Trembling Into the Blue

by Shouji Gatou

  “Right,” Tessa responded. “Just about as planned, then. Maintain course, decrease speed to three knots.”

  “Speed, three knots. Aye, ma’am.” The slow-moving submarine slowed down even further. They were preparing to pick up Sousuke and Kaname, who had just fallen into the sea.

  “Send the turtle for them,” Tessa ordered. “Goddard-san, you have control.”

  “Aye, ma’am. Launching Turtle-1, starboard.” The officer of the deck grabbed the stick and pressed a button.

  The “turtle” was a kind of wire-controlled mini-USV they kept on board: it was about the size and shape of a sea turtle (hence the name) and moved through the water with fins based on AS technology while wielding a transceiver and optical sensors. It was, in effect, a swimming periscope, and it allowed the de Danaan to safely search the ocean’s surface.

  The OOD swam the turtle toward Sousuke and Kaname’s location. Once it reached them, they’d put on diving gear and grab hold of it, and it would reel them down to where the submarine was. It would then bring them alongside one of the hatches, through which they’d enter an airlock and finally come aboard.

  It was a process that not only Sousuke but other members of the ground forces had undergone countless times, as surfacing the whole boat to pick up one or two people was both inefficient and risky. The sub had already surfaced once an hour earlier to take the rest of the ground team (with their helicopters) on board.

  The ST spoke again, suddenly nervous, “Sonar. I’m getting hard splashing on the surface of the water.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They might be drowning. I’m hearing repeated impacts and screaming... I don’t like the sound of it.”

  Abruptly, everyone in the control room grew tense. It wasn’t uncommon, during a water landing, to see someone to get tangled in a wet parachute and drown. Could Sousuke and Kaname have...?

  “We need to take action. Get a diver on standby at Hatch 12. Have them ready to go at—”

  “Ah, wait a minute. I’m getting shouting. It’s really loud. It’s... Japanese, I think? I’ll put it through. You tell me.” The ST switched the channel input to play the sound over the control room’s speakers.

  Indeed, Tessa could indeed hear the kicking and struggling in the water, as well as screaming voices. She gulped and listened carefully to what was being said.

  The statements captured by the de Danaan’s high-performance sonar were as follows:

  《Stop it, Chidori! Glub...》

  《Shut up! You deserve to drown, you jerk!》

  《Hrk... you’re... strangling me...》

  《I sure am! Have you ever thought about how I feel?! You callous jerk! You monster! I hate you!》

  《Hrgh... gblurgh...》

  Mardukas, standing very still beside her, looked over at Tessa as if requesting her judgment. He didn’t know Japanese, so the conversation was beyond him; the same went for the rest of the crew. They were all turned in their seats, gazing at Tessa, who was listening carefully. They all had the same question written on their faces: Why isn’t the captain helping them?

  “Captain?” someone ventured.

  At last, Tessa spoke sullenly. “They’re fine,” she said, then slouched back into her chair.

  After much Sturm und Drang, Kaname finally put on the unfamiliar diving gear, grabbed onto the strange robot turtle, and dove into the water with Sousuke. Below the water, a massive submarine—the Tuatha de Danaan—was waiting.

  Kaname had never seen anything like it. It had smooth, aerodynamic lines; what she could make out in the diffused light from the water’s surface suggested a silhouette not unlike a throwing knife. Then again, its size made it hard to say just what its shape really was...

  The closer they got, the more overawed she became by its scale. It looked as big as a Shinjuku skyscraper; or perhaps, more pointedly, like a black mountain lying on its side.

  Guided by Sousuke, Kaname entered a small hatch at about the middle of the boat. They waited in a narrow, cylindrical airlock while the water pumped out, and when it was finally done, she could at last tear herself free from the vile rubber mouthpiece of her breathing apparatus.

  “Ugh... You never said... it was a submarine,” Kaname said with a cough, flexing her fingers open and shut. She didn’t know why, but her fingertips were tingling.

  “You’ve been told that several times,” Sousuke protested. “You’ve been on board it once before, as well.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “The conditions then were more chaotic, of course; you were unconscious at the time.”

  Kaname responded to that with a silent glare. They opened a hatch in the floor and climbed down a ladder to the deck below. Waiting for them in the passageway was a girl with ash blonde hair, dressed in a khaki-colored uniform.

