A/N:
So, let me ask you this – is there ever an author-insert that works? I don't know if this is it, but I'd like to hope so.
Hang on. Trust me on this.
So, originally, this was not meant to be a story at all. It's actually a cosplay for CONvergence 2015 in Minnesota. My beta, fellow author Sylmenya, and I often cosplay together at CONvergence as one kind of trio or another. This year's theme at the con is "Dystopia" and we thought Pacific Rim was a great fit, plus it allowed for a costume we could actually produce. So the three of us sat around and invented a backstory for ourselves as a three-pilot Jaeger team as part of the PPDC during the height of activity before the politicians got hooked on the "coastal wall" idea.
Of course, once we started talking about it, I couldn't NOT write it. I just couldn't.
I don't really mean for this to be a serious entry to the Pacific Rim fandom. But we do have friends out there who might be interested in how we became the pilots, in how we understand the slightly unique way we would Drift together, and where we see ourselves slotting into the background for the events of the film. I spent a lot of time on the Pacific Rim wiki to make things as accurate to the canon as possible, but I had to take a few liberties to handle the reality of the three of us who cosplay together.
The cover is our actual logo designed by us and refined by a friend to be inked onto our jumpsuits. I was and am pretty damn proud of it.
If this side-story author-insert bugs you, don't worry. It's just how my beta, Sylmenya, and I will be spending CONvergence 2015. But if you happen to be at con, come find us on Saturday!
(Note: The events of Part 2 would take place after our visiting CONvergence. We will make it to the con at the height of our glory days before it all goes to pieces.)
Enjoy!
-==OOO==-
Part 1
-==OOO===-
"Heads up," I call sideways just loud enough to be heard. "Suits inbound."
Behind me, two identical sighs echo in the Conn-Pod, and I huff a laugh.
"Oh, don't worry. I'll handle it. You two will owe me your dessert ration, though."
"Done!" they yell.
I walk to the ramp at the back of the Conn-Pod and look over the bridge down into the bay where the Marshal is escorting a small crowd of businesspeople. I could, obviously, take the elevator or the stairs down to their level. But why?
It's the work of a few moments to step into the harness hanging on the walkway beside the belay rope. Then I'm rappelling down from the shoulders of the Jaeger, dropping like a hawk and with much the same speed and confidence. The assembled businesspeople pause to watch, frowning at such a display from what should be a valuable technician.
When I unhook my harness and turn, they transform from disapproving to downright amused.
"And here is one of the three pilots, as I'm sure you remember," the Marshal says.
I hold out a hand. "Good to see you again. Welcome to the Cascade Shatterdome."
The various representatives from the Midwest shake my hand and inquire as to my health and my Jaeger and my team. I make all the right answers, smiling and relaxed, comfortable in front of them in my working jumpsuit as I never was when they first came to offer us their support.
But even now, as then, my thoughts are not much on the people before me and much more on my copilots above.
-==OOO==-
It started at the Academy. Everything starts at the Academy.
I arrived on Kodiak Island with a huge backpack and fire in my soul and not a goddam lot else. I'd already done the unthinkable according to everyone back home, left my "prospects" and abandoned my "responsibilities." Of course, no one figured I'd have been gone for long. My parents, who had objected to my joining the PPDC with more heat than a Category 2 Kaiju, assumed that it was nothing more than a phase. That I would have my fun and be turned out.
After all, I'd never been much of an athlete. I couldn't even skate.
But even then I knew what they didn't. I knew I was terrible at baseball and basketball, that I'd never win a track meet. But I also knew that I was strong and sturdy, built more like a bodybuilder than a supermodel. I knew I had the guts to fight and the will to try.
And I knew I belonged on the line of defense preserving the human race.
Of course, because I came without a lot of monetary support, I arrived four days late for training. By the time I showed up at the doors with a recruiter's card in my hands and my heart in my throat, the class of cadets had already begun. I was almost turned away, told to wait, that I'd never catch up.
I asked for a chance.
There wasn't a roommate left over, so I wound up in a dorm-room by myself on a floor that was mostly empty. For the first day, I read every single book and instruction manual they would give me, and waited for the next morning to come. The morning it would begin.
It started in the Kwoon Combat Room. I'd missed the orientation and the first set of instructions in combat, but that didn't stop the instructors from tossing me into the mix with the current class of cadets. Actually, I think they enjoyed it. But that was the thing about the Kwoon Combat Room – the point wasn't to make you comfortable. The point was to break you apart and build you back up as a Jaeger pilot.
After a shift of six grueling hours on the mat, I had learned three really important things. One, don't piss off the Fightmasters. Two, if I was able to survive this experience, I was going to be one badass Jaeger pilot at the end of it. And three, there wasn't a single person in the introductory class I even wanted to consider as a copilot.
I'd read everything possible on the process of joining the Jaeger program, of course. I knew all about the testing and the simulators and the neuro-stimulation and all the other awkward poking and prodding that would be necessary for the experts to figure out if my brain, body, and soul could handle the strain. But I also knew that the true determining factor as to whether or not I'd make it even partway through the Academy would be whether or not I could develop the capacity to Drift. It wasn't even about finding a partner, necessarily. It was about finding the strength and trust in myself to let go.
If this is the crop of possibles, that's going to be a resounding no, I thought to myself looking at the other forty cadets. At least the ones that weren't rockstar-wannabes didn't make me want to try out some of the moves I'd just learned, but I still wasn't in a hurry to open up to someone on the basis of watching them drill.
Then, with barely a breather for food, we were off to officer training and the beginning engineering lessons. The exhaustion of my body was soon matched by the exhaustion of my brain as I learned more about Kaiju biology, tactics, Jaegers, and nuclear power than I'd ever imagined could be conveyed in a single day. But then, with only 24 weeks to turn us all from lumpy cadets to possible pilots protecting the world, well, speed truly was of the essence.
In the first four weeks, my cadet class shrank from forty-one members down to fewer than twenty-five. As the rest of us continued, holding on by sheer stubbornness when we were out of skin on our teeth and fingernails or courage, we were lumped in with another cadet class going on simultaneously. Those who had left were still affiliated with the PPDC, of course, but they went on to other vocations, from officers to supply and procurement specialists. The PPDC needed every pair of hands it could get, and even a week in the Kwoon Combat Room would steel an easy soul enough to prepare them for the dangerous work ahead.
Two weeks before the first break between eight-week trimesters, I met Hoss and Chief.
Of course, they weren't called that then. Hoss (actually named Sarah) was one of the shortest American cadets on record, clocking in just over 5'1", with a voice that was louder than half the instructors and a wicked sense of humor. She was also a crafty devil in the ring, even though she frustrated the Fightmasters by reverting to dirty street tactics when her training gave way, especially against larger opponents. She spent most of her time away from the crowds, lurking only in the presence of her roommate, Chief. Chief (originally called Rina), did not look like anybody's picture of a Jaeger pilot. At least Hoss had her hair cropped short and was solid for her height. Chief had the longest hair of anyone at the Academy, and one of the softest smiles. I found out almost at once that she was a regular object of teasing because her parents were honest-to-god hippies out in the sticks in Wisconsin somewhere. But those hippies had bred a girl with a spine that could withstand a plasma blast, and her motherly kindness to her fellow cadets was quite the cover for her fierce spirit in combat.
