by Shouji Gatou
4: The Executors
24 December, 2250 Hours (Japan Standard Time)
Shopping Center, Pacific Chrysalis
“...So I feel like I’ve established a greater relationship of trust with my subordinates than I had before,” Tessa whispered, holding her knees in the darkness. “But because of that, lately, I feel like it’s compromising our work relationship. Before, everyone was very proper in calling me ‘Colonel’ and ‘Captain’ and such. But lately, it’s more like “Colone~l” and “Capta~in.” Can you imagine? It feels wrong.”
“Hmm. I don’t know who’d want to give nicknames like ‘Colonel’ and ‘Captain’ to a kid maid like you, but that does sound pretty rough,” Sailor threw back as he rooted through the indulgence item counters.
“Excuse me. Sailor-san? I hope you’ll forget what I said about the rank names, but I am still talking to you seriously,” Tessa pointed out. “I’m attempting to open my heart to you, as a kindred spirit.”
“Yeah. I get it, I get it.”
“Are you sure?” Tessa wasn’t talking like this simply because she wanted a sounding board for her complaints. There was intent behind it. Talking to Sailor might help her to buy time, which would allow Clouseau and the others to locate and surround them. And finding out more about the kind of man he was would help her to better influence his behavior. Of course, the content of their conversation had ended up deviating significantly from those strategic objectives...
“Hey! There we go!” Sailor proclaimed as he picked a small box from a kiosk shelf, and held it up to the minimal light he had available.
“What is it?” Tessa asked. “Are you going to craft more dangerous weapons?”
“They’re cigars, dummy,” Sailor scoffed. “Whoa, Cohiba Lanceros?! These are Cuban! They sell these here? I had this pegged as a shitty-ass ship with crap security, but I guess it ain’t all bad!” He swiftly broke the wrapping, pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and spat it out on the floor. It was hideously uncouth.
“Excuse me, but you can’t really intend to smoke here, can you?” Tessa demanded politely. “I would appreciate it if you’d consider my health...”
“Shut up! It helps me think. Smoke ’em if you got ’em!” Sailor lit the cigar with a lighter, then let out a blissful plume of smoke. “Mm... Whew.”
Tessa turned away and started coughing, but she came to a sudden stop, and looked back curiously. A strange feeling began to come over her as she sniffed at the air. There was a slightly floral scent to the smoke from Sailor’s cigar. It was like when you pulled the stopper out of a bottle of potpourri... Something about it seemed to take her back to childhood. She wasn’t sure why.
“Well? Not bad, eh?” Sailor declared proudly. “That bastard Castro aside, there’s two things I’ll give Cuba—baseball players and cigars. Even Kennedy was all-in on importing Cuban cigars.”
“Ah-hah...”
“A superior I really admired once said: ‘Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea... and give us fine cigars!’ Now there was a man who loved a good smoke,” Sailor declared in a sonorous voice. Tiny sparks popped out from the cigar in the darkness.
“Is that a parody of the Navy Hymn?” Tessa wanted to know.
“Yeah... but hey, how’d you know that?!” Sailor demanded suspiciously. “Are you really just a maid?”
“Oh, of course... Anyway, could you tell me the name of that superior officer you—” Tessa’s request was interrupted by a tremor in the distance.
Exactly one hundred seconds earlier...
Even as he felt his neck muscles and bones reach their breaking point, Kurz reached a hand under his vest. His neck was going to snap. It would happen any second now...
“Ngh... hng...” he wheezed, pulling his automatic pistol from its holster. It was an FN Browning Hi-Power. Why did I have to pack a single action? he lamented. The act of cocking it seemed to take forever.
Eventually, Kurz managed to press the muzzle of the gun against the wrist of the hand around his neck, and pull the trigger. Then he fired a second and third time. Instead of a blood spurt, shards of plastic and metal scraped his cheek.
The enemy’s hand relaxed immediately, with the suddenness of a rubber band snapping. Kurz didn’t have time to feel relief; he stuck the muzzle into the enemy’s glowing red eye-slit and let fire with a series of 9mm rounds. Sparks flew, a burning smell filled the air, and the enemy reeled back a bit.
