Chương 325: 138.Hunters and Hunted 2

The second the Seawolf started shrinking back, my first thought was that it looked too natural. Natural like it didn't belong on our side to begin with. Like the cross-section we'd just managed to scrape off with the gravity dust was nothing more than a layer of skin it had shed in annoyance, and now that the skin was gone, it was going back. Going back to that place we couldn't see, couldn't touch, couldn't even figure out which direction to swear at.

In the center of the main display, the twisted geometric shadow forced out by the graviton spatial torpedoes was pulling its edges inward. Not retreating as a whole. More like something folded in multiple layers, pulling the small section of "tooth" it had extended into three-dimensional space back out, inch by inch. The gravity-dust field was still repelling, still vibrating, but the amplitude was already thinning.

"Seawolf cross-section contracting." Akari's voice was still flat — flat like someone walking a tightrope over a deadline.

"Gravity net effective containment time… correcting… six seconds. No, five and a half."

"Five and a half?" Jess repeated quietly.

"That's not containment. That's insurance fraud."

"For a higher-dimensional target, just touching it is already a miracle." Aida stared at the monitoring curves, tone cold enough to dissect someone's hope.

"The gravity net isn't a cage. It's sandpaper. Keep grinding, and the first thing to tear will be our own field stabilizers." Good. The Chief Technical Officer never disappoints. She always manages to drop a bucket of ice on your head exactly when you need cold water the most. I stared at the cross-section, my brain racing through three separate protocols — main-battery firing solutions, missile tracking, close-range reactive fire — and hitting a wall in the exact same place every time. Can't lock on.

Not a lack of firepower. Not a lack of firing angles. It was because what we were looking at wasn't a complete enemy vessel. It was just a higher-dimensional fault plane scraped out by a gravity field. The main battery needed three-dimensional coordinates. Missiles needed a stable silhouette. Fire control needed something that at least resembled a thing. But all the Seawolf was giving us right now was a wound that was already retracting.

"Captain, main battery's out," I said, faster than I expected.

"Opening fire now will only scatter the cross-section. The main body is still deeper. We haven't even touched its true depth." Ash didn't take his eyes off the main display.

"Conclusion."

"We have to wedge it open first," I said. Maki was the first to turn and look at me. The look was short, but I knew she'd already understood what I meant. That was one of the most annoying things about her — I'd barely started a sentence, and she'd already caught the end of it. It made even my buildup feel redundant. Aida followed immediately.

"If it's only a cross-sectional contraction, that means it's recovering its contact surface. In theory, if we inject sufficient phase disruption into the most unstable point of the cross-section, we can force that small three-dimensional projection to hold longer, maybe even—" She paused for half a beat, as if extremely reluctant to endorse this kind of insane tactic.

"Maybe even drag the whole thing out a little further."

"Phase-oscillation warheads," I said. Jess snapped her head toward me.

"Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm reciting a takeout menu?"

"No," Jess said.

"You look like you're getting ready to go punch a dog that doesn't exist in this dimension."

"Thank you. That's a compliment." On the main display, the Seawolf's cross-section shrank another notch. Four seconds. Maybe less. Akari had already started counting down.

"Local repulsion field loosening. Cross-section boundary collapsed by twelve percent… twenty…" Lan rapidly overlaid another analysis layer.

"Phase-dimensional noise on the outer edge of the cross-section is converging. If we're going to hit it, we can only hit the 'breach,' not the center. The center is fake — no, at least to us, it's fake. The true mass axis is still behind it."

"Mark the breach!" I said.

"Sent to tactical." A string of white lines popped up in front of me immediately. It wasn't a normal targeting box. It was a set of incredibly ugly, constantly self-correcting, twisted curves. Looking at it too long made your scalp crawl, because the thing entirely defied any polite human expectation of space. You couldn't clearly say if it was moving left or inward, rising or folding back. It was like someone had crumpled a piece of paper and then demanded you understand it in terms of "front, back, high, low."

Simply put: this thing was repulsive.

"Captain." I stared at the breach calculation.