The three of us were the only members of our cadet class who opted to stay at the Academy for the two-week break before the second trimester, and that, it turns out, was the most important play Fate ever made for the three of us.
It was the second day into break when I was interrupted in my studying in my room by a knock on the door.
"Come in!" I called.
The door swung open to reveal the pair of them, each carrying a bag.
"My parents sent me a huge care package," Rina smiled at me. "We thought you might want to share."
It was an honest kindness after two months of hell and pain, and I melted into it.
Within the day, I had laughed more with the pair of them than in the last year of my life, it seemed. We lost track of time and stayed up talking and watching movies and arguing about profound matters from "the meaning of life" to "are Kaijus dragons?" until dawn. And even then, I didn't want them to leave. I felt more at home with them sitting across from me in my empty dorm-room than I had back in my parents' house for more than a decade.
It was somewhere in the middle of that endless night that I named Hoss.
Sarah had been going on about the hierarchical structure of the Jaeger program and how it was based not on existing military commands but rather on more informal formations such as were seen in the period of the Wild West in the US. And I'd just said it, off the cuff, "Those are some mighty big stallions you're lookin' to ride, Hoss."
Not only did Rina laugh so hard she nearly hyperventilated, but Sarah lit up and grinned like the sun. She became Hoss forevermore.
It took me two more days to rename Rina as "Chief." She was harder – she defied the tough soldier stereotype of the program so much, it seemed almost cruel to call her something like "Sheriff" or "Zorro." But the more I got to know her, the more I could see how she was specifically necessary to Hoss's ease of mind, how she provided the sisterly relationship the latter was missing.
"So, I guess that makes you our Chief Morale Officer," I told her finally. And "Chief" stuck.
They wouldn't rename me in return (or revenge) until our graduation from the Academy, but monumental things would take place before that happened.
When the second trimester began, Hoss, Chief, and I settled in to our studies and our combat training with a will. The load was much easier to bear now that I had someone worth talking to, someone to bitch at when the bruises developed bruises on their bruises, or when my brain would not comprehend the exact chemical composition of the ammunition in the plasma cannons. As if we had been raised together, we fell into a pattern of friendship that surprised even the psych trainers with its ease and functionality.
I rapidly became our nominal leader, mainly because I was the one who wanted to lead. But it wasn't just that. I was also the most strategic thinker among us, the quickest problem-solver. I was also the most likely to push myself beyond any kind of limits, even the irrational ones encouraged at the Academy, which I thought both inspired and exasperated my pair of friends. As I'd said, Chief was very much our morale officer; as much as I could inspire them, she could keep us focused on a positive outlook and remind us to believe in ourselves. Chief was also uncommonly good at helping Hoss and I talk through our issues as we delved deeper into preparing our psyches for a Drift. And Hoss was our strongest tactical mind – I could figure out how to win a simulation, but she always knew when to fire which weapon to ensure my plans worked. Hoss was also the best at the engineering portion of our studies, and Chief and I were grateful we had someone who could help us understand the science inside and out.
Midway through the second trimester, the Fightmasters called the three of us into the ring in the Kwoon Combat Room for a rare three-way fight. It wasn't really a surprise to me – there were just too many indications that we might be compatible not just individually in some pairing, but as a functional trio. There were a few three-pilot sibling teams being utilized across the PPDC, but it was almost unheard-of to find a set of three that could prove to be Drift-compatible who weren't siblings. Obviously our instructors had begun to consider we might be such a set.
It was difficult and strange and exhilarating experience to find out if that was true.
An hour later, I had banged the hell out of my knee evading taking Hoss's head off of her shoulders, Chief was favoring her left, dominant hand after a half-desperate block, and Hoss had smashed her nose into the mat on a toss by the combined efforts of Chief and I. We had entirely different approaches, different styles, different strategies. But we were evenly matched. We didn't favor one partnership over another, and we didn't defer to one another. It was, as far as we could tell, a very successful fight. But the instructors kept their own council.
Though they called us to the mat as a unit again and again.
By the time of the second two-week break before the final trimester, we were entrenched as a true trio and were three of the remaining sixteen cadets who had not yet washed out of the program from both combined classes. And even if no one was saying it, we knew.
If we passed our final trials, we would be tested for Drift-compatibility as a three-pilot team.
During the break, therefore, we were approached by a group called the Midwest Consortium, an alliance of a series of companies based in the United States Midwest. Corporations such as 3M, Best Buy, Boeing, Harley-Davidson, and all the automotive companies out of Detroit had banded together to produce a Jaeger – it was good for business to have something they could point to, brag to their shareholders about, and market as toys and such. And they wanted to build it for us to pilot. After all, we were all Midwestern ourselves, and with so few trios in action, there would be no Mark-4 Jaegers available for us when we were ready for one. And it would give them a unique product to crow about in the media. The Marshal in charge of the Academy suggested that the Consortium wait to see if we could truly finish our training before pouring their resources into a Jaeger no other pilots but a three-some could handle.
Then they asked us, those suited men and women, what we thought.
I looked at Hoss and Chief and saw their answer in their eyes. I nodded and turned to our benefactors. And they never knew – but my friends did because how could they not? – that my confident words and certainty hid my nervousness.
"As long as we're together, there's nothing we can't do. Don't worry. We're going to be everything you need us to be when the time comes. If you want to wait for the PPDC to clear us, we won't object. We'll be ready for your Jaeger when you have it ready for us."
-==OOO==-
We made it to the point of our Ranger-Ready Training, three now of nine total cadets to endure through the Academy's rigorous standards out of an initial class of two groups of forty. We had each mastered the Kwoon Combat Room, passed the written and practical exams of the officer training and engineering courses, and scored well on our three-dozen simulations and psych analyses. For all intents and purposes, we had done everything a Ranger should do.
Except Drift. Oh, and pilot an actual Jaeger.
The Midwest Consortium had started construction on our Jaeger after our interview, though it would be months before our girl was ready to go. Months we intended to spend mastering Drifting and piloting together so that the instant our Jaeger was ready for deployment, so would we be.
It was a Thursday we settled into the one training unit built for three on Academy grounds to attempt a Drift for the first time.
"You okay?" I asked Hoss and Chief.
Hoss nodded and grinned, Chief echoing her but with slightly less exuberant confidence. We had already talked through the major shadows and issues hiding in each of our pasts. Hoss and Chief knew all about my fears and my parents and the stifling life I had lived, just as I knew about Chief's sheltered upbringing and Hoss's days as the target for bullies. We had stopped carrying secrets long before so there wouldn't be any surprises, but that didn't mean the Drift wasn't dangerous.
I swallowed my nervousness and said, "I'm here. I'm here with you."
"And I'm with you," Hoss said.
"No matter what," Chief promised.
And we initiated the Neural Handshake.
The Drift.
