Author's Note:
Kantai Collection is -of course- the property of Kadokawa Games. The addition of space battles, post-Earth technologies, alien races, and tech-scenery, however, is my own addition for the most part.
So this is it then. The beginning of a story, and arguably my first to have made it any significant distance, if you count the fact that it has been going on for 11 Chapters now elsewhere under the name XenaC.
One favor before we begin. You may note, and you would be right in noting, that no shipgirl appears (by name) in Chapter 1. I'll ask for your indulgence on that. Please read Chapters 1 and 2 together to get a more complete picture of what I'm trying to accomplish.
Otherwise, I wish you a good day, and a fun read. Comments and feedback are always welcome!
Kancolle: A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars Awake
Chapter 1: On Strange Shores
31st July, 2542.
So I've bloody well gone and done it, it seems.
I believe it was the physicist Hououin who once attempted to prove that reality and time might be less akin to a single line, but rather to a veritable profusion of possibilities that could splinter off from the smallest choice of the least important actor.
A terrible theory, but a fascinating thought nonetheless.
It may or may not also have to do with this deliciously reflexive case of schadenfreude I derive from pondering this morsel. That in an infinite number of other worlds running in parallel but differing by a thousand minutiae to ours, twenty five year old Ethel Lefkada Deschantes did not manage to be at the Warwick Convention Centre a week ago at 9.35am sharp for an interview with the Arc-Royal Geographic's representatives, land a place as a correspondent-in-training on the first try-
-and wind up on a shuttle bound for the border right this very moment, joining the growing number of media personnel on Watchpoint Calais!
Ah, Father will be furious.
He has made no secret with his displeasure with regards to the way I have spent my time outside of college classes: joining the Surrey-Vale's Writing Fraternity seems to have frustrated his military sensibilities very much. Strange, then, that he has never made anything but scorn of my desire to go to the border in any capacity at all, let alone this one.
There is little he can do, however. We had a deal. I gave my word: to forget his...excesses. To forget our disagreements about Mother. To study where and what he wished. And in return he gave his: my freedom to go as I will afterward. To write as I will, should I still wish to. Well, I do, and I leave it up to his honor to be gracious about his end of the deal.
I suspect he will leave it in the end, even if he might express his displeasure through a conspicuous lack of financing. Such is the happy fate of the social flag officer. Not that it matters to me, either - I am glad to be free of his leash. I recall that saying from so many centuries ago:
"Do you really want to spend your entire lives praying for longevity? We were born in order to die!"
Yes, a man may live three hundred years if he is fortunate. Four if he is rich. But this is the greatest conflict of our times. Shall we wait till it is over to start living? Surely not!
Even now that moment when my wait ends does not seem so long off anymore, though I can hardly believe that it has only been nine hours of faster than light travel from the time I stepped on board the New Avalon Orbital Elevator to take the shuttle. The windows are sealed -not there would be anything to see at such speeds- but the starmap indicates we are getting close to Tigris Sector's Eregion System, less than an hour away from the area surrounding Calais.
From there we will make landfall on Eridani Station, get briefed, and then move on to the Watchpoint itself: the eye of the storm.
One of many, truthfully, for the stars are too numerous for us to risk making a single place the biggest concentration of human military presence that has ever taken place. But we are close enough: in a few days, Calais will be the starting point of the largest military operation ever to have been undertaken. Forget D-Day, forget Balor Crater. The Retaking of Eregion System is the event of our times! And I will be there to see it in person. I, who have never even been this far from home, ever! What an adventure this shall be!
Now, I will admit it. That truth be told, I do not know if I am ready.
We have all heard the stories. About the struggle that our brave soldiers face on the border beyond the Watchpoints and their extraplanetary defense platforms. Of the horrors of facing a foe with numbers uncounted, of mustering against them to protect the edges of human space to bring us the light of victory. And what victories we have had! Fort Dreslov. Neo Cornwall. Ginaz, and most recently, a sweep of Rusalka System. Have we not all have seen the celebrations, reminiscent of nothing so much as a Roman triumph sans whispering slave?
For man is mortal, but humanity is eternal, and we are mighty amongst the stars. Or are we?
