Chương 218: 84. Shipboard Combat Tactics 1

After the flight assessment ended, I'd assumed Captain Tobita would give us at least half a day — enough time to collect our souls, our stomachs, and whatever was left of our self-respect off the floor of the sim pods. I was wrong. I had severely underestimated the Yukikaze's personal hostility toward the concept of rest. That afternoon, when the automatic doors to the Security Division training bay slid open in front of us, my first thought wasn't ah, a new module is starting.

It was: does the Federal military just enjoy marching people from one method of death straight into the next? The air by the flight sim pods had been metal, coolant, and the lingering smell of nearly-sacrificed pride. This place was different. Heavier iron in the air, mixed with the rubber of anti-slip flooring, equipment grease, over-dried recycled air, and something harder to name — like someone had ground the sentence don't expect dignity past this point into a fine powder and dusted the whole room with it.

The bay was large, but it didn't have the kind of open space that made you want to look impressive, the way the flight deck did. One wall lined with regulation gear racks — tactical helmets, training sidearms, shields, storage cases, all in perfect order. Order orderly enough to feel slightly threatening. The central floor was marked into white-lined blocks, like a gladiatorial arena reformatted to military spec.

A whiteboard stood at the front, and beside it, a display stand holding a Federal standard combat armor suit — grey-black shell catching the overhead lights with a cold, flat gleam. It didn't look like something built to reassure you. It looked like something built to tell you: if you climb into this and still die, the armor isn't the one to blame. D let out a low whistle the moment we walked in.

"Nice atmosphere," he said.

"Like a prison, a slaughterhouse, and a high school gym successfully interbred and produced a prize-winning offspring."

"That metaphor has biological problems," Harvey said, rubbing his temples. His color had finally improved from the flight session, but his voice still carried the fatigue of a man recently returned from a guided tour of hell.

"No," Lan said, flat.

"I think it's disturbingly accurate." I almost laughed — and swallowed it fast, because the man walking toward us from the far side of the bay was absolutely not someone you wanted to be caught grinning around. Sergeant Takenaka. Head of the Security Division. The same man who'd once worn an expression that clearly said you people had better not turn my warship into a kindergarten, and then proceeded to singlehandedly prove it, flattening the entire middle-school cohort with nothing but that look.

If Captain Tobita felt like a former ace who'd throw you and your craft into the void just to see whether you could fly yourself back, Sergeant Takenaka was a completely different animal. He was a door. Not the kind that welcomes you in. The kind that, the second something starts burning, bleeding, or trying to force its way through, slams shut — and takes whatever's caught in the frame down with it. He wore his Security Division duty uniform with a precision bordering on architectural.

Cuffs straight, shoulder marks level, a universal terminal and a bay access card clipped neatly at his hip. His pace wasn't fast. His expression wasn't harsh. But the second he stepped into the front zone, the air in the room automatically pulled tight. It's a strange thing. Some people don't need to shout. Don't need to slam a table. They just stand there, and you know with total certainty that if you run your mouth right now, he'll pin you to the whiteboard along with it.

Maki stood diagonally ahead of me, posture straight, as if she'd been born knowing exactly how to stand in a room like this. Under the white lights, her profile was clean and cold — even the shadow her lashes cast looked disciplined. I took one look and moved on, before I could develop any opinions about how unreasonably composed she looked in a place like this. Jess had her arms crossed, still carrying some of the residual heat of I bit him once from flight class, but her focus had sharpened.

She's always had a deeply unhealthy — and deeply honest — interest in anything built to take people apart. Akari had already, without anyone asking, switched her terminal to record mode. Aida and Evelyn stood a little further back — Aida reading the room layout, Evelyn studying the armor on the stand with an intensity that suggested she was already imagining what it would feel like sealed inside it. Roy had slipped into the overly-serious mode he defaulted to for any official class.

Ash still looked like very little in this universe had ever managed to genuinely surprise him. Takenaka didn't circle the point. He walked to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and turned to look us over once.

"I'll start with what matters," he said.

