Soryuu and Hiryuu watched the fireworks over the harbor. A series of rockets exploded, showering sparks that reflected on the waves below. "It was a great victory, wasn't it?" said Hiryuu complacently.
They stood on a hill overlooking the harbor, which was still pockmarked with the craters that had resulted from the most recent battle between Kaga and Akagi. Clear reminders of their power, thought Soryuu. It would not have been out of character for Akagi to have thought of that at the time. A suspiciously large numbers of bombs had hit land far from their targets...
"Not so much by our merit," replied Soryuu absently. "Had First Carrier Division not come-"
"But surely that was the plan," argued Hiryuu. "Though-"
"Why didn't they say they were coming?" asked a new voice. Both carriers turned to see Zuikaku marching steadily up the hill, Shoukaku walking more gracefully behind her. It had been Shoukaku who had spoken. "The whole thing seemed a bit thrown-together, didn't it?"
Hiryuu exchanged a look with Soryuu. "The shikikan is known for his skill at improvisation," said Soryuu hesitantly. "Perhaps-"
"But the shikikan seemed shocked to see us out there," said Shoukaku. "And the land-based aircraft- I found out later that they had been scrambled by the base commander, not prepared beforehand."
"It could have been a ruse," suggested Soryuu. "If there are Siren sympathizers-"
There was little question that there were those who would betray humanity for the Sirens- it was apparently an innate human characteristic to seek out the winning side in a conflict, at least for some. Whether they actually had any real contact with the Sirens was another question entirely. There had been a few, including the man who had given Siren sympathizers their colloquial name.
"Quislings?" Zuikaku snorted. "Among the land-based pilots? Give me a break. No, there's something else going on here."
"The shikikan is known as a competent fighter," said Soryuu stiffly. "He would not keep such secrecy without a good reason."
"I didn't say he didn't have a good reason," said Shoukaku. "I just can't figure out what it is."
There was a long silence. "Nobody said he has to explain anything to us," said Hiryuu at length. "What was that English poem? 'Theirs is not to question why-'"
"'Theirs is not to make reply,'" continued Soryuu.
"'Theirs is but to do and die,'" finished Shoukaku.
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Lieutenant Colonel Morinaga Kiyoshi eyed Takao speculatively.
The recognition that many of the Japanese kansen used blades- and what that meant for training- had come slowly to the Navy. After all, training with katana was widely considered primarily an Army tradition, something the more modern-minded Navy had little faith in. And it seemed silly to train warships- designed to fight at distances measured in the hundreds or thousands of meters- in the use of close combat weapons.
Unfortunately, no one had apparently told the Sirens that. More than a few ships had been directly attacked by humanoid Sirens who used their small size to sneak up on crewed vessels. Modern naval warfare had proven to include close combat as well as artillery duels.
The kansen had proven to be highly variable in their response to such training. Some, like Akagi, were openly dismissive, even contemptuous, relying on their awesome powers to ensure the enemy never got close. For smaller or more direct combat focused ships, however, their lack of reconnaissance capability made them much more vulnerable to surprise attacks from single Sirens.
Some had taken to it with a will, such as Takao.
She held her katana's hilt in her right hand, eyes on Morinaga. He noted a slight tremor of tension, a tiny hesitation in her step. They were practicing Battojutsu, the craft of drawing the sword.
"To draw then strike is to allow the enemy the first attack, and one without a defense," said Morinaga as he circled to one side. The onlooking kansen nodded. Takao matched his step, her face set in determination.
"To draw and strike in one motion is to allow yourself the first attack, and thus to defeat your opponent."
He demonstrated.
In one smooth motion, he pushed the practice blade out with his thumb, pulled it across his body, and twisted his hip back to bring the blade clear. The blade swung out, cleanly, drawing a straight line across.
Tako reacted almost instantly, her blade coming out and up a heartbeat too late. He stopped the blunt point just before it made contact with her stomach. She grimaced in annoyance.