  “Tessa?” Kaname said cautiously.

  “Yes. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Tessa smiled gently and inclined her head. “Welcome, Chidori Kaname-san. You have my permission to board.”

  And so, for the second time, Kaname boarded the amphibious assault submarine, the Tuatha de Danaan.

  26 August, 1625 Hours (Perio Standard Time)

  Berildaob Island, Republic of Perio, Western Pacific Ocean

  United States Armed Forces Chemical Munitions Disposal Facility

  The explosion of an attack helicopter bathed the coral reefs in a red glow. Wreathed in flame against the night sky, it wobbled like a slowing top, plunged, then broke into pieces against the ocean’s surface.

  Machine guns roared. Bullets flew back and forth. Patrol boats burned, and black smoke rose. On the beach of this battle-stricken island sat a lone indigo arm slave, the M6A3 Dark Bushnell. It was a top-of-the-line machine that belonged to the US Navy’s special operations force, the SEALs. Or rather... it had been.

  The eight-meter-tall humanoid weapon had been reduced to a smoking husk, its arms and legs bent at grotesque angles. Strewn around it were clumps of metal guts and sprays of high macromolecular gel fluid. Beyond the violent sounds of explosion and shelling came the roars and shouts of the soldiers of the counterinsurgency. These had quickly changed into screams of despair.

  “Echo-84. We’re hit! Mayday! Mayday!”

  “My leg’s out! Need assistance!”

  “That red bastard... He killed Bob!”

  “—stroyed. Repeat, November-1 destroyed! The lieutenant is dead! Command transferring to November-3—”

  “Evacuate! We gotta get out of here!”

  “Help me! Someone! Help! Help...!”

  Staff Sergeant Ed Olmos could hear his allies’ cries through the transceiver, but had no time to listen to them. The AS he was piloting—also an M6A3—was running across the concrete-hardened shoreline. He had no allies nearby; he was the last of his three-machine team. The operators of the other two had been elites who had undergone strict training and boasted skills at the top of their class. And yet, they had been killed—effortlessly, by a single AS. By that unidentified red AS...

  “No way... this can’t be happening,” he muttered. “Shit...” Inside the cockpit, Olmos had gone pale. He couldn’t stop sweating; his hands were shaking uncontrollably. His dark eyes frantically scanned for the enemy. Where is he? Where is he?

  The sensors of the M6A3 Dark Bushnell had completely lost track of the enemy machine. All it could pick up was the thick black smoke, the remains of his allies, and the collapsing buildings around him. Where is he? Where is that red— Olmos’s racing thoughts stopped as the smoke in front of him swirled.

  Driven by long-honed instinct, Olmos dove his machine to the side. A rocket grazed his left flank and exploded behind him. Unfazed by the shockwave, he immediately opened fire at the faintly visible shadow before him. His machine’s carbine spat out 40mm shells, which trailed streams of light as they disappeared into the smoke.

  Three three-burst shots; they had to have hit. Yet... there was no sign of impact. The enemy machine showed
itself; cutting through the smoke, it rushed him at high speed.

  It was a dark red AS with a slender yet strong silhouette, a V-shaped upper torso, and a diamond-like head. It looked like a Western-style AS, but Olmos had never seen a model like it in any catalog. Its elegant exterior belied the ominous power that seemed to lurk beneath. He waited to see what the machine would do—and bizarrely, what it did was laugh. The mocking sound of the pilot’s voice rang out from the machine’s external speakers.

  “You son of a bitch!” Olmos roared and charged forward, suddenly enraged. He let fly from his grenade launcher straight at the enemy machine, close enough that he, too, could be caught up in the blast. Then he unloaded the rest of his rifle clip at the enemy’s last known location. That should show the bastard, he thought.

  But a single moment later, out of the raging storm of flame and fragments, it emerged. Slowly... and completely unharmed. Even after all that... “Oh, no...” he moaned.

  The red machine turned to the stunned Olmos and said, “Out of ammo? I feel a chill... It’s not good to be so wasteful.”

  Olmos groaned in despair.

  “Incidentally, you’re the last of the lot. I had a few who spent their last moments weeping and pleading... so I applaud your gumption, soldier boy.”