Even now I think to myself, how much of those very many tales were doctored, tailor-made for our consumption? To make us think that we are winning this battle far more than we really are? And if it were so, how much of what I or any other -no matter how eminent- will reach the ears of those I wish to reach?
These are petty fears in the grand scheme of things, I admit. Perhaps even selfish or foolish, and pointless to boot: what am I to do -what can be done- even if I am right?
I do not know the answer to that question. But one thing I do. That I have decided to go, just as I have desired.
To see if this Great Abyssal War is all they've chalked it up to be.
The silhouetted man snapped my diary shut with a sigh.
"A most dramatic tale. My condolences, Mr. Deschantes."
I cocked an eyebrow, ignoring the intensifying throbbing in my head, and the urge to make a grab for the tome. Too far away. Or was it? The shadows cast over the desk between us made it hard to tell.
"Condolences for what exactly? The invasion of my privacy? How I sound so very different in person?"
Or my incarceration in a room with a faceless fellow who seemed more interested in reading the last few paragraphs of my diary in an overdramatic voice than in me exactly?
"Come now. There is no need for hostility. I am complimenting you: I do believe you would have made a most eloquent correspondent. Though possibly never a particularly malleable one."
"Past tense. Very encouraging."
I got the distinct sense that he was smirking. And that I'd passed some unspoken test, somehow.
In fact, this guy definitely had some experience with making his body speak for him. He had to, after all - lest he waste the oh-so-intentional positioning of the lights in such a way that nary more than a hint of his features could show at any given time, while I by contrast bathed in molten white agony.
Bright lights and headaches. Simple connection, small courtesies, goddamn it. But maybe that was the point, just as surely as consideration was not the point.
The man nodded.
"Bold, too. Good. All the same, it was a concern that you might not be amenable to our terms."
Oh, so he had terms for me. Wonder what gave that away? The dim, four claustrophobia-inducing walls? The constant dramatic pauses to indicate doublespeak? Or maybe it was the whole 'we are now impressing upon you that we're very official and very important' set-up. Couldn't quite be sure.
"Is there even an opt-out?"
"Yes, there is." the man said. "But we will require you to come with us regardless of your decision."
"Even in a body bag?"
"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. We would prefer, 'tragically lost in a cruel, senseless Abyssal attack on a civilian convoy'. I am afraid your relatives are not exempt from this necessary misinformation. For now."
There was silence as he regarded me.
"You seem upset, Mr. Deschantes."
"I am."
"Really? You will excuse me for prying, but the impression I got was quite the opposite."
"I said, I am."
I mean, give a man a break here. I saw more of his money and his orders than I did him. When we did meet, we argued. About...well, whatever. But he was still my dad. Ioannis Deschantes was my business, not the business of some suit.
"I see that I misjudged you."
Doubtful. Unless that was how they spelled 'trying to get a rise out of you' in Secret Agency-Speak. I totally fell for it, too.
"However," he continued, "let no one say that we are completely heartless. You will continue to have your rights and privileges should you accept this offer. It can be arranged, and more besides, until such time as your actual status may be divulged. For example, I can also provide answers to some of the burning questions you posed in your diary entry." He paused. "Only…"
"'Kiss me and I'll tell you'?"
"Yes. Among other things. So, what do you say?"
I considered my answer awhile longer than I would usually. I got the distinct sense that after all this time and effort, I must have done something for them to keep me alive, at least for the time being. Which was comforting, because the difference between that and the alternative didn't rise to the dignity of an choice.
"I'll bite. If I'm going to disappear for walking out on you, then better I be a well-informed ghost than not."
Again with that shadow-smirk of his. Yes, I was calling it that from now on if I ever saw it or him again.
"A reasonable decision," the man said, lacing his fingers together. Yeah, savor the victory over the fellow who never had a chance, why don't you. "In truth, before you begin, I have a question myself."
I shrugged. To tell the truth, I was never going to have the upper hand in this conversation. But if he was willing to pretending otherwise, might as well play along.
"Shoot."
"Do you believe in fate, Mr. Deschantes?"
"Not particularly."
"How about irony?"
"I see it at work here, yes."
Again, that sense of having jumped a hoop just about right. That, and the vaguest hint of amusement in his tone.