Kurz kicked it as hard as he could. It was like kicking a 100 kilogram sandbag, and while he managed to force the enemy away, it didn’t seem shaken in the slightest. Mercilessly, determinedly, and with pure intent to kill, it charged him again.
Kurz lost his balance and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He needed oxygen. The enemy’s right arm swung down at him, rattling uncertainly on its cracked wrist. An artificial hand? No... Kurz wondered. Just who the hell is this—
“Kurz!!” Someone came leaping out of nowhere to smack the back of the attacker’s head with a pipe. It was Yang. He was dripping with blood, coated with it head to toe, but he was still alive.
Kurz didn’t even have time to thank his lucky stars, as the large man, unfazed by Yang’s attack, swung out almost automatically with his right hand. Yang blocked with the pipe, but the force of the blow bent it in half, and sent the man flying into a nearby container.
Whatever this thing is, it’s not human, Kurz realized. In addition, blows to the head and the torso seemed useless. Kurz leaped out to grab one of the enemy’s legs, then pointed his gun at the back of its right knee. He took aim for the part that his experience and instincts as an AS pilot told him would be the least armored, and let off three shots. Gelatinous liquid and solid polymer scraps went flying. The enemy lost balance and crashed to the floor.
“Why... you...” Before it could even struggle, he unloaded two shots into its right shoulder, two into its left armpit, and two into the inner thigh where the leg joined to the hip—he would have done more, but at last, the pistol’s slide stopped in its rear-cocked position. He was out of ammo.
Even with most of its limb connectors destroyed, the enemy continued to struggle with what remained, searching for its enemies with its cracked head sensor.
“K-Kurz? You okay?” Yang asked haltingly, leaning against the container.
Kurz, panting for breath himself, swapped his gun’s magazine skillfully. “Yeah. Son of a bitch... What about you? You’re covered in blood...”
“Actually, that thing ended up firing through a stack of canned tomatoes over there... I think it just knocked me out cold,” Yang admitted.
“Oh, is that the gag?” Kurz asked. Now that he had a minute to think about it, it was clear that the room didn’t smell like blood at all. Still, he found a new worry entering his mind. I’m doomed, he thought woefully. All the tomatoes are gone... I’m gonna have survived all that, only for the cook to murder me. He decided to move the conversation along. “So, where’s Wu?”
“Dunno,” Yang mumbled. “He was right beside me, but...”
“Sorry, Sergeant, Corporal...” Wu popped out from a large wooden crate far behind Yang, also looking perfectly sound. “I decided to hide and play possum. That thing looked dangerous as hell.”
“You could’ve given me a little warning, dammit!” Kurz exploded.
“I’ll certainly do that next time.” Wu laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head.
“Still, what the hell is this thing?” Kurz mused, his neck still aching. From what he could see, their assailant had lost most of its mobility. It had a human’s silhouette, but it was a machine, almost like a 3rd generation AS shrunk down to human size. Are these those human-sized Amalgam ASes that Kaname mentioned running into in Shibuya? he wondered. If she hadn’t told me about that, it would’ve taken me a lot longer to realize I should target the joints...
“Don’t ask me. It just burst out of the container and—” Yang suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, seemingly realizing t
he same thing as Kurz.
Would an enemy that’s given Mithril so much trouble in the past really hand over a machine like this so easily? he pondered. Wouldn’t they have thought up a way to dispose of its remains if it were ever immobilized?
The robot stopped struggling. In that exact moment, Yang took two or three steps back, and whispered, “K-Kurz. It’s...”
“...I know,” Kurz agreed quickly. “Run!” They all took off at almost the exact same time. A second later, the robot exploded, sending a fireball, shockwave, and anti-personnel ball bearings bursting through the hold.
Kurz threw himself to the floor. White smoke and dust hung thick around him, as he was peppered by fragments and debris. About on par with a Claymore mine, Kurz estimated of the blast, even while grimacing from the ringing in his ears.
“Hey, Kurz. Still alive over there?” Yang asked leisurely. It seemed like the other two had survived.
“Sorry to disappoint, but yeah,” Kurz replied, pushing aside the charred wood that had fallen on top of him with a curse. “Damn, what a mess...” The area around the explosion was a miserable sight of bent steel and torn-open containers, their contents scattered and burning. The sprinklers activated next, showering the hold with water.