"You were too slow," he said shortly. "Again."
They replaced the swords in their scabbards and once again, the blades leapt out as if by their own accord. Once again, Takao's frustration was clear as Morinaga stopped a bare moment before metal touched skin, this time at her throat.
"I am sorry, sensei," she said, clearly angry at herself.
"You progress," said Morinaga, not unkindly. "If you progress, you have nothing to apologize for."
Off to one side, a man in a Kenpeitai uniform grunted. "Tell a Siren that you are 'progressing', Takao. See if they are as kind as your sensei." Colonel Nakayama was nominally present to assist in training, but the Kenpeitai were a secret police force. He was a master swordsman, but spent far more time investigating the loyalty of the kansen than training them.
She flushed but said nothing. Morinaga turned to the young Kenpeitai officer angrily, but was forestalled by another observer.
"Everyone must learn, Colonel Nakayama," said Takeda, his voice deceptively calm except to those- like the kansen- who knew him. "It does no good to try and frighten them. To try and scare Takao is a lost cause anyway."
The Kenpeitai turned, looked over Takeda. "So you are the famous shikikan, are you?" he sneered. "Famous for lost causes."
Takeda shrugged. "I have served Japan to the best of my ability."
"You know how to lose well, I'll give you that."
"I imagine you only know how to lose badly, but I'll take that as a compliment."
There was utter silence. Even the birds seemed to sense the tension in the air, their singing faltering as the low buzz of conversation ceased.
Nakayama grinned. "Perhaps we should find out, Captain." He loosened the sword in his scabbard. "Or are you typical of the modern Navy and have not learned the way of the sword?"
In answer, Takeda turned toward Ayanami, on the edge of the crowd. "Ayanami, run to my quarters and get my sword from inside, please. The one with the gray hilt is my practice blade."
"Hai!" She dashed off.
Nakayama watched her go. "It is worrying to know that the future of Japan lies in the hands of mere girls," he said. "They are much more suited to fetching the blades of true warriors than to wielding them."
Takeda merely raised an eyebrow at him, letting his words sink into the silence around them, treating the words with the contempt they deserved.
Ayanami soon returned, handing Takeda's sword to him with both hands. He took it and belted it on, adjusting the scabbard slightly as he turned toward Nakayama.
Morinaga stepped between them as they faced off. "Gentlemen," he said quietly. "Perhaps we should settle this with more privacy. You have both ensured that whoever loses this will lose face in front of the kansen."
Takeda glanced at him. "So we have. I don't think it will matter much if a Kenpeitai loses face, however. His authority is primarily confined to training." He looked back at Nakayama. "Or should be."
"Step back, Morinaga," snarled Nakayama. "Maybe the captain needs to be cut down a notch. Maybe he will learn to control his command better if he feels my blade on his neck."
Takeda's face hardened. "Master Morinaga, please allow us to proceed."
Morinaga frowned. In theory, Takeda was right- it mattered little if Nakayama looked bad. In the worst case scenario, they could merely transfer out Nakayama. Hopefully they would replace him with someone less arrogant and inclined to sabotage the whole kansen program. There were rumors that the Army wanted to take control of the kansen as their own, claiming they were the equivalents of tanks or even infantry. Even Morinaga, who was loyal to the Army, thought that idea was insane.
If Takeda lost- it would not be the end of the kansen program, but it would make him look far less effective, and could play right into the Army's hands. After the recent questions raised by the strangely impromptu recent operation, it might be argued that Takeda was incapable of controlling his own subordinates.
Looking between them, however, Morinaga only saw resolve in their eyes. Suppressing a sigh, he stepped back.
Nakayama and Takeda faced one another. "I am ready," said Nakayama, his voice dripping with contempt. "You, Takeda?"
The captain gave a slight nod.
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Akagi took the stone steps to the training ground two at a time. As she neared the top she slowed to a walk- no point in allowing others to see her in a hurry. A crowd of kansen formed a rough circle that parted to allow her through when she was noticed.