A lifetime of pain and love, hope and fury. Dreams and wishes and childish fears that become as much a part of you as the air you breathe. Hoss's early childhood learning to play every instrument she could reach. Chief's isolation as a home-schooled kid in a district that saw difference as worthy of disdain. The sorrows of loss and rejection that haunted my mind from every broken promise that had followed my steps like a shadow.
I'm here, I whispered to the two minds hovering inside my own.
I'm here, too, Chief told me.
But there was a tremor and a hesitation from Hoss. It wasn't a surprise. We'd known integrating with Hoss would be far harder than for a normal triple merge. We'd been willing to try it, even knowing it might yet fail. Because Hoss wasn't like Chief and I in a specifically significant way.
Hoss was not neuro-typical.
She wasn't the only person on the autistic spectrum to make it so far in the PPDC. We all knew there were pilots even then who might have been considered neuro-atypical. It made those pilots a little more nervous, a little less predictable in combat, and a little harder to incorporate into the technology. But it also tended to come with other advantages such as an alternate way of seeing a battlefield, or a different kind of information recall. We knew that if Hoss could handle the Drift, her encyclopedic knowledge of a Jaeger's engineering and weapons capabilities would be an amazing asset.
But where it's dangerous and difficult to integrate two minds that are wired the same way, it's exponentially more complicated to integrate a neuro-typical mind with a neuro-atypical one.
As far as we knew, it had never been attempted within a trio.
Initially, Hoss was disoriented and, understandably panicked. She couldn't retreat – the technology didn't allow it. So she did the only thing she could – she chased the white rabbit, fixating and following a memory to the exclusion of the exercise.
What none of us expected was that she would chase Chief's instead of her own.
I blinked. "What the hell am I looking at?"
Chief materialized beside me. "Uh, my sister being born."
"And where are you?"
She pointed. A little girl with a pale face blinked curiously at the proceedings from the most direct angle without actually impeding Chief's father standing between her mother's feet.
"I think that's actually Sarah, though," she said softly.
"I know." I could tell. Hoss had gone so far into Chief's mind, she was reliving the experience as though it had been her own. As we all were, but differently.
Suddenly there was a cry and Rina's father stepped back with a blue, mashed-up figure in his large hands. The pale umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around the baby's neck.
A flash of panic went through me and I didn't know if it was mine, Sarah's, Rina's of now or Rina's of then. A few moments later, the baby began to cry.
"Hoss." I moved to stand beside the wide-eyed little girl. "Sarah. You need to come back. You need to come with us."
"Why this memory?" Chief asked, looking around.
I had a strong guess even if I couldn't have said how I was so sure. "Because this is the moment that made you want to protect people. This is when you became a sister. This is when you were born as the person who would someday choose to pilot a Jaeger with the two of us."
And then I understood why Hoss had been drawn to it. I dropped to one knee to make her look into my eyes.
"Sarah. Hoss. I get it. You need to understand why this is going to work. What will make it work. And the best way to understand Rina, or me, is to know why we became who we are that brought us here together. You need to understand her heart and mine so you can rest in them. And that's okay. It's all okay. But we need to do it together. All of us. You're out of alignment. We need to Drift together where we're strongest."
The little girl turned to look at me. She had child-Rina's face, but Hoss's dark eyes.
"We're together. Come Drift with us."
I reached out a hand. Chief stepped to my side and held one out to her, too. Then she held one out to me.
Hoss looked up and stretched out her hands.
At the same moment, we all latched onto one another.
After that, the Drift was glorious.
Not because it's particularly fun to relive the pains and fears and humiliations of another human being, to gain the loves and losses and scars of a lifetime in the blink of an eye, nor to share your own with others.
But because in that moment, barriers gone, trust absolute, there is no loneliness. No isolation. No rejection.
For the first time in my life, I felt unconditionally safe and loved. And I loved my partners right back, just the same.
-==OOO==-
We logged more hours on the Proving Grounds than most cadet teams do, even after we had completed all our other training. We were Rangers now, lacking only Jaeger, but we still knew we could improve. We had the time to wait, so we made use of it by diving into perfecting our techniques, our strategies, and our Drift.
Some copilots who Drift together a lot would say that they were no more than just friends and allies in spite of sharing literally everything with one another. Some copilots were able to carry less into the Drift and the connection, while important and strong, was more cognitive than emotional. But for the three of us to reach true alignment, we couldn't hold back. So we dove forward instead, immersing ourselves in one another until sometimes even outside a Jaeger we weren't quite sure where one ended and another began. Chief and Hoss became a part of me, as intimate as my conscience and as necessary as my limbs. We all brought different things into the Drift, and we took different things from it. Hoss felt safe in her neuro-atypical nature as rarely outside her family; Chief became sharper and stronger and more decisive; I lost my burning, angry need to prove myself.
We looked nothing alike, but strangers had a hard time telling us apart all the same.
The Academy were both proud of us and sort of amused. Because whenever we weren't working in the Kwoon Combat Room (when there weren't other classes in it) or in the simulators or in the training unit on the Proving Grounds, we were finding other ways to keep ourselves aligned. We played a lot of music in those days, singing and improvising instruments and parodying songs to be about our least favorite Fightmasters or instructors or the uncomfortable harness in the Conn-Pod. We also played games and read books and watched movies. We developed in-jokes and codewords and signals.
And sometimes, particularly when the other cadets were away on breaks, we pranked one another incessantly. It kept us sharp and it kept us connected.
In the ceremony to promote cadets to full Ranger status, they called us up with a class that hadn't even been at the Academy the first time we had entered the Kwoon ring as a three-some. The Marshal spoke about our extra training needed because of our unique circumstances, of our scores, our innovative way of shifting the load between the three of us. And then he asked us if we had any words we wanted to share with the other assembled cadets before we left the Academy forever.
Hoss and Chief looked at me and I stepped forward, understanding their desire not to speak for us as though it were my own. What I said was a quote I'd written on a piece of paper and taped up over my bed the very day as a child I decided I would aspire to become a Jaeger pilot.
"Aim at the high mark and you will hit it. No, not the first time, not the second time and maybe not the third. But keep on aiming and keep on shooting for only practice will make you perfect. Finally you'll hit the bull's-eye of success."
After the ceremony, Hoss and Chief put their arms around me.
"That was good," Chief told me.
"Not mine," I told them. "Annie Oakley said that."
I've been "Annie Oakley" ever since. And when there isn't time for all that, they call me "Oaks."
-==OOO==-
The first time the three of us looked up at our Jaeger, I thought we were either going to have a simultaneous heart-attack or break out into a dance on site.
The technicians who had built her had overseen her transfer to the Cascade Shatterdome where we'd been given our berth. We'd read every schematic and report throughout her construction, but it was different to see her in person looming above us, her gleaming grey-blue exterior the exact color of a Great Blue Heron. Her head was streamlined in a shape similar to a speedboat, and she had the same long lines of the other Mark-4s being produced. Unlike most of the Mark-3s, instead of embedding the cannons in the Jaeger's arms, she wore a backpack-like contraption that fed into four cylinders that looked like the kind of exhaust pipes on a motorcycle which served as its major firearms.
