. Keep the visual records restricted until command approves their distribution.”

She replaced the receiver.

For a moment, she remained standing.

Aster rose.

“Doctor?”

Irena looked toward her.

The Fletcher-class girl's expression became serious.

“What happened?”

The physician hesitated.

Then she stepped into the corridor, leaving Camille safely inside with the attending nurse.

Aster followed.

The door closed.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Irena explained what Intelligence had reported.

Two unidentified Blackwake command entities.

Humanoid.

Keelborn-like.

One apparently derived from a Mogami-class aviation cruiser.

The other from a Kaga-class fleet carrier.

Both associated with the lost girls at Halcyon Roads.

Aster stared.

For a moment, she seemed unable to understand.

Then she whispered:

“What?”

Irena's expression was grave.

“The identifications remain provisional.”

Aster shook her head.

“No, I mean—”

She stopped.

Looked toward the corridor.

Then back.

“Blackwake Keelborn?”

The doctor nodded.

“Possibly corrupted Keelborn.”

For several seconds, the Fletcher-class girl was completely still.

Then she lowered her eyes.

She remembered the original game.

The ordinary Blackwake enemies.

The early encounters.

The tactics players had developed.

She remembered the classes.

The silhouettes.

The weaknesses that had been discovered through painful trial and error.

There had never been anything like this.

Never.

Not during Beta.

Not afterward.

No Blackwake fleet commanded by a girl who had once been one of their own.

Aster swallowed.

For a moment, she felt sick.

Then she looked toward the doctor.

“That's not possible.”

Irena's expression softened.

“I know.”

The Fletcher shook her head.

“No. It wasn't in the game.”

The physician remained quiet.

Aster continued.

“There weren't any of those.”

She looked toward the ceiling.

For a moment, her expression became frightened.

Then she whispered:

“What are they?”

Irena lowered her eyes.

For several seconds, she remained silent.

Finally, she answered:

“We don't know.”

Aster stared.

The words hurt.

Not because the doctor was being cruel.

Because they were true.

The game they'd entered had become a world nobody fully understood.

And that world had produced something new.

Something terrible.

Aster looked toward Camille's door.

The Mogador-class girl was still inside.

Still recovering.

Still guarding the five Pendants of her friends.

For one brief moment, Aster felt a horrifying thought begin forming.

What if Camille hadn't reached the harbor?

She stopped herself.

Not because the thought was irrelevant.

Because she could not bear to finish it.

Aster took a breath.

Then looked toward Irena.

“Does Kade know?”

The doctor nodded.

“Yes.”

The Fletcher lowered her eyes.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Then she spoke.

“He must be furious.”

Irena considered that.

Then answered:

“I imagine he is.”

Aster looked toward the corridor.

Then toward Camille's door.

Her expression became determined.

“I'm staying here.”

The doctor nodded.

“Good.”

Aster continued.

“Until somebody tells us otherwise, I'm staying with her.”

Irena's expression softened.

For a moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something.

Then she simply nodded again.

“Thank you.”

The Fletcher returned to the ward.

Camille looked up.

Her expression was worried.

“Aster?”

The destroyer smiled faintly.

“Sorry. Medical business.”

Camille swallowed.

“Something bad?”

Aster considered the question.

Then answered honestly.

“Yes.”

The Mogador lowered her eyes.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Aster sat beside her again.

She picked up the book.

Looked toward the page Camille had marked.

Then asked:

“Where were we?”

The girl stared.

For a moment, the question seemed impossible.

Then she looked toward the cover.

Her expression softened slightly.

“The part with the mountain.”

Aster nodded solemnly.

“Ah.”

She opened the book.

“Terrible place for a mountain.”

Camille blinked.

Then a small laugh escaped.

Aster smiled.

And began reading.

Outside, the Blackwake was approaching.

Inside, two injured destroyer girls sat beside five Pendants and tried to preserve one small piece of an ordinary afternoon.

 

The Orders Nobody Wanted

Kade issued the deployment order at fourteen forty-three.

He hated it.

He hated the necessity.

He hated the fact that the girls had already spent the morning fighting an invasion fleet and were now being asked to leave the relative protection of the lagoon to confront something no former player had ever encountered.

He hated the uncertainty surrounding the two corrupted Keelborn.

He hated the possibility that some part of Maki or Reina might still exist inside those monstrous structures.

And he hated that the world had given him no time to understand any of it.

But the Blackwake fleet was moving toward Horizon.

That fact outweighed everything else.

The ordinary Blackwake surface units had begun spreading around the damaged PCA formation.

Several destroyer-like contacts were approaching the northern shipping route.

Light cruisers moved beneath the air groups.

Heavy cruiser shapes occupied positions farther back, supporting the two strange command entities.

And the enormous carrier-derived Princess continued launching aircraft.

If the defenders remained inside the lagoon and waited, the Blackwake would eventually reach the island.

Its aircraft could strike the harbor.

Its surface units could threaten the defensive channels.

And the civilians who had survived the PCA bombardment would be placed in danger all over again.

Kade looked toward the chart.

Then toward Mara.

“Chief.”

“Yes?”

“Get me the Keelborn command net.”

Her expression changed.

For a moment, she studied him.

Then she nodded.

“Yes, Commander.”

Aaron looked toward the deployment chart.

The intelligence officer understood what was coming.

His expression tightened.

Kade reached for the microphone.

Victor opened the channel.

“All Horizon combat-capable Keelborn units, Commander Bher.”

Across the station, girls stopped to listen.

Riko stood beside her Yamato-class equipment.

Scarlett checked her sixteen-inch main-battery status.

Adelheid remained near the southern maintenance approach, supervising the final securing of the captured landing party.

Nadya watched from her Sevastopol-class position.

Calla listened beside her antiaircraft cruisers.

Alice raised her head from the acoustic watch.

Yuna stood among her fairy aviation crews.

Others, from destroyer and cruiser classes scattered across the harbor, turned toward their radios.

Kade continued.

“The Blackwake fleet approaching from the west is not following ordinary contact behavior. We have identified two new command-type entities associated with lost Keelborn from Halcyon Roads.”

A pause.

“We do not know their capabilities. We do not know their weaknesses. We do not know how they were created.”

The command circuit remained quiet.

Kade looked toward the images.

Then spoke more firmly.

“What we do know is that they are directing ordinary Blackwake ships and aircraft against the PCA formation, and their course now threatens Horizon.”

He drew a slow breath.

“All combat-capable Keelborn girls are ordered to prepare for deployment beyond the lagoon's defensive boundary.”

The response was not immediate.

Several officers exchanged looks.

The instruction meant leaving the protected waters.

Moving toward the enemy.

Operating in a sea crowded with damaged ships, frightened former players, rescue craft, and Blackwake units whose exact numbers were still uncertain.

The Commander continued.

“Medical restrictions remain in effect. If you are injured, under treatment, or your equipment has not been cleared for combat, you are not deploying. That includes Aster, June, Elsa, Camille, and the Akizuki currently under medical observation.”

He paused.

“Hana and the repair personnel will remain where their support duties are most effective. Senko's transport operations will be assigned separately. Nobody is to abandon essential noncombat work simply because the rest of us are moving toward gunfire.”

The girls listened.

Kade looked toward the western chart.

“All deployable combat units will form an outer defensive task force. Your purpose is to intercept the Blackwake before it can close on the island.”

His expression hardened.

“We are not pursuing the PCA. We are not finishing old arguments. We are fighting the new threat.”

A pause.

Then:

“Any PCA vessel that ceases hostile action and requests coordination against the Blackwake will be considered for temporary joint operations under strict identification and fire-control procedures.”

Several girls exchanged glances.

Working with the people who had shelled their island?

The idea was unpleasant.

But the Blackwake was attacking everyone.

Kade continued.

“No one fires on surrendering personnel. No one attacks rescue operations. And no one attempts to recover a corrupted Keelborn's Pendant without specific authorization and a viable plan.”

The command circuit remained silent.

The Commander looked toward the photographs one last time.

Then spoke quietly.

“We don't know what those two girls are anymore.”

His voice hardened.

“We do know what happens if we let their fleet reach our harbor.”

He took a breath.

“Deny the Blackwake access. Protect survivors. Preserve your formation and withdraw if your equipment cannot continue.”

A pause.

Then the last order.

“All available combat groups, sortie.”

He lowered the microphone.

For several seconds, Operations was quiet.

Then Mara looked toward him.

Her expression was deeply troubled.

“You're sending them all out.”

Kade nodded.

“All who can fight.”

The Chief looked toward the chart.

For a moment, she seemed to be calculating the risks.

Then she spoke.

“The harbor will be exposed.”

“Breakwater, the surviving shore batteries, Security, and the fixed antiaircraft defenses remain. We cannot protect the island by waiting for the Blackwake to come into the lagoon.”

Aaron nodded slowly.

The Commander continued.

“I'd rather meet them in open water where we have maneuvering room than discover what happens when a corrupted heavy cruiser reaches the maintenance piers.”

Mara lowered her eyes.

For several seconds, she remained quiet.

Then she nodded.

“Understood.”

Kade looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, he felt terribly tired.

Then he reached for the latest deployment figures.

“Now let's give them enough fuel and ammunition to come home.”

 

The sortie was not instantaneous.

Keelborn rigging remained physical machinery.

The girls still needed to check ammunition, fuel, communications, and movement systems before leaving the lagoon.

Several destroyer units had expended torpedoes during the Long Lance attack.

Others had gun mounts awaiting inspection.

The cruiser antiaircraft group had consumed a substantial portion of its ready ammunition.

The heavy battleship group had fired enough shells that the maintenance teams wanted careful checks before prolonged operations.

Riko's reconnaissance floatplane remained grounded for repair.

Yuna's fairy crews were tired, and her available aircraft had to be assessed before another sortie.

None of those problems vanished because Kade gave an order.

But Horizon had already spent the morning fighting.