"Main battery solution delay is too high. Even if we calibrate now, we can't catch up to its retraction speed." Ash finally looked at me. Just one glance. But with that one glance, the whole bridge understood. Jess understood first. Maki understood too. Roy said nothing, but the knuckles on his hands over the helm tightened visibly. Even Lan pulled back the trace of emotion she'd been trying to suppress, wiping her expression completely clean. Because the meaning of that look was too clear.

If the bridge couldn't hit it, someone had to go out there and press the gun to its head. Maki spoke first, voice dead straight.

"I oppose immediate deployment." I froze. …Not because she opposed it. Honestly, it would be weirder if she didn't oppose it first. I froze because she'd actually beaten me to the punch. Now, if I followed up with I'll go, I'd just look like an adolescent idiot deliberately picking a fight with the executive officer. Even if I might naturally lean a little in that direction anyway. But I didn't want to look like it right now. Maki ignored my momentary stall and kept going.

"Reason one: cross-section is still unstable. Reason two: Kamikaze engine cooldown incomplete — this vessel cannot guarantee a secondary extraction. Reason three: the Seawolf may be deliberately contracting its cross-section specifically to force us into deploying mobile units." Excellent. Textbook answer. So textbook I'd have to wait in line just to pick a flaw in it. But Ash didn't immediately adopt it either. He just asked:"And if we don't deploy?" This time it was my turn.

"Then it gets away." I stared at the breach on the main display.

"Or worse — it's not really running, just repositioning to find a softer spot than Airlock Three to bite next. We're not chasing an afterimage right now. We're trying to catch the exact second it bares its teeth. If we let this window go, nobody knows if we'll ever get the same gravity-net conditions again."

"You want to go yourself?" Maki looked at me. I looked back.

"Yes."

"Reason."

"Because I'm the one reading this breach rhythm." I threw the tactical plot onto the secondary screen.

"The main battery system can't keep up with its deformation frequency, but a person can. Right now, the person on this bridge who best understands which part isn't 'shadow' but the actual contact point, is me." Jess chimed in immediately.

"The deputy can cover the tactical station." I looked at her sideways. She didn't look back, just stared at the main display, as if afraid that turning around would make it look too much like she was helping me. …Fine. At least you have a conscience. Aida glanced at me.

"Technical addendum. Phase-oscillation warheads aren't for blowing the Seawolf up. They're for 'jamming' its cross-section. If the Type-0 can shove a warhead into the edge of the breach, the localized phase turbulence from the detonation should, in theory, cause the higher-dimensional contraction to fail, forcing the Seawolf to expose at least another eight to twelve percent of its three-dimensional projection." This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"In theory," Jess repeated, very quietly.

"You're learning fast today," Aida replied coldly. Akari suddenly spoke up.

"Cross-section retraction speed is slowing." Everyone on the bridge looked at the main display at once. It really had slowed. Not stopped. More like the Seawolf was hesitating too. It could have pulled its teeth all the way back in one breath, but it stalled for a fraction of a second at a specific point.

A second layer of fine fold-lines began to appear along the twisted repulsion outline in the gravity-dust field — like some massive entity, originally hidden behind the curtain, had tried to pull back so fast that its inner skeleton had accidentally scraped against the edge of our world. Lan's pupils contracted.

"It's not purely retreating."

"…It's evaluating us," I said. Ash made a low sound of acknowledgment.

"It wants to know if we have the nerve to take this step." The moment that sentence landed, the situation suddenly felt even less dignified. So we weren't the only ones gambling. The Seawolf was gambling too. It was betting that the Yukikaze didn't have the guts, the margin, or the speed of decision to stick a hand into this closing breach. Unfortunately, it picked the wrong ship today. Or rather — It picked the wrong unlucky bastard sitting at the tactical station.

"Executive Officer," Ash said.

"Here."

"Prepare for tactical station handover. Jess moves up to acting deputy, assumes tactical monitoring. Once Hoshino leaves her seat, all bridge fire-control data transfers to Jess. You oversee the overall pacing." Maki was silent for less than half a second. That half-second was short. Too short to even count as hesitation. More like she was forcibly suppressing some instinctive objection.