She had slightly broader feet than other Jaegers of her kind, giving her greater stability and the ability to support firing all four of her cannons at once without losing her balance; additionally, each foot was crowned with a wicked spike for an impaling kick. Also, since her cannons were not at the ends of her arms, her hands bore retractable claws like those used by the big cats to rend their prey to pieces. But her crowning achievement and signature weapon was her tail.
Attached at the base of the torso, the barbed tail had been specially developed between Boeing and 3M. Sectioned like an ancient ankylosaurus tail, it was almost transparent, and yet made of a material as durable as her exterior. The tail was flexible and long enough to strike around from the side, but it could also compress into a third bracing leg should all four cannons be fired at once. At the end of the tail was what Hoss had called the head of a mace and everybody else called the world's scariest, most screwed-up bowling ball. Heavy and spiked and nearly indestructible, the crown of the tail was the ultimate flail weapon. The tail could, in an emergency, be released from the body either for safety (the same way lizards detach their tail to escape a predator) or to be used as a melee weapon. The ball at the end of the tail could also be released from it and thrown like a stone from the sling, but only I was the only one who had trained in it.
Like my namesake, I had also practiced the art of sharpshooting.
The unusual decision that had been made in the operation of our Jaeger was that the three of us in the Drift would not function as the other trios did with Jaegers having two shared legs and three equal arms that all participated in combat together. Instead, Chief and I would be the left and right sides respectively, and Hoss would take up the tertiary position and function as our main gunner. The analysts who had worked with the Midwest Consortium had suggested that one of the major weaknesses of most Jaegers that led to damage in battle if not outright failure was the difficulty in simultaneously fending off a close-in attack and utilizing on-board weaponry. That was the reason our cannons were not in her arms – Chief and I would be able to wrestle or block a Kaiju attack with our hands and arms and all four cannons would still be available for firing.
"She's beautiful," I said. Or maybe Chief said. I wasn't really sure.
"What's her name?" Hoss asked. There had been sixteen goddam committee meetings trying to come up with a name that didn't drive the pilots crazy, that the Midwest Consortium thought they could market, and that was pronounceable over the comm lines in a shout.
"The decision was made to let you three pick its name," the official representative of the Consortium said with a smile. "As long as I sign off, of course."
Chief and Hoss and I looked at each other. We'd had an idea together in a Drift early on, but agreed to wait until we saw her to know if it would fit.
We knew. It did.
We spoke it in unison. "Her name is Polaris Wild."
-==OOO==-
"So," one of the businesspeople asks me, "how's our girl?"
I say with real pride, "Four solo kills to date, plus about eighteen joint drops even though we spent most of those on support rather than combat. Either way, she's never let us down."
Cascade's Marshal adds, "Polaris Wild is one of our most efficient teams. Their Jaeger isn't as big as some of the others, so we haven't tried it against the new Category 4s, but they take less damage overall than most of our other crews. And they obey orders, which is almost unheard of."
She smirks at me a little. "In spite of the unorthodox way they get around for their checks."
All crews do checks of their own Jaegers, not because we don't trust the amazing people who work in the Shatterdomes, but because it's our responsibility to know every inch of our Jaegers and keep abreast of all upgrades, repairs, and potential weak-spots. Most crews do their checks on forklifts and hydraulic platforms to move around the body of their Jaegers. But Chief and I got into wall-climbing as a means of improving our balance and gaining a different sort of trust with one another while waiting for Polaris to be finished, so we do our checks on long lines in harnesses and we clamber over our Jaeger like ants.
The Marshal wasn't thrilled about that. She was even less thrilled when the ground-crews that work on Polaris Wild started copying us, stating that it was faster to get around for little repairs especially with only one forklift available per Jaeger. But the crews know what they're doing, and they really do fix Polaris Wild faster than any other crew can get any other Jaeger battle-ready.
"Can we see the Jaeger in action?" asks another of the guests.
I hold very still. It would be rude to snicker.
The Marshal does not disappoint. "The Jaegers in my Shatterdome are not puppets for your entertainment. There will be no public appearances, no parades, and no dramatized demonstrations. If you want to see Polaris Wild in the field, you'll have to content yourselves with our recordings."
That, right there, is why we love the Cascade Shatterdome. There are lots of Jaeger pilots who want to be movie-stars or celebrities. We're not like them.
The Marshal does not wink at me – she knows how much my crew shares her feelings on the matter. But it's a near thing.
The Midwest Consortium is not surprised, though they are disappointed. But they smile at the Marshal and at me and ask if they can view our most recent fight against a mid-sized Category 3 Kaiju codenamed Mamushi. In spite of not being colossal like some of the other Kaiju we've beaten, I'm pretty proud of our kill over Mamushi. That was one very nasty critter. I never saw the little clips of the battle that wound up on the news, but apparently enough was visible in all the rain and fog to intrigue our corporate backers. The Marshal agrees and arranges a time to view our footage in one of the on-site conference rooms set up for just this purpose.
"Dismissed, Ranger," she nods at me. "But make sure you bring your team so you can answer any questions."
"Understood." I wave and take the few steps backwards to where Polaris waits. I might be self-conscious except I've done this so many times it isn't unlike climbing stairs with an audience; I pull myself up Polaris's left leg and swing myself back onto the walkway into the Conn-Pod.
"How'd it go?" Hoss asks as soon as I am inside.
"Same as usual," I shrug, pulling off the harness. "Except they want to see our bout with Mamushi at fifteen-hundred, and you're both invited."
Chief comes around from where she's been looking at readings on our power consumption. "All of us?"
"All of us."
"I guess that means no running out to Cascade for a new coat," she shrugs.
"How many more coats do you need?" Hoss shoots back.
"Well, I don't really have a proper rain-coat, and it does rain a lot…"
"But how many coats do you have?"
"Uh, including winter coats? Seven? Maybe eight? It depends on your definition of coat, I guess."
"By any definition, seven is ridiculous!"
I smile to myself and leave them to have their bickering moment while I settle back in at the right-hand tactical display. I know, and they know, that we poke each other in ways that would make others think we downright despised each other and it's all fine.
You can't tear down the thing that fills you up. Or, I guess you can, but you really, really shouldn't when you depend upon it to survive.
At the appointed time, we make our appearance in the conference room, mostly cleaned up after helping the mechanics shift aside a portion of armor-plating to get to the joints underneath. Chief still has grease along her jawline, and Hoss and I have hair that would be the envy of any bird's nest, but hey – that's what hats are for.
After another round of pleasantries and such, our J-Tech Chief, Yuki, starts the playback and inserts his own commentary as he moves to one side so as not to impede the view.
"Mamushi was spotted in the breach around oh-three-hundred local time. It was identified as an average Category 3 by the K-Watch officers on duty in the Mariana Islands. Polaris Wild was the most senior Jaeger team at full capacity who had not been in a recent skirmish, and so they were activated to hold the ten-mile margin."
It's weird to hear my own voice reporting from Polaris Wild over the external shots from the helicopter that was monitoring us.
"LOCCENT, we're picking up the Kaiju on scanners. Preparing to engage."