Its crews knew the equipment status.

Its watchstanders knew the channels.

Its officers understood which units could move safely and which needed to remain behind.

The deployment began in groups.

Destroyers first.

Cruisers behind them.

The heavier battleships moving through the surveyed deep-water route under careful control.

Carriers and aviation support maintaining sufficient separation to protect their aircraft operations.

The island's defensive ships became a fleet.

Not a perfect one.

Not an enormous one by the standards of the Pacific Campaign Authority's original invasion formation.

But organized.

Determined.

And operating beneath the command of people who understood that every girl in the formation was alive.

 

Riko entered the outer channel behind Scarlett.

The Yamato-class girl's rigging moved heavily through the water.

Her main turrets remained trained within their assigned safety arcs.

The stabilizing machinery responded to the longer swells beyond the lagoon.

She looked toward the western sea.

Smoke rose from Ironwake.

Blackwake aircraft circled above it.

Dark surface vessels were beginning to emerge through the haze.

For a moment, she felt a terrible flash of fear.

Then Scarlett's voice sounded.

“Riko.”

The younger battleship looked toward her.

“Yes?”

“Stay with the formation.”

Riko nodded.

“I will.”

The South Dakota-class girl continued.

“Don't chase a target just because it looks important.”

“Right.”

“And remember your firing restrictions.”

The Yamato-class girl sighed.

“I know.”

Scarlett's voice softened.

“Good.”

For several seconds, they moved together.

Then Riko looked toward the black aircraft above the enemy fleet.

She had heard the reports.

The corrupted carrier.

The woman who had once been Reina.

The new Blackwake command entities.

She did not understand.

Not even slightly.

But she knew one thing.

If those aircraft reached Horizon, they might kill the people she loved.

Riko's hands tightened around the controls.

Then she looked toward the western horizon.

Her expression became determined.

She would not let that happen without a fight.

 

Adelheid joined the heavy group after receiving confirmation that the southern landing prisoners had been secured.

The Bayern-class girl moved from the maintenance approach toward the lagoon's western channel.

Her rigging's enormous turrets shifted as she entered the deeper water.

The secondary guns remained ready.

A communications officer confirmed her ammunition status.

Then the battleship girl raised her radio.

“Bayern reporting to outer defense.”

Kade answered.

“Adelheid, Operations. Prisoners secure?”

“Yes.”

“Any trouble?”

A pause.

Then she answered:

“Some complaints.”

The Commander considered that.

“From the prisoners?”

“Naturally.”

Kade sighed.

“And did you behave?”

Adelheid raised an eyebrow.

For a moment, she appeared offended.

“Commander.”

“Yes?”

“I did not fire a single main-gun shell at them.”

The Operations Room became quiet.

Mara slowly looked toward Kade.

Aaron lowered his head.

The Commander closed his eyes.

For several seconds, he seemed to be considering the statement.

Then he answered:

“An accomplishment for which I am profoundly grateful.”

Adelheid smiled.

“You're welcome.”

A pause followed.

Then her expression became serious.

“I have seen the Blackwake photographs.”

Kade looked toward the screen.

“I know.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the Bayern-class girl asked:

“Were they really Keelborn?”

The Commander considered the question.

“We have strong evidence they were.”

Adelheid lowered her eyes.

For a moment, she seemed deeply troubled.

Then she looked toward the sea.

“Understood.”

Her voice became quieter.

“I will maintain formation.”

Kade nodded.

“Good.”

The connection ended.

Adelheid looked toward the western horizon.

For several seconds, she remained still.

Then her expression hardened.

The Blackwake had taken girls who had already suffered.

Made them into something monstrous.

Then sent them back against the living.

The Bayern-class girl felt a cold anger settle in her chest.

Not the theatrical annoyance she'd displayed toward the PCA landing party.

Something deeper.

Quieter.

Far more dangerous.

She adjusted her main turrets.

Then followed the heavy group into open water.

 

A Task Force Built from Broken Allegiances

The first PCA Keelborn to request temporary cooperation was the Kagerō-class destroyer who had warned her command about the Long Lances.

She'd spent the previous hour trying to prevent the northern escort line from destroying itself.

That task had become considerably harder when Blackwake destroyers began firing through the gaps in the PCA formation.

The Kagerō-class girl stood on the open sea beside an injured Shiratsuyu-class companion.

The younger destroyer's equipment had suffered fragment damage.

Her propulsion remained functional, but one of her gun mounts had been disabled.

The two girls were attempting to withdraw when a Blackwake light cruiser emerged from the haze.

Its hull was a distorted arrangement of blackened steel and pale armored surfaces.

Cold blue lights burned beneath the forward structure.

Its guns turned toward them.

The Kagerō looked up.

For a moment, she felt sick.

“Cruiser!”

Shiratsuyu turned.

Her eyes widened.

The Blackwake vessel fired.

The first salvo struck the water short.

Spray rose around the two destroyer girls.

The second came closer.

Kagerō accelerated.

Shiratsuyu followed as best she could.

Their own weapons were available, but a direct gun duel against an enemy cruiser was a terrible prospect when one destroyer was already damaged.

Kagerō raised her radio.

“PCA Northern Screen! Blackwake cruiser engaging our withdrawal route! Request immediate support!”

The reply came after several seconds.

“Maintain assigned position. Fleet Command is reorganizing.”

Kagerō stared.

For a moment, she thought she'd misheard.

Then she looked toward the approaching Blackwake ship.

Its guns fired again.

Another column of water erupted nearby.

The Shiratsuyu girl cried out as fragments struck an exposed fitting.

Kagerō's expression hardened.

She raised the radio.

“Our assigned position is being overrun!”

A pause.

Then the controller answered:

“You are ordered to hold until further instructions.”

For one terrible second, Kagerō felt something break inside her.

Not courage.

Not discipline.

Her willingness to pretend the voice on the radio was helping.

She lowered the microphone.

Then turned toward Shiratsuyu.

The younger destroyer looked terrified.

“Kagerō?”

The older girl swallowed.

For a moment, she considered returning to formation.

The PCA was supposed to be her side.

Its officers issued the orders.

Its warships carried the flag she'd been told to respect.

But those officers had spent the morning treating a real naval battle as a problem of discipline rather than survival.

And the Blackwake cruiser did not care about flags.

Kagerō looked toward Horizon.

Several friendly—no, formerly enemy—Keelborn destroyers were emerging from the western channel.

They were moving into an intercept formation.

The older destroyer stared.

Then made her decision.

She raised the international emergency frequency.

“Horizon Atoll, this is Kagerō-class Keelborn formerly attached to the Pacific Campaign Authority. I have an injured Shiratsuyu with me. We are under Blackwake attack and request temporary combat coordination.”

The answer came from Operations after a short delay.

“Kagerō, Horizon receiving. Confirm you are ceasing hostile action against Horizon personnel and facilities.”

The destroyer swallowed.

Then answered:

“Confirmed.”

“Confirm no offensive action against surrendering or rescue units.”

“Confirmed.”

A pause.

Then Kade's voice entered the channel.

“Kagerō, Commander Bher. We can coordinate against the Blackwake. Maintain your present separation from our patrol group and transmit your exact position.”

The girl closed her eyes.

For a moment, relief moved through her so strongly that she almost forgot to answer.

Then she swallowed.

“Understood, Commander.”

Kade continued.

“Your injured companion can withdraw toward the protected reception corridor. If you remain combat-capable and choose to fight, our destroyer controller will assign you a defensive sector.”

Kagerō looked toward Shiratsuyu.

The younger girl was trembling.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Shiratsuyu shook her head.

“Go.”

Kagerō blinked.

“What?”

The younger destroyer looked toward the approaching Horizon patrol.

Her expression was frightened, but determined.

“I can reach them.”

The older girl hesitated.

Shiratsuyu continued.

“You can still fight.”

For a moment, Kagerō looked toward the Blackwake cruiser.

Its guns were turning again.

Then she looked back.

“Are you sure?”

Shiratsuyu swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Yes.”

Kagerō reached toward her.

For one brief moment, they touched hands across the gap between their rigging supports.

Then the older destroyer spoke quietly.

“Come back.”

The younger girl smiled weakly.

“You too.”

Kagerō nodded.

Then turned toward the Blackwake cruiser.

She raised the radio.

“Horizon Operations, Kagerō. Shiratsuyu withdrawing for medical support. I am remaining to fight.”

Kade's reply came.

“Understood. Welcome to the defensive task force.”

The destroyer blinked.

For a moment, she seemed almost startled by the wording.

Welcome.

Not claimed.

Not assigned.

Welcome.

She swallowed.

Then a Horizon Akizuki-class girl approached from the eastern defensive line.

The newcomer raised one hand.

“Kagerō?”

The PCA destroyer turned.

“Yes?”

The Akizuki nodded toward the Blackwake cruiser.

“You want to help us get that thing away from the harbor?”

Kagerō considered the question.

Then smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

The Akizuki grinned.

“Good.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Try not to shoot me.”

Kagerō stared.

For one second, she looked offended.

Then she laughed.

“Same to you.”

The two turned west.

And the temporary task force gained its first former PCA combatant.

 

The Asashio-class girl joined thirteen minutes later.

She did not make a grand announcement.

She simply stopped obeying orders to intercept defectors and began firing on the Blackwake destroyers threatening the withdrawing group.

Yūgumo followed her.

The two had spent most of the afternoon listening to increasingly irrational PCA transmissions.

Return to formation.

Stop deserters.

Hold position.

Protect Ironwake.

Prevent capture.

Continue attack.

Maintain discipline.

Some instructions contradicted others.

A few had become impossible to execute.

And the Blackwake was killing people while the Authority argued with itself.

Asashio finally reached her limit when the central control officer ordered her to pursue a fleeing cruiser rather than support a damaged destroyer being attacked by Blackwake guns.

She stared toward the radio.

Then raised her microphone.

“Negative.”

A pause.