The training ground was cut from the living rock, smoothed and flattened to form a circular arena that was then covered in sand. Trees around the edge provided shade, though it still became uncomfortably warm in summer. A brook babbled happily alongside the northern edge of the area, spilling down the mountainside.
Two men stood in the center of the arena, blades sheathed at their sides. Akagi's breath caught when she saw the proud bearing of Takeda. With a sword at his side, he suddenly looked- right. As if the sword had been part of him that was missing.
She saw Atago nearby watching the shikikan hungrily. "Don't let your tongue hang out too much, Atago."
"Do you see him?" said Atago, not looking away. "Don't tell me you aren't seeing what I see."
Akagi cleared her throat and looked back at Takeda and Nakayama.
Morinaga stood near them, arms crossed and his face set. "Begin."
Nakayama's sword flashed out almost too fast to see, but not fast enough to avoid Takeda's parry. Takeda immediately went on the offensive, forcing Nakayama back to avoid the bright blade.
Akagi blinked as the two men circled one another. "Why are they using real blades?"
Takao was standing next to her sister. "Because men are born fools," she said, though with a note of approval. "They are blunted, of course."
"Still dangerous," said Atago. "But it wasn't worth trying to tell the shikikan that."
Nakayama had managed to stave off Takeda's first attack, and now was trying his own cautious offense. He flicked the sword at Takeda twice, forcing parries, then suddenly rushed the naval officer. Takeda smoothly danced out of the way, slicing at Nakayama's stomach. The Kenpeitai managed to barely deflect the sword away. He backed up again, watching Takeda warily.
Takao nodded to herself. "They are both quite skilled."
"The shikikan will win," said Akagi.
Both sisters looked at her, eyes widening.
She was rather surprised, herself. It wasn't that she did not respect Takeda, but not to the extent she suddenly seemed to trust him now. The belief that he would win the match was as unalterable as it was unexpected. She knew it with a certainty as solid as the granite beneath her feet.
Takeda initiated a series of flowing, quick strikes that Nakayama ably deflected, giving almost no ground. Each parry set him up for a counterstroke, but so rapidly did Takeda move that the counterattacks never came.
"He stands like a stone," observed Atago.
"Dripping water wears away stone," replied Takao absently, her head cocked as she watched the battle. "But he will spend himself too quickly."
Indeed, Takeda did seem to be slowing. Nakayama watched carefully, and between one attack and another he finally launched his counter. Takeda barely managed to dodge the slash, and then was abruptly on the defensive, falling back steadily as Nakayama advanced with greater and greater confidence.
"Water," said Takao suddenly. "A stone falls into water."
"Makes a big splash," said Atago, looking at her sister curiously.
"But then the water remains."
Suddenly, Takeda was off-balance. He shifted his feet quickly, but Nakayama struck- a thrust born of frustration, a thrust at Takeda's neck. One that would have been fatal even with a blunted weapon.
Akagi hissed and took a step forward, red fire dancing around her fingers.
Takeda took a smooth step back, barely out of reach of the Kenpeitai's sword. His own blade flicked out, his right side moving forward smoothly as he danced around Nakayama's outstretched sword. He slashed into Nakayama's stomach, then struck his solar plexus with his hilt.
Nakayama's eyes bugged out, and he collapsed, struggling for breath.
Takeda flicked his blade casually, as if to throw blood from the blade. He then scabbarded the sword and walked away from the disabled Kenpeitai.
He removed his katana and returned it to Ayanami, who took it almost reverently. Without a word, he made his way through the crowd of kansen toward his office.
Akagi watched him go.
Shoukaku abruptly appeared next to her. She bowed. "Akagi, the shikikan wants to speak with you."
"I see. Thank you, Shoukaku." She watched Takeda walk down the stone steps. "I wanted to speak with him as well, as it happens."