Chief flinches as she hears her own voice, too. "Charging plasma cannons one and two."
Hoss doesn't usually verbalize when we're in the Drift. She's extremely present in our minds, of course, but she finds communication difficult when focusing on other tasks. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've ever heard her speak while Drifting. But I remember the wry touch of her thoughts as she began to prime our third and fourth cannons – not charging them, but readying them so they can charge as soon as the first two fire.
The helicopter's view is a little fuzzy from the rain and fog, but the Kaiju itself is obvious as it comes roaring out of the water after us. It's got a head shaped very like a snake's – probably why they gave it that codename – and the body is streamlined as well. It has heftier legs than a crocodile that lift its undulating body out of the water before us.
The footage doesn't show the Kaiju's tail, but we didn't miss it for an instant.
Polaris Wild charges Mamushi with the right arm cocked to slam, the wicked-sharp claws already fully extended. We hit the body at full speed and land a perfect swipe across its face, tearing close to one protruding eye.
"Fire!" I yell.
The two cannons mounted on our shoulders glow brightly before delivering their payloads right into the Kaiju's face.
But Mamushi's not done yet and the tail the helicopters couldn't see comes whipping around to our left, wrapping around Polaris's left leg and yanking us dangerously off-balance.
"Chief!" I yell.
Polaris latches onto the Kaiju with her left hand, fighting to maintain a grip against the slippery scales. Two more cannons begin to charge, and our own tail drops to the seabed to brace Polaris for the impact.
"Empty it!" Chief and I shout together.
There is a series of reverberating concussive blasts as Hoss unloads two full clips into Mamushi while Chief and I try to keep it from pulling us over or gouging our armor off. We manage to blast off a part of the tail and one clawed hand, which breaks our hold enough for the Kaiju to back up a little. It shifts laterally as if to make a run around us for Cascade.
I'm surprised to hear the venomous fury in my own voice as I bellow over the comm, "Not on our watch!"
Polaris darts sideways to face Mamushi again, while our tail whips out at a sharp angle. At the apex of its arc, the mace is released and crashes into the Kaiju, striking it right in the middle of its narrow chest.
"Nice shot, Dead-Eye," Yuki whispers to me. I roll my eyes.
Mamushi isn't down yet, but the blow has disoriented it and Polaris closes once more.
"Hit it with the cannon again!" Chief calls.
I snicker across the table at Hoss, remembering her flash of pure annoyance at that order. I think her exact mental response was "Fucking duh, genius." In Chief's defense, we were pretty caught up. In Hoss's, there are unhatched goldfish who knew that was our next tactical move.
As Polaris grabs the Kaiju and pins it, scoring more hits along its extremities with its claws and one really good kick to those thick legs that sure felt like it shattered a kneecap or the Kaiju equivalent, Hoss fires madly into the thing, rending flesh from bone with every blast. There's a weird sound that gets picked up by the comm line which has the Midwest Consortium raising their eyebrows and Yuki waggling his at Hoss who suddenly finds the table fascinating.
What? It's not like she's the only gunner who cackles madly while kicking Kaiju ass!
As soon as the barrage of cannon-fire ends, even almost before it ends, Polaris is lifting both arms up in an overhead strike, bringing down joined fists with the force of a mountain crashing into the sea. Mamushi drops under the hit, a lot of its body ruined and half-disintegrated already.
Over the comm line, Yuki says, "Kaiju signature falling, but still present. Do you read, Polaris?"
"We read you," I reply.
It's a little hard to see from the helicopters, but Polaris Wild bends to grasp the body of the Kaiju where it is stubbornly paddling against the waves to try to evade us once more. We grab Mamushi right around the head, lodging Polaris's hands inside its jaw.
With a satisfying CRACK we rip the top jaw and the rest of the skull from the Kaiju's body and let it fall dead.
Over the comm line, Chief is quietly snickering and Hoss is breathing heavily. My voice is clear and a little smug with triumph. "Kaiju eliminated, LOCCENT. Confirm?"
It's the Marshal who gets on the line to answer, "Confirmed, Polaris Wild. Good kill. Return to the Shatterdome for full inspection."
"Roger that, Marshal."
Yuki stops the playback and moves to the middle of the room. "Mamushi was confirmed dead as Polaris Wild's fourth solo kill. Necessary repairs were less than usual for a combat of this type partially due to the utility of being able to contain the Kaiju and fire cannons simultaneously."
"And what do you three think?" one of the businesspeople asks, looking at where the three of us are communicating silently with amusement. We know that Yuki cut the feed right before we reminded him to add our kill to the tally-board which put us out in front of our rivals from the Jaeger team that pilots Sentinel Wolf who had only accumulated three solo kills at the time. It meant they had owed us dinner in town.
We focus on the fact that we're in front of important civilians and not the society of the PPDC where we are so much more comfortable. This time, I look pointedly at Chief and Hoss – it's about time they contribute something.
Chief says, "It was a good kill. Polaris has a really strong design that gave us a real advantage."
Hoss adds, "Having four full cannons also means we avoid the delay of charging one at a time. We always charge at least two while the others are firing so we don't have to wait for another shot for as long as we've got the ammo."
I look at the representatives of those minds and budgets and technicians who combined resources to produce our Jaeger.
"Polaris Wild is unlike any other Jaeger in use today. Her methods of solving the problems of Kaiju combat are different, and because of that she might always be unique – the PPDC likes sticking with the proven methods. But as far as we're concerned, Polaris Wild has surpassed even our wildest hopes, and it's our honor to pilot her for as long as we are needed."
-==OOO==-
Part 2
-==OOO==-
Polaris Wild would die a hero's death in the eleventh year of the Kaiju War.
The Cascade Shatterdome had suffered several losses already as the Category 4s got bigger and bigger on the day we head out against the one codenamed StingerWasp. Polaris is much, much too small for this Kaiju. We are outclassed in every way, but we're the only ones left with even a chance of taking it down.
We all know it in the Drift. We know it as we've never known it before. We can feel it.
The fight is brutal. We lose the left arm almost immediately, and Chief and Hoss empty three of our four clips before we even make a dent in the thing's hideous hide. While they focus on firepower and keeping our systems from crashing, I handle Polaris Wild's maneuverability, which decreases with every blow we take.
A fire blast of some kind takes out our helicopter support, which forces us to close our distance with StingerWasp even though we're hideously damaged and vulnerable. But the chopper came down in the water and not land, and there's a chance its occupants survived – they'll have no chance at all if we let the Kaiju close to them again.
Then StingerWasp tears off our left leg.
We hit the water with a cracked hull, our various coolants, chemical compounds, and air leaking everywhere, though our power core hasn't been corrupted yet. We're sixteen miles from the shoreline at minimum, and LOCCENT can't get another Jaeger to us for another ten or fifteen minutes. And where we've landed is off the coastal shelf, the current dragging us deeper and deeper beneath and out into the sea.
We're going to die here – if StingerWasp doesn't kill us outright, our own Polaris will.