"An interesting set of beliefs. Well then. Ask away."
"So, first of all, what I asked before in my private notes. We've all heard the stories, but I don't want to hear that. Are we actually winning?"
"This war? No. No, we are not. But neither are we losing. The Abyssals have proved strategically clumsy in battle, and with some...notable exceptions we have thus far been able to outmaneuver them. Our major issue has been in locating the source of their seemingly infinite production lines and cutting them off before these unpleasant exceptions become the norm." He paused, letting that sink in. "We are making progress on that front. Rest assured therefore, that the public is not being lied to."
"Details are need-to-know?"
"Of course."
Come deeper down the rabbit hole and you'll find out, little Alice.
"Then why me? I'm not an soldier of any kind. Or even someone who would know anything about fighting the Abyssals. I'm a journalist-in-training. An intern. A year ago I was in college. Why would you need me?"
"That is quite a few questions at once. I will try to answer them adequately." He leaned forward just a little. "The 31st of July, a day ago. What can you tell me about that?"
"We were en route to Calais when we were hit. How were our losses?"
"Acceptable."
'Acceptable'. God-damned classic Agency Man. Just when I thought we were getting all genial and nice with one another, he had to remind me that he had more important concerns. Like measuring numbers against each other.
Damn him. Damn the war that made this kind of thinking okay.
Damn me for seeing his point at all.
"Your sacrifice will be remembered," he appended.
I tried not to eye him with great suspicion. Emphasis on tried. It was hard to tell when someone was pulling some invisible leash on you or not when their voice was barely distinguishable from tectonic movement.
"'Sacrifice'?" I asked.
Surprise. And a touch of disappointment.
"You do not remember?"
Testing. One, two. Ow.
Nope, headache still there, memory still missing.
"The whole part between then and now? Not at all."
"I see. I was informed that this might be the case. I suppose it falls to me to jog your memory where your own written words have failed." he said, leaning backward with his fingers still steepled. "Now, I admit that this news might be unpleasant, so let me ease you into this. You are an intelligent and sensible man: what do you make of the phrase 'progress thrives in times of conflict'?"
"Periods of warfare, strife and competition in general drives us to innovate and create, rethinking our own approaches and perspectives in the process. We learn from our foes. Sometimes steal from them. But how is this even related to why I'm needed?"
The man allowed the dust of silence to settle for a moment or two. Smugly, I imagined, because how people like him survived without that emotion the world would never know.
"You will see. Or perhaps not. No matter." he said, before a tapping noise came from under the table. "Come in."
A hidden door between the two of us slid open.
The figure who entered was small, and amid the room's size seemed all the tinier for it. A child perhaps, in the teens at most, and most certainly female, if the gait and the sailing double ponytails were to be trusted.
A single light shone down upon-
-he suppresses a shiver as the juking and jiving of the transport sends tremors running all across its frame. Any moment now it will break, he thinks, caught in the whipping winds that howl amid that swelling maelstrom of war that is their destination Watchpoint Calais, a perfect storm almost conjured out of thin air.
One moment there had been nothing. Then a thousand Abyssal ships wreathed in myriad-colored flames ethereal, flinging themselves out of the twisting ether of light-speed, had wedged themselves deep into the assembled lines of Terran Alliance ships, their dark tide pushing against the stalwart defenders in desperate ship-to-ship melee for control over the centrepiece and pride of their line.
Even now the attackers are relentless, each one heedless and fearless of the damage they take every side as they try to punch through, but the defenses hold, as they must. Their tiny transport, caught in the middle, cannot retreat now - they are so close now, so close to safe harbor.
Then it happens. A single ship emerges, the womb of eternal night writhing in agony in its wake. A titan, larger by half than the next largest ship on either side, a monstrosity of spasmodic black chitin with a maw as wide open as the gate to the netherworld. On it plows headlong and heedless through friend and foe alike, widening the breach its compatriots have punched through the defense by sheer girth alone as it plunges straight for Calais itself.
Too little and too late is fire redirected at the newcomer, and in a blazing moment of horrified clarity he knows its purpose. No conventional weapon known to man can bring down a Watchpoint by itself. But though it has them, this ship needs no conventional weapons.