"Understood," she said. Something tightened in my chest. Not because I was going out. Because Maki hadn't tried to stop me again. She just looked at me, eyes cold, but heavier than usual. Like it wasn't that she didn't want to stop me — she just knew she couldn't, and shouldn't. Sometimes that kind of understanding is harder to take than opposition. Because it makes you acutely aware that you're not just showing off. You really are putting a piece of your life on the line.

"Hoshino." Ash looked at me.

"Here."

"Type-0, load phase-oscillation warheads. The objective is not to sink the Seawolf. It's to force it out. You only get one approach window. Miss it, and you don't come back." My mouth moved faster than my brain.

"Thanks for the reminder. Very inspiring." Jess swore under her breath on the spot.

"You're still talking back at a time like this."

"What else am I supposed to do?" I said, unbuckling the restraints and standing up.

"Would crying on my way out offer more tactical value?"

"At least it would be more human."

"Didn't we just confirm that being too human is my biggest problem?" I said it and immediately felt like something was slightly off about that sentence. Unfortunately, there was no time to review my own wording. The tactical station handover display had already switched to Jess's side. I transferred the primary monitoring clearance to her in one push, grabbed my jacket, and stepped back. Maki called out to me.

"Shimo." …This person really has no right to say my name like that at a time like this. I turned around. She hadn't stood up, still sitting at the executive officer's station, but her whole body was wound tight. The shoulder line of her white uniform was immaculate. Her eyes were more direct than they'd been at any point in the last hour.

"Third fold-line, lower-right of the breach," she said.

"That's not noise. It's a fold-back. Don't go near that side when you go in." I paused. Then realized: she wasn't giving me one more tactical note. She was using the only language she'd allow herself to give me something that meant — don't die.

"Got it," I said. Jess cut in, tone as punchable as ever, but with a tightness at the tail end I didn't want to admit I'd heard.

"If you actually flush that dog out, I'll consider saying two fewer things about you starting today."

"Don't bother." I gave her one last look before opening the hatch.

"Stay annoying. It's more reassuring."

"… Go to hell." Good. That was right. If even Jess had suddenly turned gentle, I'd probably start wondering if I was already dead. I turned and walked fast toward the aft section of the bridge. The door opened behind me and closed again. The alert lights were still flashing. The ship's corridors carried the low hum that came with full-ship pressurization — like the Yukikaze herself was holding her breath, keeping herself upright on that single inhale.

And the only thing left in my head was the last image from the main display. The Seawolf. The Galactic Imperial Military's hunting dog. Fine. If you won't come out whole, then I'll drag you out myself. Honestly, the thing that actually hammered I'm going on a sortie into my skull wasn't the alarms on the bridge that had been trying to scramble my brain into paste, or the geometric shadow on the main display retreating back into hyperspace like it was laughing at the intelligence tax on three-dimensional life.

It was the zipper on the flight suit. When I pulled off my regular jacket, my fingers caught twice. First time, the sleeve snagged on the wrist strap. Second time was more embarrassing — I grabbed the zipper tab backwards.

"… Excellent, Hoshino Shimo. You haven't even launched yet and you're already being shot down by your own clothing." I muttered to the cold metal of the locker door. The face reflected back wasn't doing me any favors — pale as something recently returned from the medbay, with a faint shadow under the eyes from not sleeping enough last night. If you put that expression on a recruitment poster, the only headline it could carry would be: Join the Yukikaze. Experience a Fresh New Life of Underage Industrial Injury.

The flight suit fit closer than the training gear from simulation class, and felt heavier. Not because the weight was actually that different. It was the way it wrapped around you — forcing you to acknowledge something: what was about to be launched wasn't a simulation pod, wasn't an algorithm, wasn't the safe version with an instructor grading you from behind. It was me. And there was no restart button. I took a slow breath and fastened the comm collar. Click — clean and almost cruel.