The control officer answered:

“Repeat.”

Asashio's expression hardened.

“I am engaging the Blackwake. The cruiser is withdrawing and presents no immediate threat to anyone.”

“Your orders are to prevent desertion.”

The destroyer looked toward the sea.

A Blackwake ship was moving through the smoke.

Another PCA girl was struggling to stay afloat beneath the impact of several near misses.

Asashio swallowed.

Then answered:

“My order is to keep people alive.”

She lowered the microphone.

Yūgumo looked toward her.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the younger destroyer smiled.

“About time.”

Asashio sighed.

“Yes.”

The two adjusted course.

Raised their weapons.

And opened fire against the Blackwake screen.

 

The PCA's La Galissonnière-class light cruiser made the transition after hearing the new emergency coordination notice from Horizon.

She had been covering the northern carrier group.

Her equipment remained operational.

Her ammunition was adequate.

But the fleet's original command structure no longer possessed reliable control of the surrounding destroyers.

Several were withdrawing.

Others fighting Blackwake ships independently.

The cruiser looked toward the dark surface contacts.

Then toward Horizon's approaching fleet.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain.

An enormous collection of former enemies was advancing from the island.

Battleships.

Cruisers.

Destroyers.

Aircraft.

They were heading toward the Blackwake.

Not toward the PCA's damaged survivors.

The distinction mattered.

She raised her radio.

“Horizon Atoll, La Galissonnière-class Keelborn. Request temporary coordination against Blackwake surface contacts.”

The reply came.

The identification checks were performed.

The firing sectors were explained.

Then Kade's voice entered the circuit.

“La Galissonnière, Horizon. We will accept temporary cooperation under the established ceasefire conditions.”

The cruiser swallowed.

“Understood.”

The Commander continued.

“Do not cross into our heavy-gun firing lanes without clearance. Our destroyer controller will coordinate your approach.”

She nodded.

“Acknowledged.”

A pause followed.

Then she spoke quietly.

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

The girl looked toward Ironwake.

The damaged battleship was surrounded by aircraft.

Its guns were still firing.

Its damage-control teams were struggling.

She swallowed.

“Are you going to let them die?”

The question seemed to settle over the command circuit.

For several seconds, Kade did not answer.

Then his voice returned.

“No.”

The cruiser went still.

Kade continued.

“We're going to stop the Blackwake.”

A pause.

“If we can rescue sailors without destroying our own people in the process, we will.”

The girl lowered her eyes.

For a long moment, she was quiet.

Then she nodded.

“Thank you.”

The connection ended.

She turned toward Horizon's approaching task force.

Her machinery moved with the swell.

For the first time that afternoon, she no longer felt entirely alone.

 

The Shōkaku-class carrier's decision changed the air battle.

She had watched the Blackwake fighters tear into her combat-air patrol.

Seen fairy pilots disappear into the sea.

Heard the emergency calls from Ironwake.

And listened to the remaining PCA command staff argue over whether the defecting Keelborn were traitors.

The carrier no longer cared.

Not about the arguments.

Not about the paperwork.

Not about the threatened punishments.

Her surviving fairy pilots were returning in damaged aircraft.

Her maintenance teams were exhausted.

And the Blackwake carrier-like figure beyond the northern screen was launching another group of aircraft.

Shōkaku looked toward it.

A pale woman.

Long white hair.

Red eyes.

Dark machinery.

White flowers.

She had seen the image transmitted through the emergency intelligence channel.

The caption identified it as a previously unknown Blackwake command entity.

Probable Kaga-class origin.

The carrier swallowed.

Kaga.

A fleet carrier.

A Keelborn.

Corrupted.

Something about the idea made her feel physically ill.

She looked toward her aviation officer.

The fairy's face was pale.

“Carrier.”

Shōkaku turned.

“Yes?”

“We have enough fighters for another defensive patrol.”

The carrier nodded.

“I know.”

“But the Blackwake numbers are increasing.”

“Yes.”

The little officer hesitated.

Then asked:

“Should we ask Horizon for help?”

Shōkaku went still.

For a moment, she stared at the fairy.

Then she looked toward the distant island.

Horizon.

The station her organization had attempted to invade.

The place where two PCA carriers had already surrendered and received medical assistance.

The place whose Commander had issued an open warning about the Blackwake contacts before the attack began.

The carrier considered that.

Then slowly nodded.

“Yes.”

The fairy officer swallowed.

Then smiled faintly.

Shōkaku raised the emergency channel.

“Horizon Atoll, Shōkaku-class carrier. Requesting temporary air-defense coordination against Blackwake aircraft.”

A brief silence followed.

Then a voice answered.

“Shōkaku, this is Yuna Mori, Illustrious-class carrier at Horizon. I hear you.”

Shōkaku blinked.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she answered:

“Yuna.”

“Yes.”

The two carriers listened to the distant aircraft engines.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Shōkaku continued.

“My fighters are being overwhelmed. I have wounded fairies and several aircraft returning on low fuel.”

Yuna's expression softened.

“I understand.”

A pause.

Then the Illustrious-class girl added:

“We can share the air-defense picture. But our aircraft need clear identification procedures.”

Shōkaku nodded.

“Agreed.”

“And your fighters cannot attack Horizon aircraft or surface units.”

“They won't.”

Yuna considered that.

Then answered:

“All right.”

The Shōkaku-class girl closed her eyes.

For a moment, she felt an almost overwhelming relief.

Then Yuna continued.

“I'll have our controller send the recognition and sector information. We can coordinate defensive interceptions over the rescue area.”

Shōkaku nodded.

“Thank you.”

A pause followed.

Then the carrier's voice became quieter.

“Yuna?”

“Yes?”

Shōkaku looked toward the image of the corrupted Kaga-like entity.

Her throat tightened.

“Do you know what that thing is?”

Yuna was silent.

For several seconds, she looked toward the same photograph.

The pale woman.

The white flowers.

The enormous black carrier machinery.

Then she answered honestly.

“No.”

Shōkaku lowered her eyes.

The Illustrious-class girl continued.

“But it has aircraft.”

A pause.

“And so do we.”

For several seconds, the two remained quiet.

Then Shōkaku smiled faintly.

“Right.”

Yuna took a breath.

“Let's keep our pilots alive.”

The other carrier nodded.

“Together.”

The connection ended.

And two carrier girls who had been enemies that morning began coordinating their fairy fighter sections against a threat neither understood.

 

The temporary task force acquired no grand new flag.

There was no time to design one.

No ceremony.

No agreement concerning long-term command arrangements.

No declarations of allegiance that would outlast the battle without further discussion.

Instead, Kade established a temporary coordination net.

Horizon units retained their normal command structure.

Defecting PCA Keelborn identified themselves individually, confirmed their intentions, and received limited tactical assignments.

No former prisoner was simply handed ammunition and ordered into battle without medical clearance, security review, and her own agreement.

The girls who had surrendered earlier remained under protection.

Some offered information.

Others assisted with noncombat tasks after approval.

Zuihō's fairy officers helped identify unusual enemy aircraft from the photographs.

Yorktown's engineers contributed observations about the Blackwake attack patterns while her damaged propulsion remained under inspection.

The Dido-class cruiser girl provided advice on antiaircraft sectors.

The captured T-72 Sensha Girl helped VESPER assess the island's armored-defense vulnerabilities, once Security and Medical confirmed that doing so was appropriate.

But most of the new combat participants came from the PCA units still at sea.

Girls who could make their own decisions.

Girls who had watched the Blackwake kill their companions.

Girls who had finally decided that the organization claiming to command them was less important than the people they were trying to save.

The joint formation was untidy.

Its communications procedures were not perfectly standardized.

Its commanders sometimes disagreed.

Its identification arrangements required constant attention.

And several of the girls had spent the preceding hours firing at one another.

Nevertheless, it was a fleet.

A real one.

Built not from account claims or mission rewards, but from a temporary agreement that the Blackwake had to be stopped.

Kade studied the new plotting board.

Blue markers for Horizon.

White-bordered markers for cooperating former PCA units.

Red markers for hostile PCA vessels whose intentions remained uncertain.

Black markers for the approaching Blackwake.

For several seconds, he stared.

Then Mara approached.

“Commander.”

He looked up.

“Yes?”

“We've got additional cooperation requests.”

Kade sighed.

“Of course.”

The Chief handed him the list.

He read it.

Then raised an eyebrow.

“Another destroyer?”

“Yes.”

“A cruiser?”

“Yes.”

“And a carrier?”

“Shōkaku. Yuna's already coordinating with her.”

The Commander considered that.

Then nodded.

“Good.”

He looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, his expression became thoughtful.

Then he spoke quietly.

“This isn't how I expected to get reinforcements.”

Mara almost smiled.

“No.”

Kade looked toward the black enemy markers.

The two Princesses remained at the center of separate but coordinated formations.

One controlling the surface fleet.

The other directing the aircraft.

For a moment, he felt a chill.

Then he raised the command microphone.

“All units on the temporary defense net, Horizon Operations. Confirm your identities before entering assigned sectors. Do not assume a vessel is hostile because she carried a PCA flag this morning.”

The acknowledgments began arriving.

Kade continued.

“Our target is the Blackwake. Keep the rescue corridors open where possible and report any unusual enemy behavior immediately.”

He paused.

Then spoke more firmly.

“Nobody goes after either new command entity alone.”

The command circuit remained quiet.

“We've never fought them before. We don't know what they can do. You stay with your assigned group.”

He lowered the microphone.

For several seconds, he looked toward the photographs.

Maki.

Reina.

Or whatever the Blackwake had made of them.

Then he whispered:

“Please don't make me kill you.”

There was no answer.

Only the distant thunder of guns.

 

The Flowers on the Water

The corrupted aviation cruiser moved with the Blackwake surface formation as though she had always belonged there.

From the cockpit of Horizon Reconnaissance Two, the sight was difficult to comprehend.