  “Shut the hell up!” Olmos yelled. His Dark Bushnell tossed its spent rifle aside and pulled a small handgun from the hardpoint on its back. He took swift aim at the enemy machine’s head and fired, but the bullets seemed to bounce off of the air itself, as if they had hit some invisible shield. Beyond the flying red sparks, he could see the red machine standing there, entirely nonplussed. “Hey...” Olmos whispered, panicking.

  The red AS raised an index finger and wagged it side to side. “Tsk, tsk, tsk... None of that, now. Let me show you how it’s done. Ready...?” The machine pointed its finger at Olmos, mimicking a gun. Then came a word: “Bang.”

  In that instant, the air around it warped. An invisible force burst from the red AS’s fingertip and raced through the air. It wasn’t a projectile; it was something unknown, a blast of some strange kind of energy. The whatever-it-was passed right through the Dark Bushnell’s armor, causing the machine’s cockpit to explode with the operator inside.

  Olmos died without even knowing what happened. The last Dark Bushnell of the counterinsurgency, having lost its operator and control system, collapsed on the spot, never to move again. There wasn’t a single scratch on its armor.

  ●

  When the last of the enemies had fled and the battle was officially over, he took a roll count. Of the ten ASes he had serving under him, one was destroyed, and one had lost its left arm. Losses from infantry and others totaled six dead and ten wounded. Not insignificant, but considering that they’d gone up against one of the strongest military entities in the world, it had to be considered an excellent showing.

  After all, in turn, they had taken out twelve of the enemy’s ASes, destroyed half of their helicopters and attack craft, and forced them to leave at least two dozen bodies on the beach. Those men would never make it home again, the poor things. Ah, stars and stripes forever!

  “Let’s see, now...” He walked his own AS to the base’s chemical weapons repository. Chunks of wall here and there had been taken out by stray shots; it was a sight that would cause anyone who knew the site’s function to turn pale with fright.

  Not him, though. He simply squatted his machine down into its disembarking pose, then descended from the cockpit to the ground. He was getting the hang of the artificial leg these last couple of weeks. He looked up at the red AS, which seemed to be resting after a satisfying day of slaughter.

  It was called the Codarl-i and known among his organization as “Plan 1058.” It was an upgrade to the far more flawed Plan 1056, which he had lost four months ago, along with his right leg, in the mountains of North Korea.

  “But if I’d had this one then...” A dark smile appeared on his face as he thought back on that battle—on his fight with Mithril’s white AS.

  “Gauron.” Someone called his name. A man was walking toward him. He was around thirty years old, large and burly, with a boxer’s frame. He had one of those ambiguous ethnicities; a face that could just as easily be Latino as it could East Asian. There was a sleepy cast to his eyes, but at the same time, his carriage suggested a man who wasn’t fazed by anything. His most distinguishing characteristic, though, were the small round glasses that sat perched atop his round nose.

  “Kurama,” Gauron said. “I finished without you. Where have you been?”

  “I was on the radio with Mr. Zinc,” the man named Kurama answered bluntly. He seemed completely indifferent to the battle that had just gone down around him.

  Gauron just hummed speculatively.

  “You were right,” Kurama said. “They seem to be coming.”

  “Oh?” Gauron inquired.

  “Reports are that the submarine boarded the strike team en route,” Kurama confirmed. “This isn’t just recon. Apparently, they want to take us on.”

  At this, Gauron grinned and let out a chuckle. “How kind of them. They latched right on to the bait.”

  “Fairly extreme bait...” Kurama said, surveying the carnage. The still-burning ASes, the combat helicopters, the American soldiers’ bodies littering the ground here and there... The news of the operation’s failure would surely cause heads at the Pentagon to roll.

  “Of course it is,” Gauron chuckled. “You know I love to make a scene.”

  “I do know that.” Kurama produced a cigarette case, withdrew a cigarette-sized carrot stick, and crunched down on it. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “It’s possible your favorite couple is on board.”

  “What did you say?” Gauron’s attention sharpened.

  “We can’t be sure ourselves,” Kurama said, “but apparently they’re no longer in Tokyo.”

  “Oh-ho... Well, well. Isn’t that nice. Fantastic.”

  “I’m not sure why you’re so happy,” Kurama pointed out. “If she dies with Mithril, we lose our whole objective.”