"For rookies, my personal preference is defense first, offense later. So the structure of this course looks like this." He turned and wrote three words on the board. Lesson One. The marker paused, then continued. Know Your Armor. I blinked.... Fine. I already knew Security Division classes were going to be rough. But the style of this opener still gave me a very specific sense of déjà vu. Tobita's method was to throw you into space and see whether you could avoid becoming high-speed debris.

Takenaka's method sounded like he was about to calmly say: let's start with how to put on the coffin lid. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. D had clearly landed in the same neighborhood. He dropped his voice to that particular register that pretends to be discreet while ensuring the whole row hears it.

"We're doomed," he murmured.

"It's one of the adults who writes on the board."

"Wouldn't surprise me if he's already got his eye on you," Harvey murmured back.

"That's unfair. I have tremendous enthusiasm for learning."

"That's a survival-instinct deficiency, not enthusiasm." I nearly lost it — but Takenaka chose that exact moment to tap the display stand, and every eye in the room snapped forward.

"This is the Federal Forces standard combat armor," Takenaka said.

"Fitted with the M. K. I. O. core tactical computer." He rapped a knuckle against the chest plate. It produced a clean, thoroughly inhuman metallic clack.

"It runs its own independent air filtration and circulation system. Fully immune to nerve agents, tear gas, whatever's thrown at it. The shell carries an anti-beam coating. On that point, Federal and Imperial armor are identical." Akari's fingers were already flying across her terminal. Roy nodded, visibly locking each line into long-term storage. Evelyn watched the suit with an expression a touch too intent, like she was trying to imagine exactly what it would feel like from the inside.

I was thinking about how pragmatic the Federal military's vision of future warfare actually was. High-tech, self-contained circulation, core computer, anti-beam coating — it all sounded like something out of a recruitment reel. But with Sergeant Takenaka standing in front of it, the atmosphere automatically shifted to: yes, all of this is very nice, and if you still end up dead in it, someone still has to file the report. A second later, Takenaka pushed that pragmatism to its absolute conclusion.

"So," he said, "there are two fastest ways to kill the person wearing it. One: a firearm. Two: close the distance and open them up with a blade." The room went quiet for a beat. I did a quiet mental summary of the class so far. The Federal tech tree climbs all the way up through core tactical computers, anti-gas systems, and anti-beam coatings — and then arrives, at the tactical conclusion, at something even a caveman would understand: shoot them, or cut them.

Civilization progressing with remarkable internal consistency.

"Thermobaric explosives?" D. I turned to look at him. This is the single most maddening — and most useful — thing about him. The person who looks like he's talking the most nonsense is usually the first one to land on the actual point. That wasn't a random interruption. He'd just bitten straight into the ugliest variable in shipboard combat. Takenaka glanced at him and nodded.

"Correct. Thermobaric explosives. I assume you covered this in school. Once it's deployed — no open flame." Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.... That smile was, honestly, a little unsettling. Not the bloodthirsty kind. The I'm about to show you something very educational kind. Takenaka crouched and popped the latches on the black metal case at his feet. The moment the lid came up, almost every gaze in the room dropped straight into it. A battle axe lay secured inside. Not a museum relic staged for a documentary.

Not some oversized theatrical prop. It was practical. Practical enough to send a chill down your spine. The whole thing carried a cold, hard metallic weight — the blade angle clean, no decoration anywhere, the tungsten-steel and carbon-alloy construction catching the light with a low, sullen gleam. This wasn't design. It was honest functionalism, built for exactly one purpose: to open something up with maximum efficiency at a range close enough to see your own reflection in the other person's visor.

Takenaka lifted it out one-handed, drawing a shield from the case with the other.

"MK Standard No. 6 battle axe," he said.

"Tungsten-steel and carbon-alloy construction. Paired with an anti-beam blast shield." Jess's eyes lit, just slightly. Not with excitement. Not the bright look of someone impressed by a cool object. More like a hunting dog finally spotting something that qualified as prey. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if to say: oh, I can work with this.

Maki's expression didn't change, but she was watching closely — not for how it looked, but for the balance point, the grip geometry, the blade angle, the shield's coverage and transition efficiency. When she got serious, it was always a little excessive. Not ordinary focus. The kind that made you wonder if she'd scheduled her own breathing to a rhythm. D let out one short, honest breath.