The aircraft remained outside the immediate Blackwake antiaircraft envelope, using its optical equipment to observe the formation through gaps in the smoke.

The pilot had seen ordinary Blackwake warships before.

Most naval personnel in the Pacific had.

Their grotesque shapes were becoming horribly familiar.

Blackened hulls.

Pale armored structures.

Unnatural lights.

Gun mounts that seemed to have grown into the machinery surrounding them.

Ships whose proportions resembled recognizable naval classes only enough to make the differences more disturbing.

But the white-haired figure among them was something new.

She stood above the water within the immense machinery of a corrupted aviation cruiser.

White flowers moved in the wind.

Her amber eyes remained fixed on the battle.

The structures flanking her rose and settled with the waves.

At times, they resembled wings.

At others, the broken sides of a ship.

She lifted one arm.

And the Blackwake destroyers changed course.

The observation officer watched through the camera.

For several seconds, he remained perfectly still.

Then he whispered:

“She's doing it again.”

The pilot glanced toward him.

“What?”

“The course changes.”

The observer pointed toward the formation.

Three Blackwake destroyers had been moving south.

The pale girl raised her hand.

All three altered course.

Not at exactly the same instant.

There was a brief delay.

But the movements were coordinated.

Then two light cruisers adjusted their positions behind them.

A heavy cruiser began moving around the northern edge of the group.

The observer swallowed.

He raised the microphone.

“Reconnaissance Two to Operations. Humanoid command entity directing surface maneuvers. Multiple Blackwake units responding to her movements.”

The answer came.

“Received. Continue observation from safe distance.”

The officer nodded.

Then looked toward the next frame.

The pale girl lowered her arm.

For one moment, her head turned toward the aircraft.

The observer froze.

The distance was enormous.

Far too great for him to assume she could see the camera.

But her amber eyes seemed to align with the lens.

He felt his stomach tighten.

Then a Blackwake destroyer beneath her launched torpedoes.

The observer looked down.

Three weapons entered the sea.

Their tracks moved toward a PCA cruiser attempting to withdraw.

The aircraft crew immediately transmitted the warning.

Far below, the cruiser turned away.

The first torpedo missed.

The second passed astern.

The third struck the water beyond the ship and continued into empty sea.

The girl survived.

For the moment.

The Blackwake destroyers adjusted course again.

The white-haired command entity stood motionless.

The observer stared.

Then whispered:

“She's hunting them.”

The pilot swallowed.

“Yes.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the pilot looked toward the horizon.

Farther west, the corrupted carrier woman remained surrounded by aircraft.

Two commanders.

One controlling the sea.

One controlling the sky.

And the ordinary Blackwake fleet moved between them with frightening discipline.

 

The Maki-derived figure did not behave like a mindless creature.

That was what troubled the observers most.

Ordinary Blackwake ships could be dangerous, but their behavior often relied upon recognizable attack patterns.

They advanced.

Engaged.

Pursued.

Sometimes concentrated on a target.

Sometimes abandoned one for another.

Their coordination varied.

But the girl at the center of the surface formation was making decisions that resembled those of an experienced naval officer.

She used destroyers to force enemies into evasive maneuvers.

Positioned light cruisers where their guns could support the torpedo attacks.

Kept the heavier Blackwake units behind the screen until a suitable target appeared.

And avoided exposing the central command rigging to the strongest available batteries.

Not perfectly.

She was not omniscient.

She could not know every Horizon firing solution.

Her ships could still be damaged.

But her movements were deliberate.

The observer watched.

Then he looked toward the photograph from Halcyon.

Maki.

Mogami-class aviation cruiser.

A girl who had once fought beside the defenders of Halcyon Roads.

The comparison made him feel sick.

If the identification was correct, the Blackwake had not merely taken her equipment.

It was using the tactical capabilities associated with her ship identity.

Perhaps even her experience.

He did not know.

The possibility was terrible enough.

 

The first direct engagement between Horizon's temporary task force and the Blackwake surface group began at fifteen oh-two.

A Blackwake light cruiser crossed the northern intercept line.

Its guns turned toward the approaching destroyer screen.

Then it fired.

The shells struck the water ahead of the Horizon group.

Spray rose.

Several girls adjusted course.

The enemy fired again.

This time, one shell struck the rigging of a Keelborn destroyer operating near the outer edge of the formation.

The girl cried out.

Her equipment shuddered.

A gun mount jammed.

For a moment, she lost speed.

Then the escorting Kagerō-class girl moved closer.

“Are you hit?”

The destroyer swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Can you continue?”

She checked her equipment.

The propulsion remained functional.

The damage was unpleasant but not catastrophic.

She nodded.

“I can move.”

Kagerō looked toward the Blackwake cruiser.

Its guns were already turning again.

Her expression hardened.

“Then get behind me.”

The other destroyer hesitated.

Then obeyed.

Kagerō raised her radio.

“Northern Escort Group, hostile light cruiser engaging. Request supporting fire.”

The answer came immediately.

“Support authorized. Heavy cruiser group adjusting.”

Kagerō looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, she felt a strange sensation.

The voice on the radio belonged to Horizon.

The station she'd helped blockade that morning.

Now its fire-control officers were coordinating her defense.

The world had become thoroughly unreasonable.

She had no time to dwell on it.

The Blackwake cruiser fired again.

Kagerō accelerated.

Then a Horizon Takao-class heavy cruiser opened fire from farther south.

Its 203-millimeter guns discharged.

The shells crossed the sea.

The first salvo fell short.

The second straddled the Blackwake vessel.

Water rose on both sides.

The dark cruiser changed course.

Then the Takao fired again.

One shell struck the enemy's forward structure.

A violent explosion tore through the black armor.

The cold lights near its bow flickered.

For a moment, the vessel continued moving.

Then its forward gun mount stopped responding.

The Blackwake cruiser turned away.

Kagerō exhaled.

For one brief moment, she felt relief.

Then she looked toward the white-haired command entity beyond it.

The corrupted aviation cruiser raised one hand.

The damaged Blackwake ship moved behind another.

Two destroyers accelerated to cover its retreat.

A heavy cruiser turned toward the Takao's firing position.

Kagerō's expression tightened.

The enemy had reacted.

Not blindly.

Not randomly.

It had protected the damaged unit and redirected its heavier guns toward the source of the threat.

She raised the radio.

“Northern Escort Group. Blackwake command entity coordinating counterfire. Watch the heavy cruiser shifting south!”

The warning spread.

The Takao adjusted course.

A moment later, heavy shells struck the water where she'd been.

The cruiser girl flinched.

Then looked toward the pale figure.

For a moment, her expression became cold.

“That thing is learning.”

The other Takao answered over the local circuit.

“Then we learn faster.”

They turned toward the next firing position.

And the battle at sea intensified.

 

The Blackwake heavy cruiser did not resemble a normal ship in the way Ironwake or Breakwater did.

Its hull was dark.

The bow formed a twisted, almost predatory shape.

Massive gun housings rose above an armored structure covered in pale seams and black protrusions.

Its cold lights remained fixed toward the enemy.

When it fired, the blast seemed to come from the dark interior of the machinery rather than from ordinary gun barrels alone.

But the shells were real.

Their trajectories could be observed.

Their impacts caused damage.

And the guns required time to reload.

Those facts gave Horizon something to work with.

Scarlett's South Dakota-class equipment moved into its assigned heavy-support sector.

The second South Dakota-class girl followed at a greater separation.

Riko maintained position farther south with her Yamato-class rigging.

Adelheid's Bayern-class guns remained ready.

The heavy group was not going to fire every barrel at once simply because the enemy looked monstrous.

Ammunition remained finite.

Target identification was difficult through the smoke.

And the new command entities might change their formations without warning.

Kade had emphasized that the battleships should engage the ordinary Blackwake warships threatening the destroyer screen rather than spend their magazines chasing the Princesses through uncertain observations.

Scarlett understood.

She watched the heavy cruiser fire.

Then checked the updated solution.

The target was moving toward the Takao group.

Its guns had just discharged.

For a few seconds, it would remain committed to the current course while its gunnery arrangements recovered.

Scarlett raised her radio.

“Heavy Support One. Target Blackwake heavy cruiser in northern sector. Solution acceptable.”

The controller acknowledged.

“Weapons authorized.”

The South Dakota-class girl steadied her rigging.

Her main turrets aligned.

Then she fired.

The sixteen-inch shells climbed into the sky.

The recoil rolled through the machinery.

Scarlett watched the smoke.

For several seconds, she waited.

Then the observer reported the fall of shot.

The first shell struck the sea close to the Blackwake cruiser.

The second hit its upper armor.

A tremendous explosion tore through the dark structure.

Fragments flew outward.

The cold blue lights flickered.

The ship heeled.

A section of its forward gun arrangement tore away.

For a moment, the Blackwake vessel seemed to attempt another turn.

Then an internal explosion erupted beneath its superstructure.

The dark hull broke apart.

Water surged across the exposed interior.

The cruiser began sinking.

Not gracefully.

Not cleanly.

Its broken machinery seemed to fold inward as it disappeared beneath the sea.

A final pale light remained above the surface.

Then vanished.

The water closed.

Scarlett lowered her eyes.

For a moment, she felt no satisfaction.

The enemy had been dangerous.

It had threatened her friends.

Stopping it was necessary.

But the sight of the ruined Blackwake machinery left her thinking of the photographs in Operations.

The girls.

The flowers.

The possibility that those creatures might be made from people who had once possessed names.

She swallowed.

Then looked toward the next contact.

The battle continued.

And the sea was becoming crowded with wreckage.

 

The Carrier in the Black Flowers

The Reina-derived Princess watched the destruction of the Blackwake heavy cruiser from beyond the northern aviation group.

Her face did not change.

The long white hair moved around her shoulders.

Dark armored structures rose behind her, their red-lit surfaces reflecting against the sea.

White flowers remained fixed among the machinery.

Her red eyes followed the distant explosion.