  Gauron chuckled again. “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll try hard not to let her die.” He shook his head gleefully. There was a joy in his haggard features that couldn’t possibly be healthy. He really was happy, though. This plan had called for him to do several things he disliked, and one was having to treat the boy and the girl as separate entities. But to think that circumstances would change to this degree...

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be careful. I won’t let her die. Then again...” Gauron whispered.

  “Then again what?” Kurama asked.

  “Accidents do happen, don’t they?”

  2: Deep Sea Party

  26 August, 0807 Hours (Greenwich Mean Time)

  Sick Bay, Tuatha de Danaan, 200 Meter Depth, West Pacific Ocean

  Tessa seemed far more put-together now than when they’d met months before. Her khaki uniform, with knee-length skirt and indigo tie, lent her an air of distinction. The last time Kaname had seen her, Tessa had been in a baggy T-shirt and cargo pants, and it had been hard to buy her as any kind of top-ranked officer.

  Wow. She really is military... Kaname felt a strange sense of wonder as she peered closely at the girl.

  “Wh-What is it?” Tessa took a half-step back, unsettled by the scrutiny.

  “Oh... nothing,” Kaname said. “How have you been?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” Tessa replied politely. “Kaname-san... you look rather tired.”

  Kaname was on a bed in the sick bay, bundled up in a blanket and sipping hot cocoa. The ship’s doctor had just finished running basic tests on her body temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure; she was a middle-aged black woman named Goldberry who held the military rank of captain. She had rattled off phrases like “you’re looking better already” and “you’ve got quite a constitution,” as she examined her, before giving the diagnosis, “you’re in perfect health.”

  Sousuke was standing in front of the si
ck bay door, chest out in “at ease” posture. Kaname cast a sidelong glance at him as she replied, “I mean, I only got pushed out of a plane, thrown into the ocean, and dragged underwater... you’d have to be an idiot not to find that exhausting. A major idiot...”

  A single bead of sweat appeared on Sousuke’s temple as he listened.

  “I’m sorry...” Tessa apologized. “We’re not equipped to land conventional aircraft here. It must have been such an ordeal...”

  “Hey, it’s okay... I’d been wanting to see you again, too,” Kaname reassured her. “And we’ve got a lot to talk about, right?”

  “Yes, of course there’s that. But first... Sergeant Sagara?”

  “Yes, Colonel, ma’am?” he answered with ridiculous formality.

  “Go to the main hangar,” Tessa ordered. “Find someone there and tell them that we’re heading their way.”

  After a long moment of confusion, Sousuke replied, “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and left the sick bay behind.

  Kaname couldn’t quite explain what, but she felt something was off about their exchange. It was entirely businesslike, lacking any sexual tension or double entendre. Earlier, Tessa had told Kaname that she’d fallen for Sousuke; she’d told her, “let’s both do our best.” Of course, the “both” was a huge misunderstanding on Tessa’s part; Kaname didn’t even like Sousuke that way... From her point of view, it was more of an, “Uh, sure, good luck with that” kind of thing. She’d even almost said that... But still, it did concern her.

  Ever since that day, any time Sousuke had left Tokyo for Mithril work, Kaname would find herself feeling vaguely uneasy. What were Sousuke and Tessa talking about when she wasn’t around? Were they spending all their time together? Were they sneaking into the sub’s gymnasium storehouse to get all hot and heavy and...

  “Kaname-san?” Tessa interrupted.

  “Huh?” Kaname snapped out of her daydream.

  “Do you think you could get dressed? I was hoping to give you a tour of the boat; there are a few things you’ll need to know.”

  “S-Sure. Hang on a minute...” Kaname withdrew into the back of the sick bay and started getting changed. As she took off her swimsuit, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. The alluring figure of a naked girl—smooth, dewy skin; long, black hair that tangled, half-dried, around slender shoulders and voluptuous breasts. She hugged herself to cover her chest, turned around and glanced back... Hey, not a bad view, huh? Pretty good, even... She wouldn’t call herself irresistible, exactly, but she’d say she had it where it counted. Easily a match for her, anyway, Kaname assured herself, then immediately felt extremely stupid about it. Privately mortified, she reddened and sped through putting her clothes on. She slid on a rich blue dress, tied her hair with its usual red ribbon, slipped on her sandals and came out.