Chương 208: 79. Abnormal Signal 3

The night outside the bridge was quiet enough that, past a certain point, you started noticing the small things sound usually buries. Like the fact that Maki's breathing had slowed since she'd left the navigation console. Like the faint red mark on the back of her hand from an afternoon training scrape.

Like the way she was sitting now — not the textbook posture from a UIMA training diagram, but leaning back just slightly, as if she'd finally let herself step down from operational mode into something closer to a person. I watched her for a while before saying quietly, "You don't look much like the standard crew figure that comes with a bridge model right now." Her brow twitched, just barely.

"Then what do I look like?" I thought about it.

"Like someone who actually gets tired." She didn't shoot that down right away. That alone was rare. Two seconds later, flat: "I do get tired."

"You don't usually look like it."

"That's because you don't usually look closely enough." That caught me off guard. I didn't snap back. Because it wasn't the first time she'd said something like that tonight, and the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit she was right. I'd always looked at Maki from the surface. Saw the cold. Saw the sharp tongue. Saw how she could be harsh one moment and then step up in some strange, exact moment the next. Saw her like a well-kept blade — beautiful, sharp, not meant for touching.

But tonight I learned that blade hadn't just grown that way on its own. She'd been trained for it. She'd been placed in that kind of position. She knew how to stand where the weight was heaviest, and how to hold the rhythm steady when everyone else started to slip. And none of it — not one piece — was something she'd ever bring out and show on her own. Something in me itched. Not the urge to run my mouth. The urge to know a little more.

"Maki," I kept my voice low, "when you were a kid, in the simulator bridge — what did you use to think about?" This time she actually turned to look at me. In the cold light, her eyes were a deep, flat grey, as quiet as the night outside.

"You've got a lot of questions tonight."

"It's a long night."

"That's not a reason to interrogate me."

"I'm not interrogating you," I said, playing innocent.

"I'm just... a little curious." She studied me, like she was auditing how much of that was true. Finally she looked away, her voice dropping. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

"At first, nothing."

"Mm?"

"I just thought it was quieter there than anywhere else in the house." I went still. She kept going, her tone just as level — and it was exactly because it was so level that you didn't want to interrupt.

"Later, once I learned to read the numbers, the bearings, the signal lights — I started thinking. If a ship really only has these things to trust, then whoever's standing here had better not be an idiot." I looked at her, not sure whether to think that was the most Maki thing I'd ever heard, or something closer to lonely. Because she wasn't fishing for sympathy. She was just plainly telling me what she used to think. I opened my mouth. In the end all I said, very quietly, was:"You're not an idiot."

The corner of Maki's mouth moved, barely.

"That's a low bar."

"What do you want, then? I can't exactly stand up right now and shout 'Major Maki Kushima is the pride of the Yukikaze.'" She turned her head toward me.

"Try it, and I'll throw you out of here."

"This is the bridge. Not the outer deck."

"Then I'll just have to shut your mouth for you."... Wait. Coming from her, wasn't the threat level on that line a little too high? My heart gave an unprofessional stumble. I snapped my face forward, pretending to study the route indicators at the edge of the main display. The bridge went quiet for a moment. Then, to my surprise, she spoke first.

"Hoshino."

"Mm?"

"The way you sat in the captain's chair earlier. Very stupid." I blinked, then almost laughed out loud.

"You've been holding that in this whole time?"

"There was work to do."

"And now there isn't, so you're twisting the knife."

"This is a post-incident correction." I couldn't hold it back anymore. Afraid of being too loud, I buried my face against the back of my hand, shoulders shaking. Maki said nothing beside me. But I was certain that this time she wasn't just watching me make a fool of myself with cold detachment. Because out of the corner of my eye, I saw it clearly — she was laughing too. Faint. Brief. Barely even a full smile.

Just the corners of her mouth loosening upward a little, her eyes losing some of their chill, as if she'd finally let that usual outer shell drop by a few millimeters. But those few millimeters were enough. I slowly reeled my own laughter back in and turned to look at her. She noticed and immediately tightened her expression again.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"That sounded incredibly fake."

"Then just assume I'm logging an anomaly." She narrowed her eyes.

"Hoshino."

"Okay, okay," I raised my hands in surrender, then couldn't help adding, quietly, "I just... didn't know you could smile." She went quiet for a beat. This time, she didn't deny it. She only said, very low:"Depends on who." For one second it felt like someone had reached in and given my heart a light squeeze. Not hard. Not painful. But unmistakable. I looked at her and suddenly the whole bridge felt too quiet.

The cold glow of the main display, the sea of stars past the window, the distant, steady chime of the system alerts — all of it was still there, but it had all receded, as if something closer had quietly surfaced in a night that was supposed to be nothing but watch duty and log entries. Maki probably realized her last line had come out a little too direct. She looked away, fingers drifting to the edge of the manual on her lap, as if searching for some small motion to make herself look less exposed.

I didn't want to push her. If I got clever now, I'd probably scare off whatever had just barely made it to the surface. So I turned my eyes forward too, and sat with her in that long, quiet stretch of night. After a while, I said, very softly, "Then... can I keep looking, later?" The second it left my mouth, I felt my ears go warm. Because it sounded exactly like it meant something else. But Maki didn't play dumb, and she didn't come back at me either.

She just sat there, quiet for a couple of seconds, then answered — low, light, but perfectly clear:"... Show me what you've got." I nearly wanted to copy this whole watch straight into my personal record. Not because anything huge had happened. Not because of the first-contact signal. Not because Captain Tobita had said "not bad." But because in a corner of the Yukikaze's bridge, deep in the night, among the cold light, the manuals, the radar screens, and the stars, I suddenly understood something.

Some distances aren't closed by all the daytime noise and back-and-forth bickering. You have to wait for a night like this. Wait until the whole ship goes quiet. Wait until whatever just happened has passed. Wait until people are finally a little tired, a little loose, a little less determined to hold themselves perfectly straight. Then the things that never usually get said, never get shown, never get admitted — start to leak out from the edges.

And sitting beside her, less than an arm's length away, I had the feeling that tonight's watch wasn't really over yet. But at least — it had already become something completely different from how it started.