Then shifted toward Horizon's advancing fleet.

For a moment, she stood completely still.

The aircraft above her continued circling.

Several were damaged.

One trailed smoke.

Another struggled to maintain formation after losing part of a wing.

They were not invulnerable.

They were not endless.

But new aircraft had been launched from the corrupted carrier rigging during the previous hour, and enough remained to continue threatening the sky above the battlefield.

The Princess raised one hand.

The nearest fighter group changed course.

A second formation began moving toward Shōkaku's defensive sector.

The torpedo aircraft remained behind them.

Waiting.

The girl lowered her hand.

For a moment, a faint vibration passed through the black machinery surrounding her.

The flowers moved.

Her red eyes remained fixed on the distant carrier.

Shōkaku.

A ship class she might once have recognized.

A former companion in another life, perhaps.

Or simply another target.

Nobody knew.

The Princess did not speak.

The aircraft obeyed.

 

High above the sea, Yuna's fairy flight leader watched the incoming Blackwake fighters approach.

Her fuel was adequate.

Her ammunition had been checked.

Her aircraft was functioning.

And a Shōkaku fighter section was now flying in coordination with her own.

That last detail would have seemed impossible a few hours earlier.

The PCA had attacked Horizon.

Its carrier girls had sent aircraft toward the island.

Now one of those same carriers was helping defend the people she'd been ordered to bomb.

The fairy flight leader glanced toward the neighboring aircraft.

Its pilot was another fairy.

Small.

Determined.

Probably just as frightened.

The Shōkaku pilot raised one hand.

The Horizon fairy returned the gesture.

For one brief moment, they were simply two aviators flying together.

Then the Blackwake fighters arrived.

The enemy formation approached from above.

Several aircraft descended toward the combined patrol.

Others remained higher, ready to attack whoever turned to engage.

The Horizon flight leader recognized the pattern.

It was a familiar fighter tactic.

High cover.

A diving attack.

Another group exploiting the defender's response.

But the execution was unnervingly precise.

The Blackwake aircraft did not waste time.

Their movements were coordinated.

Their pilots—or whatever controlled the machines—appeared completely unconcerned with the risks of closing at dangerous angles.

The fairy swallowed.

Then raised her radio.

“Combined Defensive Flight, enemy fighters high twelve. Break by sections. Do not let them draw us away from the carriers.”

The acknowledgments came.

The Shōkaku section moved to cover the upper approach.

Yuna's fighters turned toward the lower group.

The aircraft separated.

Engines roared.

The first Blackwake fighter descended.

A burst of gunfire flashed from its nose.

The Horizon fairy rolled away.

The rounds passed behind her.

Another dark aircraft crossed above.

Shōkaku's pilot intercepted.

For several seconds, the two fighters exchanged fire.

The Blackwake aircraft banked sharply.

The fairy followed.

Then the enemy rolled into an abrupt dive.

The Shōkaku pilot started after it.

And stopped herself.

The movement was wrong.

Too inviting.

The dark aircraft had deliberately exposed itself.

Beyond it, two more fighters were positioned to attack anyone who pursued.

The fairy's eyes widened.

She broke away.

A burst of tracer fire passed through the space she would have occupied.

For a moment, she felt sick.

Then she raised the radio.

“They're baiting us! Blackwake fighters using coordinated traps!”

Yuna's flight leader answered.

“Copy. Maintain pair discipline!”

The little pilots tightened their formation.

For several seconds, the sky became a maze of crossing aircraft.

One Blackwake fighter was struck in the engine.

It burned.

Another lost part of a wing and fell toward the sea.

A Shōkaku fighter took several hits through its fuselage.

The pilot struggled to remain airborne.

Her wingman moved close.

Then called for assistance.

The Horizon section turned to cover the damaged aircraft's withdrawal.

A Blackwake fighter attempted to pursue.

Yuna's flight leader intercepted.

She fired a short burst.

The enemy rolled away.

Then another aircraft approached from behind.

The fairy glanced back.

Her heart jumped.

She had no time to turn.

Then the Shōkaku wingman crossed the enemy's path.

His guns flashed.

The Blackwake fighter shuddered.

Its engine began smoking.

It broke away.

The Horizon pilot exhaled.

For one moment, she felt an overwhelming gratitude.

Then she raised her radio.

“Shōkaku section, thank you!”

The answer came quickly.

“You're welcome. Stay alive!”

She laughed.

Only once.

Then turned toward the next formation.

The Blackwake was still attacking.

But the two carrier air groups had discovered something important.

They could work together.

And, together, they could keep one another alive.

 

At Horizon's aviation control station, Yuna listened to the battle with both hands clasped before her.

Shōkaku's voice came through the shared channel.

“Yuna, my second fighter section is recovering. One aircraft damaged. Pilot wounded, but conscious.”

Yuna nodded.

“Understood. Our recovery corridor is open if you can't reach your own station.”

The other carrier hesitated.

Then answered:

“Thank you.”

A pause followed.

Then Shōkaku continued.

“Your pilots are good.”

Yuna blinked.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she looked toward her fairies.

The little maintenance crews working beside the launch platform.

The deck chief checking recovery arrangements.

The exhausted pilots drinking water between sorties.

The wounded being treated.

Her expression softened.

“They work very hard.”

Shōkaku was quiet.

Then she answered:

“So do mine.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Yuna looked toward the incoming air plot.

Another Blackwake group was approaching.

The carrier's expression became serious.

“Shōkaku.”

“Yes?”

“We need to stop those torpedo aircraft before they reach the rescue ships.”

The other carrier examined her own display.

For a moment, her expression tightened.

Then she nodded.

“Agreed.”

Yuna raised the joint fighter channel.

“All defensive sections, torpedo aircraft approaching the central rescue area. Prioritize interception while maintaining cover against hostile fighters.”

The acknowledgments came.

For a moment, Yuna looked toward the western sky.

The damaged Ironwake was still out there.

Sailors were abandoning other ships.

The Tribal was bringing survivors aboard.

And the corrupted Kaga-class Princess continued launching aircraft.

Yuna felt a cold knot of anger in her chest.

Not toward Reina.

Not exactly.

Toward whatever had taken her.

Whatever had turned a carrier girl into something that sent aircraft against people struggling to survive.

The Illustrious-class girl swallowed.

Then whispered:

“You deserved better.”

Nobody heard her.

The fairy crews continued working.

And the next defensive flight climbed toward the battle.

 

The Last Broadside That Never Came

Ironwake's forward turrets never fired at Horizon's Operations complex.

The firing solution existed.

The target had been plotted.

The surviving main battery had received its preliminary orders.

The captain had insisted that destroying Horizon's command facilities would restore the initiative.

But by the time the loading crews completed the necessary checks, Blackwake aircraft were already above the battleship.

Then came the torpedoes.

Then the bombs.

Then a succession of damage reports that made the proposed bombardment irrelevant.

At fifteen twenty-one, Ironwake's forward magazines remained intact.

At fifteen twenty-four, her machinery was still producing limited power.

At fifteen twenty-seven, the after flooding had worsened.

At fifteen thirty-one, a Blackwake dive bomber penetrated the damaged antiaircraft screen and struck the forward superstructure.

The explosion destroyed a communications station and tore through equipment needed to coordinate the remaining gun crews.

The captain was thrown against the bridge railing.

For several seconds, he couldn't stand.

His executive officer dragged him away from the broken windows.

Another explosion followed.

The battleship heeled.

A sailor shouted from the navigation table.

“More torpedoes!”

The executive officer turned.

His expression changed.

Through the smoke beyond the port side, he could see dark aircraft withdrawing from low attack runs.

White disturbances marked where their weapons had entered the sea.

The captain struggled to rise.

“Hard over!”

The helmsman obeyed.

The ship began turning.

Slowly.

Then the first torpedo struck beneath the forward port-side protection.

The explosion was enormous.

Water erupted against the hull.

The bow lifted slightly.

Then settled.

The bridge deck trembled.

The executive officer caught a handrail.

For a moment, he thought the ship might recover.

Then a second torpedo struck farther aft.

The damaged underwater structure failed beneath the added shock.

A new flooding alarm sounded.

Then another.

The battleship began listing to port.

Not suddenly.

Not enough to throw everyone from their feet.

But unmistakably.

The executive officer looked toward the inclinometer.

Three degrees.

Then five.

The captain stared.

For several seconds, he seemed unable to understand why the number was increasing.

Then the engineering telephone rang.

The executive officer answered.

Listened.

And went pale.

“Captain.”

The man turned.

“What?”

“We've lost another flooding boundary.”

The captain stared.

For a moment, he seemed almost angry.

“Then close it.”

The executive officer swallowed.

“They're trying.”

Another explosion sounded.

A Blackwake bomb struck the already damaged port secondary-battery region.

The impact reopened a fire-damaged compartment and scattered burning debris across the upper deck.

The battleship shuddered.

The captain grabbed the railing.

For several seconds, he stared toward the smoke.

Then he whispered:

“No.”

His executive officer watched him.

For a moment, the younger man felt something almost like pity.

Then another flooding report arrived.

The ship's list increased.

The engineering department warned that several pumps were failing because of electrical damage.

Emergency systems remained available, but their capacity was being overwhelmed.

The captain looked toward the damage board.

His expression became desperate.

“Get more men down there.”

The executive officer stared.

“Captain.”

“More men!”

The younger officer's expression hardened.

“We already have teams working in those spaces.”

“Then send another!”

“There isn't a safe route.”

The captain turned.

For a moment, his face was red with anger.

Then the executive officer spoke more firmly.

“We need to prepare to abandon ship.”

Silence.

The captain stared.

For several seconds, he seemed unable to believe the words.

Then he shook his head.

“No.”

The younger man swallowed.

“Sir.”

“No.”

The captain looked toward the western horizon.

Horizon Atoll remained visible beyond the smoke.

The island he'd ordered to surrender.