And we know the Jaegers coming as backup aren't the steady, solid veterans that have teamed with us before – those with experience that remain have been fighting too recently and their Jaegers aren't ready. The Jaegers coming to us now are either completely untried in combat or have only a few joint drops to their names. They're kids. And behind them is our city where hundreds of thousands of people's lives hang in the balance.
No. It's the unbreakable soul we share that rises up. No, we will not fail. We cannot fail.
Somehow, between the three of us, we manage an override and get Polaris Wild's tail to disconnect. StingerWasp follows us into the water to finish us off, but we pull the tail into our remaining hand.
We practically rip Polaris Wild in half by twisting against the ocean floor and the water, but the tail miraculously hits StingerWasp across the neck between its protective scutes and deals a fatal blow. Just to be sure, we swing one last time and the head comes clean off.
StingerWasp crashes into Polaris and the systems we still had functional go dark as we start to slide even deeper into the ocean.
I break out of the Drift shouting orders. "LOCCENT, the Kaiju is down but we're finished! Get those choppers in the air now!"
"On the way," the Marshal says, and her voice is cold and tense. I've heard it that way before – when the other crews never came home.
"Polaris Wild is down!" Hoss is yelling. "We can't get to the surface and the Conn-Pod will be flooded in under two minutes!"
"Get ready to eject into the escape pods!" I yell back. Then I realize something I knew in the Drift but pushed aside because it didn't matter enough. "Chief?"
I look across to the left side and see Rina's face white with pain. "Report, Ranger!" I bark at her.
"I...there's something wrong with my back," she says, even as her arms aren't stopping their moving while she does whatever she can from her station's instrument panel to try to stabilize our position.
Actually, I can see that. Chief's body is being held at a strange angle and the joint where the control arm connects to her drivesuit looks like it's been damaged. If I had to guess, I'd say her spinal clamps have been bent. If she's lucky, she'll just have nerve damage from them impacting with her spine. But for all we can tell from here, she could be bleeding to death already.
"Okay," I say, mentally juggling priorities. This is what I am for. I will get my team out if it takes my very last breath.
"Hoss, get out of your control arm. I need you to help me get Chief to the surface."
"Roger," Hoss starts detaching, and I know she's relieved that I haven't given up hope yet. I'm already moving to the left-hand side.
"Easy, Rina," I tell her as she goes white with pain after shifting to look over at me. "We're going to get you out of here."
"Listen, Oaks. You can't…" she starts.
I know what she wants to say. She doesn't want me to die saving her life. Tough shit, sister mine. You'd do the same for me.
"It's going to be fine. You're just going for a little ride." While Hoss stumbles to my side, limping heavily and half-dragging her own left leg, I tip my helmet to Chief's, touching our domed visors together – it's the closest I can get to one of the two who shares my heart and soul. "Just keep breathing for me, my girl. That's an order."
"See you in a minute," Hoss promises.
It takes both of us to get the release to move, and we have to manually shove the metal control arm upwards to deposit Chief in the escape pod hanging above. As soon as it seals and ejects, I'm already shoving at Hoss.
"Your turn. Take mine," I push her into my right-hand position.
"Oaks, why?"
I can't tell her that the third escape pod is showing a warning sign, but from her position she missed the lights that have started flashing. I don't know if it's been disabled or if it's just that it, like the rest of the Conn-Pod, is rapidly filling with unbreathable air. Either way, it won't be a safe ride to the surface if it makes it at all and I will not put her into it.
"It's faster and you're hurt," is all I say, though. "Get going."
Hoss knows me too well and looks like she's going to argue, but at that point her left leg gives out and if I hadn't shoved her the remaining distance into my own control arm bracket, she wouldn't have made it at all.
But before I hit the release to get her into the pod, I freeze. What if…?
"You know, don't you?" I have to ask, and my throat hurts.
Hoss's eyes are glassy behind her visor, but I would know that expression anywhere. I've seen it often enough reflected at both myself and Chief in the last few years. And we've given it to her.
"I know," Hoss says gently. "I know."
I can't speak so I just nod at her and hit the release that will lift her up to her escape pod. In moments, she's gone and on her way to safety.
There isn't time for me to be sentimental about abandoning Polaris Wild like this. Particularly because the environmental controls are starting to scream about concentrations of damaging chemicals filling the Conn-Pod, and my oxygen line was disconnected the minute I moved to get to Chief. The air filtering into my drivesuit burns my mouth and nose, but I can't cough. If I start to cough, I'll never stop.
I stumble to Hoss's station just as something outside shifts and Polaris starts to slide downward. It takes everything I have left to keep from being flung about like a ragdoll. The bad smell increases and my eyes go blurry and dizzy.
"LOCCENT!" I manage to yell. "Take care of my girls!"
"Get into that escape pod, Oakley! That is an order!"
The words reverberate in my mind and I will never know if it was the Marshal, one of the techs, or even Chief or Hoss. But they give me the courage to grab onto the third control arm and ride it up into the last pod. As the pod seals and starts upwards, a coughing fit takes me and I have time to wonder if I'm going to suffocate before I pass out.
-==OOO==-
I wake up in the hospital with a mask on my face and a tube down my throat. Hoss is sitting beside me.
"You can't talk," she says as soon as she knows I'm awake. "If it wasn't for that thing, you wouldn't be breathing. Your lungs are a mess. You're going to have major scarring for life."
I nod. I can kind of tell that, thanks very much.
She must see the thought written in my eyes because she huffs a laugh at me.
Chief! Where's Rina?
"Chief just came out of surgery," Hoss says, correctly interpreting my panic. "She's going to be okay, but the spinal clamps did a number on her. They think she'll walk again but…"
Yeah, Hoss doesn't need to finish that sentence. I know what she's not saying already; I can read it in her as if she were screaming it with every pore and blood-vessel. Instead, I glance up and down at her. Her left leg is stretched out before her, propped on a chair and encased in plaster up to her hip where there's a metal brace and a lot of padding.
She nods and her expression goes cold. "Me, too. I'll be okay, but none of us is ever going to be able to pilot again."
-==OOO==-
It takes months for us to get out of the hospital, and by the time we can get around without wheelchairs and crutches, the Cascade Shatterdome has already been closed and the few remaining Jaegers redeployed. But we know how to read the politics. No new Jaegers have been built in the last six months and none ever will be. The world governments are shutting down the program in favor of their idiotic wall and there is nothing we can do about it.
Well, not nothing.
It's barely even a discussion. It's a half-voiced idea. "You know, we could always go." We've Drifted so long and so many times and entwined our minds so deeply, we know what we'll do before we even decide to do it. It's the blessing and curse of Drifting. It makes us the most coherent, efficient, single-minded unit, a perfect union for flawless response time in combat. And it also means we never really stop Drifting anymore. We're like trees that have grown wrapped around one another and can never be separated without killing them. For as long as we live, we will be one together.
We go to Hong Kong.
Marshal Pentecost will take anyone he can get to help him in his final stand against the Kaiju. Even so, he starts by saying, "You can't pilot. I haven't got a spare Jaeger for three and it would kill you anyway."