"This actually counts as standard issue?" he asked.

"For Security Division, yes," Takenaka said.

"The Federation's definition of standard is a lot more enthusiastic than I expected."

"You should find that reassuring," Lan said, cold as ever.

"At least it means when you get cut down, the other side is using regulation gear."

"Thank you. I feel absolutely nothing." I nearly laughed again. Honestly, I doubt Lan herself has noticed how well-suited her particular brand of cold commentary is to shipboard combat. If the blade doesn't get you first, her mouth will freeze you for half a second. Takenaka set the axe back in the case, snapped it shut, and turned back to face us.

"I'm not as unforgiving as Captain Tobita," he said.

"So today, you just get some hands-on time first." My instinct: good, at least we're not going straight into a live sim to hack each other up. A second later, I knew I'd celebrated too early. Takenaka reached into his pocket, pulled out a practice-room access card, and flicked it toward D, standing closest at the front. D caught it on reflex, glanced at the card, then up at Takenaka.

"... Me, sir?"

"The middle-school group has a class in there this afternoon," Takenaka said.

"Try not to make too much of a scene." The room went quiet for half a beat. I looked at the card in D's hand, then at Takenaka's completely businesslike face, and had exactly one thought. Fuck. That hint couldn't have been clearer. That wasn't don't make too much of a scene.

That was a carefully restrained version of: I know you're going to cause trouble — especially you, Dwight "D" Barkley — so I'm handing you the room in advance, but you'd better keep the damage under whatever threshold requires three separate incident reports. This wasn't instruction. It was conditional permission. And the most alarming part was that D had clearly understood exactly that.

He held the card between two fingers, spun it once, and when he looked up, his expression was the precise expression of a man who'd just been legally authorized to run a small, controlled catastrophe.

"Copy that, Sergeant," he said.

"I guarantee a civilized exchange of technique." Nobody believed him. Not even the air in the room believed him. Harvey pressed a hand to his forehead. Roy looked like he wanted to object and decided his lifespan mattered more. Akari glanced at D, her expression pure should I back up the insurance logs now. Evelyn was still working out exactly how much danger was packed into that sentence. Aida wore the mild look of someone thinking of course it comes to this. Jess let out a short sound.

"Handing him the access card and telling him not to make a scene," she said.

"How is that structurally any different from giving a kid a lighter and telling him to stay away from the ammo locker?"

"At least the kid wouldn't look this pleased with himself," Lan said.

"Hey," D protested.

"That's organized character assassination."

"No," Maki said, flat.

"That's a long-term observational record." I turned to look at her despite myself. She'd delivered it completely level, eyes barely moving, the exact energy of someone adding wind's out of the southeast today to a weather report. Infuriating. The moment this woman opens her mouth, everything gets sharper, meaner, and completely unarguable. D pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of mortal injury.

"Kushima," he said, "you're going to cost me the last of my faith in humanity."

"Then lose it early," she said.

"Hurts less later." I was about to laugh, then turned my head straight into her glance sweeping past. Just a brief look. But whether it was the harsh white training-bay lights, or the simple fact that standing next to a suit of combat armor made her look like some kind of hazardous material you shouldn't get too close to, I had one clear second of thinking she was harder to handle than the axe. I looked away immediately.... Wrong direction.

Developing complicated feelings about a dorm-mate during Security close-combat prep sounds exactly like the kind of thing fate keeps on file to use against you later. Takenaka had zero interest in our under-the-table eye contact, character assassination, and collective distrust. He tapped the whiteboard once, voice snapping back to its original crisp, angular rhythm.

"Right. That's the basics on the gear," he said.

"Next, training equipment gets issued. Pair up and try it out. Today's only goal is to find out whether your hands and feet still belong to you once you're in armor." I looked at the neatly racked training gear, then at the card in D's hand — which read at this point like an omen — and had a very clear premonition. Today's class was not going to stop at just some hands-on time. Because Sergeant Takenaka wasn't stupid. Neither was D.

And when an adult who knows perfectly well someone's going to cause trouble deliberately hands the keys to the one person most likely to do it, that generally only means one thing. Things were about to get lively.