It is the weapon, and the collision between the living missile and Calais reverberates even through the silence of space, consuming everything in a blazing sea of white-
-shattering fragments. Confusion. Pain. He rips the seat restraints away and leaps-
-he is floating free, hacking blood and precious stolen air. Every alert clamoring for attention he sees through spiderweb cracks in his helmet's crimson klaxons. Suit damaged, oxygen depleting, thirty five, thirty, twenty five percent. His vision swims in a sea of black fading in and out, in and out. But blissful sleep does not claim him. No, not when he can hear them. Amidst the scattered bones of once proud ships the dead and dying cry out, their screams, every final choking gurgling breath filling his eardrums even as he struggles to block them out.
He surges forward, harried all the way, to the nearest airlock and in a maddened desperate death-grip of bloodied arms he tears the emergency door off its hinges-
-to find nothing. Nothing of use but broken and burnt-out husks of man and machine. He keeps searching. Again he is foiled. And again. And again. And again and again-
-the explosion knocks him aside, smashing him against the wall. His lungs scream from every mere meager breath, but he barely feels it. The screams are closing in, they crush him alive in his suit. They hurt. They hurt. They are a fire. A fire in his arm, in his belly and chest, burning cankered and unquenchable, and through it he sees-
-A circle. Incomprehensible, incomprehensibly ancient; like the droning tongue he cannot name, echoing through space. Cruel; like the flash of unnumbered blades, a hunger to burn the stars. And boundless; drawing everything to itself and drinking them in.
Steel, blood, flesh and bone, but also voices, images, flashing before his eyes. The scent of the sun on the summer breeze. Twin babes wailing their first in unison. A hand in his wading through emerald fields. Lightless winter, wind-swept sands. The reek of alcohol on strobe-light starry walls of roaring guns aflame with sparkling brown eyes sneering defiantly into the frigid cold of space and into the horror of their so many so cold so many eyes gazing windows and mirrors we are as you are as-
-he reaches out and grasps a single spark, a lone light. Then two. Then ten. A hundred. A thousand. They circle and merge in his hands, and then into the quiet gloam of the stars comes a song whistling in on the solar winds: of gulls awakening the sun, of the jeweled sea sighing upon golden shores, of snow-white caps waved and thrown, of hearts swelling with a timeless, ageless pride.
Then without warning it escapes, wisp-fire rushing through the gaps between his fingers-
-and then he is flying, soaring on wings of steel. He no longer hears the slain, their cries drowned by the mighty roar of engines in his left ear, and the momentous crank of swivelling cannon to his right. He is the rising storm, he is one half of its alien pulsing heart as it pulses, his next words welling up within him to bursting-
The roaring in my ears was my own. Metal skittered across the ground. Then the voice that had torn forth cracked in my throat, and my face nearly fell forward into the table. Or would have if that desk was still whole, and not a thousands shards shimmering amid the light and the clamour of rushing, crunching footfalls-
"Psionic resonance falling-"
"-peak value one-zero-niner-eight-f-"
"-move to stabilize psionic feedback-"
My head throbbed. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Too many dancing splotches of black. Too much light piercing through the gaps. So bright. Why the hell was it so bright?
"Stabilizing."
Antiseptic mint-fresh stung my nose as many hands grabbed me. Then, the pin-prick of needle against arm. The pain subsided, and with it came silence, blessed silence. From the thoughts. From the light. Yes. That was good. Real good.
Huh. The man was still watching. Well, of course he would.
"H-hey there Mr. Sandman. Think I-" I could barely recognize that groaning, rasping hoarseness as me. "-think I had me a crazy dream back there."
"A jester to the last, I see," the man said. "But I suppose that was the point of having you meet your partner."
Partner? Who was-
Right. Her. Yes. That was it. She'd- what did-
-what was-
-ugh. Couldn't keep..thoughts...
Eyelids...heavy...
"You might need a moment to process your new insights."
Even as silence devoured sound and darkness, light, a last thought came to me.
So he had been bald, after all.
"In the meantime, welcome to Fleet Group Poseidon, Mr. Deschantes."
=== To be continued in Chapter 2: Inbound Flight