"We know," I nod, standing at attention between my copilots in his briefing room. I'm just grateful I can finally talk without coughing every third word. "But we know more about tri-pilot systems than anyone, even the triplets. We half-wrote the OS for the late Mark-4s. We're not asking to pilot. Just put us on the ground and let us keep Crimson Typhoon sharp."
Marshal Pentecost looks at us. "You won't mind it?"
We all smile. "It's not a demotion, sir," Hoss points out. "We'll always be Rangers. But this is what we can do. If we'd gotten into the program to be famous or to stride around a Shatterdome like a celebrity, we wouldn't have come here at all."
He actually smiles at us a little. "Report to Bay Three. If anyone has a problem with you, let me know. But I'm glad to have you aboard."
For five months, we look after Crimson Typhoon. The Wei Tang brothers recognize us, of course, even after the inevitable changes from our long hospitalization and recovery. There were so few of us working in triple formations, we all knew one another at least a little. We'd traded techniques and stories and, on occasion, had given emotional support to one another. Being part of a trio in a Drift was difficult, and it had helped to know there were others out there who understood what it was like. Honestly, when we start working on their Jaeger, when they realize they aren't the only surviving trio left in the world, I think it's as much a relief to them as it is to us to be able to do it.
They wouldn't say as much. They're even less likely to communicate outside of one another than we are sometimes. But we understand. We watch them play a lot of basketball and sometimes talk them into a game of Horse with us. They completely kick our ass, obviously. But it helps.
Very few others in the Hong Kong Shatterdome ever realize who we are. Polaris Wild was never the flashiest of the Jaegers, and we three had never gotten into doing talk shows or parades. The Hansens knew us, of course, and we'd done a single joint drop with Herc in our earliest days when we helped run backup on one of the first attempts directly against the breach. We mostly stay away from the Kaidonovsky team mainly because of their long-running rivalry with the Wei Tangs. Mako Mori also knew who we were, and we each take a turn in the Kwoon Combat Room to vet her candidates for Raleigh Becket when Gypsy Danger is finally completed.
But we never try to get close to Raleigh once he arrives, even though we know him both by reputation and our visits back to Alaska to talk to cadets about potential trio Drifting. We figure Raleigh has been through enough. There's nothing we can do to help him prepare to re-enter Gypsy Danger when we're still cold with the loss of Polaris.
Of course, we have a quiet bet against the Wei Tangs that Mako would be the best potential copilot for Raleigh, and when we are proven right, they owe us dinner at their secret spot in Hong Kong.
They never get the chance to pay up.
After the double event, everything changes. If Crimson Typhoon had come back salvageable, we were fully prepared to walk into Marshal Pentecost's office and demand to join his plan, even knowing we would never return. We owed the Wei Tangs that much, at least. But the Typhoon is beyond what we can do for it in the time we have, so we focus on helping the ground crews prepare the two Jaegers that are left.
If we could Drift even once more, I think we might be crushed under our shared fear for the future of our world. We're almost grateful we cannot, even if it would also be the finest comfort for us, too. Even though we have our own quarters, when we sleep between shifts, we pile into one bed and hang onto one another.
If the Marshal's plan fails, there's no hope for anyone.
-==OOO==-
The Marshal's plan succeeds, though he isn't alive to see it.
We cry when the War Clock stops for the last time. We cry when Raleigh and Mako return safely. We cry when Marshal Pentecost doesn't.
Later, we also join Doctor Gottlieb and Newton when the pair of them gets spectacularly drunk together in the aftermath of everything. They're not the only ones who aren't sure if they're celebrating or mourning or just releasing a decade's worth of fear by any means necessary, of course. We don't drink – none of us ever wanted to, and it isn't really the smartest pastime for Jaeger pilots who may be on call at any moment – but we keep them company and prevent Hermann from upending a table.
And when each of them, separately, comes to us later to talk about three-way Drifting, while we can't relate to Drifting with a Kaiju, we're the nearest thing to what they experienced they can find and we do what we can to ease their way.
The first few months after sealing the breach, the Hong Kong Shatterdome is more chaotic than anyone could imagine. We stick with it, grateful for each other and the familiar surroundings as the world tries to reorient itself to this new reality. It's no less a tremendous shock than it was when the first Kaiju made landfall in California, and with no fewer repercussions.
Marshal Hansen spends most of his time at the UN in endless meetings. He has to tell and retell everything that happened, everything Marshal Pentecost did, everything Gypsy Danger and Striker Eureka risked for the world. When he calls in to check on the Shatterdome, his eyes don't look right. But then, describing the heroic death of one's son over and over in front of politicians and committees and reporters would do that to a man. Tendo Choi tries his best to run things in Herc's absence, but he's always been more of a technician than a leader. We step up as much as we can. It turns out that more people than we thought knew who we were all along and just didn't want to remind us of what we'd been. It helps. The crews respect us and trust us enough to keep things moving. But still, per our request, Marshal Hansen does not publicize our existence amidst his many reports. There's enough publicity to dodge as it is.
After he returns from his own interrogation at the UN, Raleigh finally spots us and doesn't know whether to punch us or hug us for hiding from him all that time – he opts for the second and we hug him until he can scarcely breathe. There are very few surviving Jaeger pilots anywhere because precious few ever got out of their Jaegers in the fights that took them down. We help Mako and Raleigh avoid the press and the curious when we can, and we all keep one another sharp in the Kwoon Combat Room when everything else becomes too much.
Of course, we're still not what we were. Chief and I are only allowed easy, brief bouts. There are three dozen moves she can't handle anymore without putting herself in a back-brace for the next week. And I can fight just fine until my lungs give way to the scar tissue that ruined them at which point I become a wheezing, useless mess. Only Hoss can hold her own for a full combat, but she has to do it with a bum leg. So we all know that Mako and Raleigh are humoring us more than anything else, but it's a service we can do for each other and that matters more than anything else.
As the world settles, Marshal Hansen calls us into his inherited briefing room.
It always takes us ten minutes to do anything with Herc because Chief has a crush on that dog of his, and she won't be happy until she's gotten her fill of petting and being licked. Hoss and I shrug at each other and let her have her fun. It's not like we've had a great deal of that in the last...ever.
"So," he says when we finally sit down. "What do you want to do now?"
"Sir?" Chief asks.
"Don't you 'sir' me, Chief," he manages a tired smile at us. "I want honesty." He pins us with the force of his gaze. "The war is over. You can go anywhere you like, but you're still here maintaining equipment we'll never use again. What do you want to do now?"
Hoss and Chief look at me. I know – we all do – and as usual, I'm our designated spokesperson.
"The truth is, we're not really ready for the rest of the world yet," I tell him after a moment. "This is all we ever wanted. And all we're really good at. For as long as there's a PPDC, we're going to choose to be a part of it." Then I give him a look. "Are you kicking us out?"
He actually laughs. It's a broken, rusty sound – he hasn't really laughed since his son's death. But he shakes his head. "No. Even if no one else knows it, you're Jaeger pilots. The PPDC will never forget your service, and we can never repay it enough."
Hoss perks up. "Then...well, there is something I would like to do, with your permission, of course."