I was bent down securing the leg-side latch when footsteps sounded outside the door. Not the bridge kind of I'm too busy dying to announce myself footsteps. Lighter. Less organized. The kind that suggested a group of people who had no business being in this section had gotten here by riding the immunity of being adolescents. The door opened. I already knew I was right.

"She's here!" Sayo was first through the door, her face broadcasting I know I shouldn't be here, and I'm here anyway, and I'm not going to reflect on that at all in full resolution. Mio Takanashi stood slightly behind her, quieter. Her eyes swept my flight suit first, then the chest harness I hadn't fully secured yet, and then paused, just slightly. … What is that pause supposed to mean.

Takuya Hayashi was already looking left and right the moment he stepped in, like he was afraid someone would drop from the ceiling any second and drag all of us off to write disciplinary statements. Minato Hojo stood at the back, somehow holding a toolbox he'd apparently picked up from somewhere, looking like he'd originally had actual business to attend to and had been rerouted into spectating my life's critical incident by the other three.

I pressed my hand to my chest harness and looked at these four middle schoolers without expression.

"What do you want." Sayo blinked, completely unabashed.

"We came to cheer you on."

"…Did your teachers never explain that you shouldn't barge in when the atmosphere is at peak writing a will intensity?"

"That's such a bad omen!" Takuya protested immediately, voice loud enough to suggest he was genuinely afraid I'd pull a will out of my pocket in the next five seconds.

"And you're not going to die!"

"Thank you. Hearing you say that actually makes me feel more like I'm going to die."

"Why?!"

"Because that line usually only shows up five minutes before someone dies." Minato quietly hugged the toolbox a little tighter, as if reconsidering whether he'd joined the right side. Mio didn't laugh. She just stepped forward, and very naturally straightened the chest strap that had shifted half an inch to one side. The instant her fingertips touched the surface of the flight suit, I nearly flinched on reflex. Not because it was unpleasant. Exactly the opposite — because the gesture was too natural.

Like adjusting the collar of someone about to walk out the door. My brain actually short-circuited for a second.

"It was crooked," Mio said.

"…Oh."

"If you're planning to fly the Type-0 dressed like that, at least die tidily."

"Is there something wrong with your idea of comfort too?"

"Is there?" Mio looked at me, tone level.

"I'm being sincere." Sincere enough that I nearly unclipped the comm collar and threw it at her. Sayo let out a laugh beside me, then immediately pressed closer, eyes bright as a primary schooler about to go on a field trip — if you ignored the fact that this was a military hangar bay and not a school bus meeting point.

"Hoshino-senpai, are you really going to fly that Type-0?"

"What else would I be doing in this — auditioning as a limited-time cafeteria maid?"

"I'd go see that," Takuya said, very quietly. I turned to look at him. Takuya threw both hands up immediately.

"No — I mean — I mean that was a metaphor! A metaphor!"

"Good. An underage male's speech has begun drifting into dangerous waters."

"I haven't done anything!"

"Being born into this conversation is the original sin."

"That's too much!" Minato finally couldn't hold it and turned his head, laughing — not widely, just a small involuntary lift at the corner of his mouth, the kind that someone who rarely laughs shows when they forget to lock their expression back in place. That kind of laugh from that kind of person hits harder than a loud one, because it makes the noisy crowd around him go quiet for half a beat. Then Minato shifted the toolbox up a little and said:"We're not here to get in the way." His voice was quiet, but steady.

"Just — before you go out there, we wanted you to see a few people who are still alive and standing on your side." … That was too far out of bounds for a cheer. I was about to fire something back, but my throat caught. Went tight and dry. Probably because on the bridge, everyone had been busy converting fear into data. Here, these four kids had just dropped the most inconvenient part — we're going to worry about you — directly into my hands, without any packaging at all.

Sayo nodded hard, then immediately added something fast, like she was afraid the atmosphere was about to get too heavy:"Right, so you have to come back. If you're okay when you get back, I'll give up Mio's secret stash." Mio turned to look at Sayo immediately.

"I don't have a stash."

"You do."

"That's storage."

"Storage under your own pillow?"