The island whose Commander had defied him.

The island whose Keelborn had broken his fleet.

He seemed to be trying to decide how to make it all disappear.

Then the executive officer stepped closer.

“Captain.”

The man looked at him.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then the younger officer said:

“We're sinking.”

The words settled over the bridge.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then the captain looked toward the list indicator.

Seven degrees.

A long pause followed.

He swallowed.

“Damage Control?”

The executive officer raised the internal circuit.

The chief damage-control officer answered.

His voice sounded exhausted.

“Bridge.”

The executive officer took a breath.

“Can you stabilize the ship?”

A pause.

Static crackled.

Then the answer came.

“Not at present. Flooding exceeds our effective pumping capacity. Several compartments inaccessible. We are isolating what we can, but reserve buoyancy is deteriorating.”

The executive officer closed his eyes.

For one moment, he simply listened.

Then he opened them.

“Do you recommend abandoning ship?”

The response came after several seconds.

“Yes.”

The captain stared.

For a moment, he looked much older than he had that morning.

Then the younger officer turned toward him.

“Sir.”

Silence.

“Give the order.”

The captain looked toward the broken after turret.

Then the shattered funnel.

Then the smoke rising from his own decks.

For several seconds, he seemed unable to speak.

Finally, he whispered:

“Abandon ship.”

The executive officer raised the emergency circuit.

His voice was steady.

Only barely.

“All hands, this is the bridge. Prepare to abandon ship. Repeat, prepare to abandon ship. Follow designated evacuation procedures. Assist wounded personnel. Maintain damage-control boundaries until relieved.”

The message passed through the ship.

Into the compartments.

Across the damaged decks.

To men who had been fighting fires and flooding for hours.

For a moment, some stared.

Others began moving immediately.

Then the general alarm sounded.

Ironwake was being abandoned.

 

The evacuation was neither quick nor orderly in the comforting sense of the word.

The ship remained under air attack.

The list was increasing.

Several escape routes were blocked by damaged machinery.

The afterdeck was crowded with wreckage from the destroyed turret.

The port secondary-battery area remained dangerous.

And the crew had to move wounded men through passageways that were no longer level.

Some sailors helped one another.

Others panicked.

A few refused to leave their stations until ordered twice.

One damage-control petty officer remained beside a compartment door long enough to confirm that the last man inside had escaped.

Then he closed it.

Locked the boundary.

And turned toward the evacuation route.

The deck tilted beneath his feet.

He stumbled.

Caught the handrail.

Then continued.

Another sailor carried an injured companion toward the starboard side.

The wounded man protested weakly.

“Leave me.”

The other shook his head.

“Shut up.”

“I can't—”

“Then let me carry you.”

The wounded sailor closed his eyes.

For a moment, he seemed ready to cry.

Then he nodded.

The other man tightened his grip.

And kept moving.

Above them, the Blackwake aircraft continued attacking.

 

The first lifeboats cleared Ironwake's starboard side while the battleship still possessed enough stability to launch them.

Others were deployed later, when the increasing list made the process considerably more difficult.

Sailors entered the water.

Some in organized groups.

Others after jumping from exposed decks because the designated escape routes were no longer safe.

Flotation equipment spread across the sea.

Men shouted for help.

Some were injured.

Some burned.

Some covered in oil.

The water was full of debris.

And the Blackwake fighters were still coming.

A damaged fighter crossed the evacuation area.

Its guns flashed.

Tracers struck the sea near a lifeboat.

Several men ducked.

One screamed.

The aircraft banked for another pass.

Then a burst of antiaircraft fire rose from the south.

The Tribal-class destroyer had arrived.

Her remaining guns opened fire.

The Blackwake fighter rolled away.

A second burst struck its wing.

The aircraft shuddered.

Then it crashed into the sea beyond the survivors.

Captain Eliza Ward stood on the Tribal's bridge staring toward Ironwake.

For several seconds, she seemed unable to believe the sight.

An Iowa-class battleship.

Listing.

Burning.

Her great after turret sprawled across the deck.

The forward superstructure damaged.

Hundreds of men trying to escape.

The ship had been terrifying when it first appeared outside Horizon.

Now it was dying.

Eliza swallowed.

Then raised the radio.

“Tribal to Horizon Operations. Ironwake abandoning ship. Large numbers of survivors in the water. We are commencing rescue.”

Kade's reply came promptly.

“Tribal, Horizon receiving. Rescue corridor remains open. We are sending escorts to suppress the Blackwake aircraft and surface units threatening your position.”

Eliza closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them.

“Thank you.”

Kade continued.

“Captain Ward, maintain enough maneuvering room to avoid becoming another casualty. We need you afloat.”

Eliza looked toward Ironwake.

Then nodded.

“Understood.”

She lowered the microphone.

For several seconds, she stared at the enormous battleship.

Then turned toward her executive officer.

“Ruth.”

“Yes?”

“Get every rescue team we have onto the starboard stations. Prioritize wounded survivors who can't stay afloat.”

Ruth nodded.

“Yes, Captain.”

“And tell the gun crews to keep those damned aircraft away from my people.”

The executive officer's expression hardened.

“Gladly.”

The destroyer's engines slowed.

A recovery line was thrown.

The first Ironwake sailor caught it.

And the women aboard Tribal began hauling men out of the sea.

 

Kade watched the rescue reports arrive in Operations.

He could see the tactical problem immediately.

Ironwake was sinking inside an area still contested by Blackwake aircraft and surface units.

The Tribal had turned toward her survivors.

Several PCA destroyers were also attempting to help.

Horizon possessed destroyer girls capable of reaching the area, but they would be operating near hostile Blackwake cruisers and an unfamiliar command entity whose behavior had not yet been fully understood.

It was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Kade looked toward Mara.

“Rescue corridor?”

“Open, but threatened from the north.”

“Can we reinforce?”

The Chief examined the chart.

“Several destroyers available. Heavy group can provide covering fire if we avoid the survivor area.”

Kade nodded.

“Good.”

He looked toward Aaron.

“Current Blackwake positions?”

The lieutenant pointed.

“Surface Princess's formation is turning toward Ironwake. Two Blackwake destroyers have begun closing on the rescue area. A light cruiser is following.”

The Commander's expression became cold.

He had seen the reports of Blackwake aircraft attacking lifeboats.

That was enough.

He reached for the radio.

“All cooperating units, Horizon Operations. Ironwake evacuation underway. Rescue craft are to be protected from Blackwake attack.”

A pause.

“Destroyer screens, establish a defensive perimeter outside the survivor area. Heavy units, engage Blackwake ships threatening the rescue corridor when safe firing solutions are available.”

He looked toward the carrier markers.

“Air Defense, priority to preventing attacks on lifeboats and rescue vessels.”

The acknowledgments came.

Kade continued.

“Do not fire through survivor groups. If you cannot engage safely, report and reposition.”

He lowered the microphone.

Mara looked toward him.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Then she asked:

“Even after everything Ironwake did?”

Kade looked toward her.

His expression was tired.

Terribly tired.

Then he answered:

“There are men in the water.”

The Chief lowered her eyes.

A pause followed.

Then she nodded.

“Yes.”

Kade looked toward the battle chart again.

For a moment, his steel-blue eyes narrowed.

“I don't care whose flag they were flying when they fell in.”

Mara looked up.

The Commander continued.

“Get them out.”

 

The corrupted surface Princess changed course.

Maki's pale figure moved through the dark machinery at the center of the Blackwake formation.

Her amber eyes turned toward the rescue area.

The white flowers around her shoulders stirred in the wind.

For a moment, she stood motionless.

Then she raised one hand.

Three Blackwake destroyers began accelerating.

Their guns turned toward the lifeboats and rescue vessels.

A light cruiser followed.

Beyond it, another heavy cruiser began moving toward the Tribal's position.

The maneuver was deliberate.

The rescue operation had created a concentration of slow, vulnerable targets.

The Blackwake was exploiting it.

Kade's temporary task force moved to intercept.

The first Horizon destroyers accelerated from the southern defensive line.

Kagerō joined them.

Asashio and Yūgumo followed.

The La Galissonnière-class cruiser moved into a supporting position.

Farther back, Scarlett and Adelheid adjusted their heavy-gun assignments.

Riko watched the Blackwake surface formation.

For a moment, her expression became furious.

The monster was attacking people who couldn't fight back.

She raised her microphone.

“Heavy Group, Riko. Blackwake destroyers closing on survivor area. Request permission to engage.”

The controller answered.

“Targets too close to lifeboats for main-battery fire at present. Maintain hold.”

Riko clenched her jaw.

“Understood.”

For several seconds, she watched the enemy.

Then she looked toward her enormous main turrets.

The guns were powerful.

Terribly powerful.

And useless if firing them would kill the people she was trying to save.

She swallowed.

Then turned toward Scarlett.

The South Dakota-class girl's expression was serious.

“Wait.”

Riko nodded reluctantly.

“I know.”

Scarlett continued.

“The destroyers are moving to separate them. Once the enemy breaks away from the survivor area, we'll have room.”

The younger battleship took a breath.

Then nodded.

“Right.”

She looked toward the sea again.

And waited.

 

The first Blackwake destroyer attempted to fire on Tribal.

Kagerō intercepted.

She had approached from the southern side of the rescue area, using the available maneuvering room to keep the Blackwake vessel outside a direct firing line toward the lifeboats.

Her 127-millimeter guns opened fire.

The first salvo struck the dark destroyer's forward structure.

Fragments flew.

The enemy changed course.

Then its guns turned toward Kagerō.

That was exactly what she wanted.

Not because she enjoyed being shot at.

Because every shell aimed toward her was one less shell aimed toward the men in the water.

She accelerated.

The Blackwake destroyer fired.

The rounds landed short.

Kagerō turned.

Her equipment responded.

Then Asashio joined the engagement.

The two destroyer girls fired from different bearings, forcing the Blackwake vessel to divide its attention.