He nods.
"I don't want everything that's happened here to be forgotten. I feel like those of us who lived the war have a responsibility to remember it and record it for future generations."
"Haven't you heard?" he raises an eyebrow. "The Kaiju are never coming back."
Chief lets out a breath. "You don't entirely believe that. And neither do we."
"That's why I like you girls," the Marshal says. "Smart."
"So," I say, "make Hoss the PPDC historian. Let her work with whatever university is knocking down your door to get in here and take testimonials and oral histories and all that jazz so we can get everything written down and filed and whatever else you history nerds do." I grin at her and she grins back.
"Hey, it's not a job anybody is lining up for, so it's yours if you want it," the Marshal says. He looks at Chief. "What about you?"
"I'm going to be wherever I'm needed," she says, sliding a glance to Hoss and I. "So really, you better ask Oaks first."
"Actually, I've got a job for you, if you want it," he says to me. "And it comes with some perks."
I wait. Herc Hansen is a straight-shooter, but he does love his drama.
"The PPDC is partially disbanding in the wake of the end of the Kaiju threat, but this time it seems the world learned its lesson. We're going to keep a small contingent active and maintain at least a few Jaeger teams in case history decides to repeat itself. They're putting me in charge of the operation." His voice twists and I know he'd rather handle latrine duty than that.
The Marshal stands up and picks up a box from the desk behind him.
"The PPDC has finally gotten off its collective ass and done what they should have done a year ago. Unfortunately, it's only for one of you, but I get the feeling you won't mind that much." He hands over the box.
I open it. Inside are the bars and stars of the rank of Marshal.
Hoss manages to speak first. "There can only be on Marshal at a given Shatterdome."
"Right. But as of tomorrow, I won't be a Marshal anymore."
"You're going to be the new Secretary-General?" Chief asks.
"I guess they don't want to leave what's left of the PPDC in the same hands that almost killed us all." He's still grimacing, but there's pride there, too. As there should be.
"I'm in favor of that," I finally manage to say. "There's no one more qualified than you."
"Then you'll take them?" Herc looks at me. "I'll be on-site with you in the last consolidated Shatterdome, but I need someone to run operations and keep me from losing my mind. Mako will stay on as head of J-Tech of course, but Raleigh is not my first choice to maintain order, so I'm putting him in charge of the Academy instead. I figure if you can corral these two menaces, you can handle one half-sized Shatterdome."
I look to Chief and Hoss because my opinion doesn't mean anything without theirs. "Well?"
Hoss's face is pink and bright. "Duh! Where else am I gonna do all my research? Go for it!"
"And we'll be there to back you up," Chief adds. " We'll always be there."
A weight lifts off my shoulders. Raleigh wasn't the only Jaeger pilot who never thought more than one step ahead of the next Kaiju battle. Now, no matter what happens, I won't face it alone.
I haven't been alone since that first Drift. They're in my head, my heart, my soul. As I am in theirs. And united, we'll still protect this world from the monsters that threaten it.
"Hansen, you've got yourself a deal."
-==OOO==-
And once we all settle in at Kodiak Island, our new, permanent home, it feels more right than anything since Polaris Wild's Conn-Pod. It's not really that different from being in the Academy, after all, though the quarters are better and so is the food. Raleigh proves to be one of the best teachers for those cadets who still come to us to be reserve pilots just in case, and Mako starts finding ways of using the data from Gypsy's last run to make a new generation of Jaegers even stronger. Hoss spends most of her time in her office writing up notes and tearing her hair out at the various graduate students who are just a little too starry-eyed about the PPDC. Chief brings her a lot of coffee. A lot of coffee. Sec-Gen Hansen reorganizes the whole PPDC to make some kind of bureaucratic sense, and he raids all the closed Shatterdomes and even Oblivion Bay for every spare part he thinks we need or could use. Chief gets to oversee a lot of the cataloguing of everything he scrounges. I bring her a lot of coffee, too.
Polaris never made it as far as Oblivion Bay, so we don't get a piece of her to keep. But we carry her inside us anyway.
It turns out that running operations for a Shatterdome is almost exactly like trying to run a three-pilot Drift and Jaeger – nothing goes as planned, everybody has different ideas how things should be done, and something always breaks or catches fire at the worst possible moment. It takes me a while to adjust to doing it without Hoss and Chief inside my head, but before long things start to run more smoothly. We don't have the resources we once did, so we do a lot of innovating. To Herc's complete amusement, I start training my ground crews to use the long lines Chief and I had always employed to work on Polaris – it's a logical way to solve the problem of having a lot fewer freight- and forklifts around, and it keeps the teams sharp and fit and entertained.
If Herc asks, I am not the person who taught Newton to climb and rappel, though.
I am also definitely not the person who set up a zip-line from the lab he still shares with Hermann to the hallway that leads to the commissary, which Newton loves and everybody else has learned to duck. I blame Tendo. It's probably even true.
The Kodiak Shatterdome is never really quiet, but in the middle of the night when almost no one is working, I walk the bays from the ground level to the highest catwalks. I climb over the three Jaegers we're building, check the progress made, and double-check the safety lines to make sure they're not fraying yet. Most nights, Chief and Hoss join me, though neither of them should really climb anymore after their injuries. We work in silence sometimes, or we hit the loudspeaker and play music when there's no one else to hear. Herc does his own midnight rounds, as does Raleigh, but they stay on the ground. We all have our own ways of stitching together this little world that has become the only place we belong.
And even though I'm a Marshal now, the Rangers on site all still call me "Oaks." The ground crews and the J-Tech teams and the K-Science divisions all call me "Marshal Oakley." It's probably Chief's fault. Or Hoss's fault. Most things that aren't my fault are their faults.
But when Herc gives his speeches to the assembled Shatterdome on K-Day or on the anniversary of the destruction of the breach, or any other time a speech is needed, he doesn't single me out. Neither does Raleigh in his training classes. The new recruits and cadets and recent transfers and technicians and other newbies never hear the name Chief or Hoss or Oaks right away.
They call us Polaris.
"That's Polaris over there. Those three defended the Cascade Shatterdome against the then-biggest Category 4 ever even though it cost them their Jaeger."
"Those women are the only living trio to have Drifted together to pilot a Jaeger. They're the Polaris Wild pilots."
"If you need anything while you're here, go see one of the Polaris trio. The Marshal is in charge, but all three of them will help you out if you need it. They work with Sec-Gen Hansen to keep things running around here."
"If you ever see three women on the Kwoon mat fighting so slowly the Fightmasters should be screaming, that's Polaris Wild. They still practice together, even though they almost died when they lost their Jaeger."
"Rangers Raleigh and Mako are without a doubt the best Jaeger pilots left, and maybe the best ever. But if you need to understand what it really means to Drift, or what it really means to give everything to the PPDC, go talk to Polaris Wild."
My real name hasn't mattered since the Academy. I'm Annie Oakley. Marshal Oakley if you want to be formal about it.
But I'm also Ranger Hoss.
And I'm also Ranger Chief.
And together, we are and forever will be Polaris Wild.