"That's the safest place."

"Isn't that exactly what a stash is!" I watched the two of them instantly start snapping at each other, and let out a short laugh. The moment it came out, the tightness in my chest that had been sitting there like a seatbelt cinched too tight actually loosened a little. Strange. A few minutes ago in the changing room, I'd felt like the whole ship was pushing me forward. Now, after getting cornered by these four middle schoolers and dragged through a round of bickering, I felt more like a person again.

Takuya seemed to finally catch an opening to say something useful. He cleared his throat.

"Anyway. Hoshino-senpai. Good luck." Minato nodded.

"Good luck." Sayo raised her hand like she was leading a class chant before an activity.

"Hoshino-senpai — go beat the hell out of whatever's hiding and won't show its face!"

"That has great energy, I'll give you that," I said, pulling my gloves on deliberately slowly.

"But from a tactical standpoint, you're describing it like a delinquent girl about to corner someone in an alley."

"Does it matter?"

"It does. We're talking about a hyperdimensional stealth submarine, not some protection-money collector outside the school gate."

"But they're both annoying."

"…That part is accurate." I pressed the last latch down to its lowest setting, raised my hand, and ruffled Sayo's head. Then immediately felt a layer of goosebumps rise — that was too much of an adult thing to do, completely wrong for me. So I reached over and messed up Takuya's fringe as well, in the interest of fairness.

"Hey, why am I—""Because you were standing in range."

"What kind of tyranny is this!" Mio looked at me. Her gaze stayed quiet for a moment, then she spoke.

"Hoshino." No senpai this time. No extra syllable at the end. I looked up without meaning to.

"Don't push it." Three words. More like a needle than any rousing speech or victory chant — hitting exactly the spot I least wanted touched. Because I knew, clearly, that what I was actually afraid of right now wasn't dying badly — though that too — it was that this was my first time in a real Type-0, and I had to do it under conditions where everyone was counting on me to get that phase-oscillation warhead through, and I had to look like I had it handled. I didn't have it handled. I was just still standing.

"…I know," I said, looking away, pretending to adjust the seam on the wrist of my glove.

"I'm not an idiot." Sayo added quietly from the side: "People who say that first usually—""Shut up." A short preparatory tone sounded from the hangar direction, low and dull as a hammer strike against the ship's ribs. The moment it hit, all the noise in the air was cut clean, and reality snapped back. Time. I walked out from among them. The sound of my boots on the metal floor became very clear — clear enough that I could count my own steps. One, two, three. None of them felt like a heroic departure.

More like fate pressing me forward by the back of the neck. But at this point, complaining about it wouldn't do anything. At the corner, I stopped and turned back one last time. The four of them stood there looking at me. Sayo had her hand up again, like she wanted to shout enough for the whole ship. Takuya had his hand up too, posture a little awkward, like he was copying someone else on the spot. Minato didn't shout, but he was standing very straight.

Mio just watched me, expression steady in a way that was quietly infuriating. Then Sayo finally let it out:"Hoshino-senpai, good luck—!" Takuya and Minato were half a beat behind, but followed.

"Good luck!"

"Good luck." Mio was last. Her voice wasn't loud. But it was somehow the clearest.

"Come back." …Those two words were the most out-of-bounds thing anyone had said. I turned back around, raised one hand, and gave a received gesture over my shoulder without looking back.

"I know."

"Also," Sayo called after me, "don't throw up in the cockpit the first time you fly a real one!" My foot nearly slipped.

"Are you here to see me off or to curse me?!" A burst of laughter broke out behind me. Good. That was right. At least when I actually settled into the Type-0 cockpit and looked at the hangar launch rail opening like a pair of black scissors in the dark, the first thing that surfaced in my head wouldn't be I might die — It would be: When I get back, I'm personally drafting Sayo for deck-scrubbing duty. Not a heroic thought. Petty, even. Stupid.

But precisely because it was that small, that dumb, that alive — I felt a little more steady. Because what really kills you isn't fear. It's when you give up the alive parts of yourself before you've even left.