Yūgumo moved farther north, watching for torpedo launches.

The enemy attempted to turn toward the rescue area again.

Kagerō crossed its path.

Her guns fired.

A shell struck the forward mount.

The Blackwake destroyer shuddered.

Then Asashio's next salvo hit the machinery beneath its superstructure.

A burst of dark debris rose.

The enemy lost speed.

For a moment, it seemed capable of recovering.

Then the damaged propulsion failed.

The destroyer began settling in the water.

Yūgumo kept her distance.

The vessel's torpedo equipment remained dangerous.

A final explosion burst from within the Blackwake hull.

The dark structure broke apart.

Then sank.

Kagerō lowered her guns.

For several seconds, she stared at the water.

Then she looked toward Asashio.

The other destroyer nodded.

Both were still alive.

The rescue corridor remained open.

And they had just fought alongside girls whose home they'd been blockading that morning.

Kagerō felt a strange ache in her chest.

Then she raised the radio.

“Southern Intercept Group. One Blackwake destroyer destroyed. Rescue corridor remains contested. Continuing screen.”

The reply came.

“Acknowledged. Good work.”

Kagerō swallowed.

Then looked toward Tribal.

The destroyer's crew were still pulling sailors from the water.

The girl smiled faintly.

And turned toward the next Blackwake contact.

 

The Sinking of Ironwake

At sixteen oh-three, Ironwake lost the ability to correct her increasing port list.

The damage-control teams had fought desperately.

They had contained fires.

Closed compartments.

Moved wounded personnel.

Kept critical magazines isolated.

Restored emergency power in places where the main circuits had failed.

They had done everything within their training and available equipment.

But the ship had suffered too many underwater hits.

Too much flooding.

Too much structural damage.

And the Blackwake had continued attacking while the men attempted to save her.

Now the balance was gone.

Water had entered enough compartments that the remaining pumping systems could no longer control the rate of flooding.

The ship's stability was deteriorating.

Her great mass began settling lower.

The deck tilted.

Loose equipment slid toward port.

The surviving evacuation officers urged the remaining sailors toward the starboard side.

Some men were still missing.

Others trapped.

Several were being carried.

The captain stood on the damaged bridge looking toward the sea.

His executive officer approached.

“Sir.”

The captain did not turn.

For several seconds, he remained still.

Then he whispered:

“She's going.”

The executive officer swallowed.

“Yes.”

The captain looked toward the afterdeck.

The destroyed turret lay at an impossible angle.

Smoke rose from the port side.

The remaining forward guns rested silent.

For a moment, he remembered the beginning of the Crisis.

The impossible exhilaration of standing aboard an actual Iowa-class battleship.

The first successful engine trial.

The first time the main turrets had moved under his command.

The sight of the massive steel hull cutting through the Pacific.

He had believed he was becoming something extraordinary.

A real battleship captain.

A commander whose decisions mattered.

Now the ship was sinking.

And his decisions had brought her here.

For several seconds, he stared.

Then the executive officer spoke.

“Captain. We need to leave.”

The man shook his head.

“No.”

The younger officer's expression tightened.

“Sir.”

The captain looked toward the sea.

For a moment, his voice became almost inaudible.

“I can't.”

The executive officer swallowed.

He understood.

Perhaps not completely.

But enough.

The captain had ordered the invasion.

Threatened Horizon.

Ignored the warnings.

Refused withdrawal.

And continued attempting to fire on the island after his ship had suffered catastrophic damage.

Now he was looking at the consequences.

The younger man took a breath.

Then spoke firmly.

“Captain.”

The man turned.

The executive officer met his eyes.

“You can answer for what happened later.”

Silence.

A wave struck the listing hull.

The bridge tilted farther.

The officer continued.

“But you can't answer for anything if you die here.”

For several seconds, the captain stared.

Then another explosion sounded somewhere beyond the ship.

Blackwake aircraft.

Still attacking.

The executive officer grabbed his arm.

“Come on.”

The captain hesitated.

Then slowly nodded.

Together, they moved toward the evacuation route.

 

The Tribal's rescue team spotted the two men leaving the damaged bridge.

They were late.

Far too late.

The battleship's port side had dipped deep enough that portions of the deck were disappearing beneath the waves.

Her bow remained comparatively high, but the aft and amidships flooding had destroyed the stability margin.

The hull leaned farther.

A great groaning sound rose from within the steel.

The captain and executive officer reached the starboard edge.

For a moment, they looked toward the water.

The drop was frightening.

Below, sailors struggled among floating debris.

A lifeboat moved slowly away from the listing hull.

The executive officer looked toward the captain.

“Now.”

The man stared.

For a fraction of a second, he seemed unable to move.

Then the younger officer grabbed his arm.

They jumped.

The water struck them hard.

Cold.

Violent.

The captain disappeared beneath the surface.

For one terrible moment, he did not know which way was up.

Then his life jacket pulled.

He struggled.

Broke the surface.

Gasped.

The executive officer surfaced nearby.

He looked toward the captain.

“You all right?”

The man coughed.

For several seconds, he couldn't answer.

Then he nodded weakly.

A rescue line splashed into the water near them.

A woman's voice shouted:

“Grab it!”

The captain turned.

Tribal.

A rope hung from the destroyer's side.

Several sailors leaned over the rail.

The executive officer reached for the line.

Caught it.

Then pushed it toward his captain.

The man stared.

For a moment, he recognized the women aboard the destroyer.

Former PCA sailors.

People who had defied his orders.

People he had threatened to treat as mutineers.

Now they were trying to save him.

He swallowed.

Then reached for the rope.

 

Ironwake rolled farther to port.

The great battleship's upper structures disappeared behind smoke and spray.

A tremendous groan traveled through the hull.

Water poured across the damaged decks.

The bow lifted slightly.

Then settled.

For one moment, the surviving forward turret barrels remained visible above the sea.

The enormous steel structures that had once represented such overwhelming power were now pointing toward an empty horizon.

Then the ship continued rolling.

Water surged over the superstructure.

The bridge vanished.

The broken after turret disappeared beneath the dark surface.

The forward guns followed.

For several seconds, the great hull remained partially visible.

Then the ocean closed over it.

USS Ironwake sank.

Not in a single spectacular explosion.

Not as a harmless animation.

Not as a neat disappearance from a game roster.

She sank slowly enough for everyone watching to understand what they were losing.

Her weight carried her down.

The sea swallowed the damaged steel.

A final eruption of trapped air rose among the wreckage.

Then only oil, debris, and survivors remained on the surface.

From the Tribal's bridge, Eliza Ward watched the last portion vanish.

For several seconds, she did not speak.

Ruth stood beside her.

The two women looked toward the empty water.

Then the executive officer whispered:

“She's gone.”

Eliza swallowed.

“Yes.”

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then the captain looked toward the rescue deck.

Men were still being brought aboard.

Some injured.

Some exhausted.

Some barely conscious.

Her expression hardened.

“Keep working.”

Ruth nodded.

“Yes, Captain.”

The destroyer continued rescuing survivors.

Because Ironwake was gone.

But her people were not.

Not all of them.

And the living still needed help.

 

Kade received the sinking report at sixteen eleven.

Aaron stood beside the plotting board, holding the latest observations.

For several seconds, he seemed unable to speak.

Then he looked toward the Commander.

“Ironwake has sunk.”

The Operations Room became quiet.

Kade slowly raised his eyes.

“Confirmed?”

Aaron nodded.

“Multiple visual observations. Hull fully submerged. Survivors in the water. Tribal and other rescue units recovering personnel.”

The Commander looked toward the red battleship marker.

For a long moment, he stared.

Then he closed his eyes.

Ironwake.

The ship that had attacked Halcyon.

The ship that had threatened Horizon.

The ship whose captain had demanded people as property.

The ship that had fired on the island and destroyed its lighthouse.

Gone.

He should have felt triumphant.

Part of him had wanted Ironwake stopped so badly that the news might once have seemed like relief.

Now he thought of the men below the waves.

The ones who hadn't escaped.

The families who would never see them again.

The survivors who would have to live with what their commander had done.

He opened his eyes.

Then looked toward Mara.

“Rescue status?”

The Chief answered.

“Tribal continues recovering sailors. Several Keelborn destroyers assisting. Blackwake attacks remain a threat.”

Kade nodded.

“Keep them covered.”

Aaron looked toward him.

For a moment, he seemed uncertain.

Then he asked:

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Do we mark Ironwake destroyed?”

Kade looked toward the chart.

The great battleship's red symbol remained in place.

For several seconds, he stared.

Then he nodded.

“Yes.”

Aaron reached for the marker.

Removed it.

And replaced it with a black wreck symbol.

USS IRONWAKE — SUNK — SURVIVOR RECOVERY IN PROGRESS

Kade watched.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then his expression hardened.

“Now we stop the things that did it.”

 

The Enemy That Would Not Leave

Ironwake's sinking did not satisfy the Blackwake.

That was the next terrible discovery.

The ordinary surface units did not break formation after the battleship disappeared.

The carrier aircraft did not abandon their attacks.

The pale Princesses did not retreat into the northern haze.

Instead, the Blackwake fleet turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Toward Horizon's temporary task force.

The sea had become crowded with wreckage, oil, lifeboats, and damaged ships.

The Blackwake moved through it without hesitation.

Its destroyers advanced.

Its cruisers adjusted their firing positions.

The remaining heavy units moved behind the screen.

And the two corrupted Keelborn remained at the centers of their respective formations.

The Maki-derived Princess led the surface group.

The Reina-derived Princess controlled the air.

Their movements were not identical.

The aviation cruiser remained closer to the leading warships, directing their maneuvers against the opposing fleet.

The carrier stood farther back, protected by heavy Blackwake units while her aircraft climbed overhead.

There was no obvious radio traffic between them.

Nothing Horizon could intercept and decipher.

But the coordination was undeniable.