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She found Takeda in his office, stacks of paper to either side of him on his desk. She walked in and took a seat uninvited. "You wanted to see me, shikikan?" It was giving up the initiative to an extent, but she was generally curious as to what he had to say.
The office was spartan, with small and uncomfortable chairs almost the only furniture beside the large desk and high-backed chair that Takeda sat in. Two large filing cabinets stood in each corner behind him. The paneled walls had maps and charts, but nothing in the way of decoration other than a Japanese flag taking up most of one wall and a photograph of the Emperor above Takeda's chair.
"I've received multiple commendations from various sources over the recent battle," he said without preamble.
"A great victory," said Akagi complacently.
"Indeed. We destroyed a fair few Sirens for what I have been told was 'minimal' loss."
"A few land-based aircraft-"
"Forty six," he said. "Forty six lives lost."
"You cannot win a victory without taking casualties," said Akagi.
"Very true." He looked up at her, finally. "'And everyone praised the Duke, who this great fight did win. But what good came of it at last, quoth little Peterkin. Why that I cannot tell, said he, but 'twas a famous victory."
Akagi frowned. "It sounds familiar..."
"The Battle of Blenheim, by Robert Southey. Tell me, Akagi, what we accomplished with our great victory."
She looked at him, confused. "At least a dozen Siren ships destroyed, maybe more. A great propaganda coup if nothing else."
"Hmm." He stood up and walked to the window, arms clasped behind his back. "The force destroyed was merely a small part of the blockading fleets. They have patched the hole in their blockade without any real difficulty. True, it looked good, but people will forget quickly as they continue starving. The Sirens, meanwhile, now forewarned, are less likely to offer the mistake I have been looking for to destroy them."
Akagi stood, too. "We must do something!" she insisted. "We sit here as people starve. The Army wants to take over the kansen program, and every day we sit and train and do nothing makes it more and more likely they succeed."
He turned toward her. "And if we show that our best efforts lead to no real results? Do you think that will be better?"
"That was far from our best effort," protested Akagi. "We can do so much more-"
"And we will. Akagi, you don't understand what we are risking here. One major defeat and we lose. The Army will take over the kansen program and it's impossible to guess just how much of mess they'll make of it." He paced back and forth. "The Navy has lost an incredible amount of face over the last twenty years, having been all but destroyed. You kansen are our last hope. I will not see you squandered just to do something."
"Perhaps you've forgotten how to go on the offensive," said Akagi coldly. "Perhaps you have forgotten how to take risks."
For a long moment Takeda eyed her. He moved back behind his desk and sat down. "Pull your chair closer, Akagi."
Frowning, she did as he asked, pulling it up to the desk. He took roughly half of a stack of papers and spun them around to face her. She picked the top paper up and read it-
Her head snapped up. "Letters to the family of the pilots who died?"
He nodded. "You've taken it upon yourself to risk their lives. So, you will help me face the consequences."
She hesitated, reading the name on the form. Daichi Kato. The letter was to his wife. "I'm a kansen, not a human. I don't know what to say."
"Do you think it makes it any easier to be human?" said Takeda. "I think you are more human than you know. Regardless, it was your decision that led to Kato's death. It was also my responsibility, which is why I am not having you do this alone."
"I-"
"You are not as above it all as you pretend, Akagi," he said softly. "You love Japan and the Japanese people. You are the embodiment of our thoughts, dreams, and will. And that means you have a duty to us, just as we have a duty toward you." He tapped the pile of papers. "These men died due to the duty they owed you. You have a duty to recognize their sacrifice."
She hesitantly took the letter. "I'm not wrong, you know. We have to fight."
Takeda was silent for a long moment. "You're not wrong. But the responsibility for their death is mine, and I won't have you take away my duty to make the decisions that lead to their death. I am willing to work with you, Akagi. But if you ever defy my orders again..." His eyes bored into her.
She looked into his eyes, and shuddered. She looked down at the paper in her hands.
"How do I begin?"
He looked tired. "With the truth, Akagi. With the truth."