When the surface fleet forced a group of Horizon destroyers into an evasive turn, the Blackwake aircraft approached the exposed sector.

When the defending fighters began concentrating on the bombers, the Blackwake surface cruisers moved against the heavy Keelborn's supporting screen.

The attacks were timed.

Not perfectly.

But deliberately.

And Kade hated every second of watching it.

 

“Enemy surface movement,” Aaron reported.

Kade looked toward the chart.

“Where?”

“Central formation. They're ignoring the Ironwake wreck and moving east.”

The Commander examined the positions.

For several seconds, he remained still.

Then his expression hardened.

“They're coming for us.”

Mara approached.

“Full fleet?”

“Enough of it.”

The Chief looked toward the photographs on the secondary display.

The pale aviation cruiser.

The dark carrier.

The white flowers.

For a moment, she seemed profoundly disturbed.

Then she looked toward Kade.

“Can we stop them?”

The Commander considered the question.

He had no convenient answer.

The Blackwake was attacking with more coordination than its ordinary enemies had demonstrated during earlier encounters.

Its ships possessed physical weapons.

Its aircraft could be shot down.

Its formations could be disrupted.

Those were useful facts.

But the two Princesses remained unknown quantities.

Their exact durability was uncertain.

Their command ranges were unknown.

Their means of coordinating the ordinary Blackwake units had not been identified.

And Horizon's defenders were exhausted.

The Commander looked toward the battle chart.

Then answered:

“We have to.”

Mara nodded slowly.

The answer was not reassuring.

It was honest.

Kade reached for the command microphone.

“Outer Defense Task Force, Operations. Blackwake surface formation turning east. Maintain layered engagement. Do not pursue damaged contacts beyond the assigned limits.”

The acknowledgments came.

He continued.

“Heavy units, prioritize enemy cruisers threatening our destroyer screen. Destroyers, maintain torpedo discipline and protect the rescue corridor. Carrier groups, prevent hostile aircraft from concentrating on the surface force.”

A pause.

Then:

“We have no established engagement procedure for the command entities. Observe, report, and remain with your groups.”

The Commander lowered the microphone.

For several seconds, he looked toward the western sea.

Then he whispered:

“Come on.”

Not to the Blackwake.

To his girls.

To the sailors.

To the fairy crews.

To everyone trying to keep Horizon alive.

“Just a little longer.”

 

The first Blackwake surface attack came from the north.

Three destroyers accelerated toward Horizon's forward screen.

Behind them, a light cruiser shifted into a supporting position.

The formation was ordinary in one important respect.

It relied upon recognizable naval principles.

Smaller units advancing ahead.

Supporting gunfire from heavier vessels.

A torpedo threat designed to force the enemy into predictable movements.

Kagerō recognized the pattern immediately.

She raised her radio.

“Northern Intercept Group, three Blackwake destroyers advancing. Possible torpedo attack.”

The Horizon controller acknowledged.

Asashio and Yūgumo moved to support her.

A nearby Akizuki-class girl adjusted position to maintain antiaircraft coverage.

The four destroyers held their separation.

For a moment, the Blackwake formation seemed to be approaching directly.

Then the central destroyer changed course.

Its torpedo apparatus moved.

Kagerō's expression tightened.

“Here they come.”

She raised the microphone.

“Torpedo mounts active. Prepare evasive maneuvers.”

The Blackwake destroyer launched.

Several weapons entered the sea.

Kagerō watched the tracks.

Her eyes narrowed.

The spread was not aimed directly at the present positions of the Horizon girls.

It had been placed across their likely withdrawal routes.

The Blackwake was attempting to drive them toward the light cruiser.

Kagerō understood.

A moment too late to feel comfortable.

She looked toward Asashio.

The older destroyer had noticed too.

“Don't turn south!”

Yūgumo responded.

“Cruiser waiting there!”

Kagerō swallowed.

Then made her decision.

“All units, northward break. Maintain spacing!”

The girls turned.

Not together in one enormous movement.

Each followed her assigned avoidance procedure.

The torpedo tracks continued.

One passed astern.

Another crossed ahead.

A third ran through empty water where the Blackwake apparently expected the girls to retreat.

Kagerō watched it go.

For one brief moment, relief moved through her.

Then the Blackwake light cruiser opened fire.

The first salvo landed ahead of the formation.

The second struck closer.

One shell burst against the Akizuki girl's outer rigging.

She cried out.

Her equipment shuddered.

A gun mount jammed.

For a moment, she lost speed.

Then Asashio moved closer.

“Akizuki, status!”

The girl swallowed.

“Damaged but moving!”

Kagerō looked toward the cruiser.

Its guns were already turning again.

She raised her radio.

“Request immediate cruiser support! Enemy has our sector bracketed!”

The answer came.

“La Galissonnière moving to assist.”

For a moment, Kagerō almost laughed.

A former PCA cruiser was coming to help Horizon destroyers, including another former PCA destroyer, defend a naval station they had been ordered to invade.

There was probably an entire philosophy lesson somewhere in that sentence.

She had no time to find it.

The Blackwake light cruiser fired again.

The water erupted.

Kagerō turned away from the falling shells.

Then La Galissonnière arrived.

Her 152-millimeter guns opened fire.

A tight salvo crossed the sea.

The first rounds struck near the Blackwake cruiser.

The second salvo hit its upper structure.

An explosion tore through a gun mounting.

The dark vessel shuddered.

Its fire became erratic.

Kagerō looked toward the French cruiser.

For a moment, her expression softened.

“Thank you!”

La Galissonnière answered.

“You're welcome. Now keep those destroyers away from me.”

Kagerō smiled.

“Gladly.”

The two groups reorganized.

And the Blackwake attack lost its first opportunity to break Horizon's northern screen.

 

The corrupted aviation cruiser watched.

Her amber eyes followed the damaged light cruiser as it withdrew behind another Blackwake vessel.

For a moment, she remained motionless.

Then one of the enormous dark structures beside her opened.

A gun barrel emerged from within the black machinery.

Its shape was almost familiar.

Cruiser artillery.

But the mounting was surrounded by pale organic-looking material and jagged armored surfaces.

The weapon elevated.

The Princess turned her head.

And fired.

The sound was different from ordinary naval artillery.

A deep, harsh concussion accompanied by an irregular metallic reverberation that seemed to continue after the muzzle flash disappeared.

The shell crossed the water.

It landed near La Galissonnière.

A tremendous column rose beside the French cruiser girl.

She flinched.

Her equipment rolled.

The next round struck closer.

Fragments tore through one of her external fittings.

She cried out.

For a moment, she staggered.

Kagerō turned toward her.

“Cruiser!”

La Galissonnière gritted her teeth.

“Still moving!”

The Princess's guns began adjusting.

The next salvo would be worse.

The French cruiser changed course.

Kagerō accelerated toward her.

Then Adelheid's voice sounded over the heavy-support circuit.

“La Galissonnière, move north.”

The cruiser blinked.

“What?”

The Bayern-class girl's tone remained steady.

“You have a clear withdrawal lane to the north. Take it.”

The French cruiser looked toward the chart.

The path was open.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then Adelheid continued.

“We have the hostile gun position.”

La Galissonnière swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Understood.”

She turned north.

Kagerō followed.

And Adelheid's fifteen-inch turrets began moving.

 

The Bayern-class girl watched the corrupted aviation cruiser through the available observation feed.

The pale figure remained at the center of her monstrous rigging.

White flowers surrounded her.

Her amber eyes glowed.

For a moment, Adelheid felt a terrible unease.

Maki.

A Mogami-class girl.

A person who had once laughed and argued and fought beside her companions.

Now something whose weapons were aimed at the people trying to rescue others.

The Bayern-class girl swallowed.

For one brief instant, she wanted to call out to her.

Ask whether she understood.

Whether she remembered.

Whether some part of Maki remained beneath the black machinery.

Then another shell struck the water near the withdrawing La Galissonnière.

Adelheid's expression hardened.

There would be time for questions later.

If there was a later.

She checked the firing solution.

The target was moving.

The monstrous rigging's outline made classification difficult.

Its exact vulnerable points were unknown.

But the available data placed the gun-bearing structure within her engagement sector.

She raised the radio.

“Bayern battery. Target corrupted aviation-cruiser command unit. Request permission to suppress.”

The controller considered the firing geometry.

Then answered.

“Weapons authorized. Limit fire to confirmed target sector. Friendly units clear.”

Adelheid took a breath.

Her main turrets aligned.

Then she fired.

The fifteen-inch rifles erupted.

A vast concussion rolled across the water.

The shells climbed toward the pale figure.

For several seconds, everyone waited.

Then the first round struck the sea short.

The second fell beyond the target.

The third hit the outer portion of the corrupted rigging.

A violent explosion tore through the dark machinery.

White flowers vanished beneath smoke.

Fragments flew.

The Princess's equipment lurched.

For one terrible moment, it seemed the enormous structure might break apart.

Then the pale girl turned.

Her amber eyes fixed toward Adelheid's position.

The smoke drifted away.

One armored section had been shattered.

A gun mount was destroyed.

Dark fluid streamed into the water from the damaged machinery.

The figure remained standing.

Not unharmed.

Not invulnerable.

But alive.

Or whatever word could be used for her continued existence.

Adelheid stared.

For several seconds, she could not speak.

Then she slowly lowered her eyes.

“Oh.”

The Princess's pale face remained expressionless.

The flowers around her damaged shoulder trembled.

Then she raised one hand.

Several Blackwake destroyers began turning toward the Bayern-class girl's firing position.

Adelheid's expression hardened.

“Heavy Group, Bayern. Direct hit on command entity. Significant rigging damage, but target remains operational. Enemy destroyers redirecting toward my position.”

The response came immediately.

“Understood. Adjusting support.”

The Bayern-class girl watched the approaching dark ships.

For a moment, a grim smile appeared.

“Very well.”

She turned her secondary guns toward them.

“Come and try.”

And the battle continued.