Yang said, “We need to report this to the lieutenant. I don’t know what that robot really was, but it’s clearly a trap.”
“Got it,” Kurz agreed. “Uruz-6 to HQ! You read me?” He called into his radio.
Back at headquarters, Clouseau responded immediately. “HQ here. Was that an explosion in Area C32?”
“Affirmative!” Kurz replied. “One of those robots Angel told us about. We managed to take it out, but it exploded on us.”
“Robots?” Clouseau asked in surprise. “Those Alastor things, eh? Any damages?”
“Zero deaths, three light injuries! No one out of action,” Kurz reported. “The tomatoes got the worst of it.”
“Was it just the one?”
“Of course! If we’d had to fight even two or three of those things—” Kurz was cut off, this time by a loud bang that echoed through the hold. Further in from where they were standing, the door of a comparatively unscathed container had been blasted open from the inside. Something had kicked its way out.
“Hey...” Heavy footsteps rang out. Stepping on the door ripped from its hinges, a large black-clad man emerged from the container. It was identical to the enemy they had just fought, from its build, to its clothing, to its expressionless face. Its drive system let out a low hum, and its head sensor glowed in a single, horizontal red line.
“There’s more...” Kurz trailed off. It was the worst-case scenario; that single robot hadn’t been the end of it. They could hear more containers breaking open, one after another, all throughout the hold. More and more copies of the robot emerged, and began to slowly look around. Or... scan for hostiles, maybe? Kurz told himself. Eight of them... no, probably more.
“Uruz-6,” Clouseau demanded. “What’s wrong? Report, Uruz-6!”
“We... We just got about a dozen—” Kurz began to report.
“What? Say that one more—”
“Guys, break for it! This isn’t g—” Kurz turned to warn Yang and Wu, and found them already dashing headlong for the exit. Those jerks... He didn’t even have time to yell at them for their cruel abandonment. Darting around a grasping enemy hand, Kurz hurried to join them.
“Uruz-1 to all units. Code-13, top priority. A dozen or more of those ultra-mini ASes have appeared in the C32 cargo hold. Their abilities are likely as previously reported. If you disable them, they’ll explode with shrapnel. Be careful. Follow standard response procedures, with priority to the evacuation of hostages. Team Delta to C28. Team Echo to corridor C35. Hold the enemy at bay. AP shells permitted. If you can’t hold them back, at least slow them as much as possible.”
At times like these, Clouseau didn’t get angry, nor did he raise his voice. He doled out orders to each team with utmost calm. This precision of his did a better job than anything of communicating the urgency of the situation to the men. There was a faint smell of tension, different than before, as each team radioed acknowledgment.
What the hell are they after? Clouseau asked himself. What do the robots want? Are they here to kill everyone in Mithril and take control of the ship? No, from what Chidori Kaname had said, the robots’ programming wasn’t that sophisticated; their mission must be something simpler. Protect the secret of the vault, then? Kill everyone on the ship and sink it? No, they wouldn’t need robots for that... a high explosive of equivalent size would do the job just as well.
What did they want? How much of their plan had the enemy foreseen? There were too many things he didn’t know. The one thing he did know was that a powerful enemy had appeared on the ship, and that they couldn’t be intimidated or negotiated with.
A member of the PRT spoke up. “Lieutenant, what are they after?”
“We don’t know yet,” Clouseau answered tersely. “This whole thing could have been a setup, or maybe this deployment is a last resort option... Either way, they’ve gotten serious.” He then used his radio to call Mao by the vault. “Uruz-2. Progress report.”
“Not much to say,” she replied swiftly. “Could be as much as three hours, as little as thirty minutes. Something like that.” Clouseau could hear a drill whirring in the background.
“When you have a better idea, let me know,” he told her. “If it’s going to take a while, we’ll give up and withdraw.”
“Got it,” Mao agreed. “Going fast as I can. Out.”
Clouseau yanked away a PC a nearby sergeant was using, knocking a cup and a battery case off the table. “I’m going to have a look around the scene myself. You stay here. Monitor and direct the movement of all teams and hostages. Understand?” He scanned the map of the ship displayed on the 20-inch retractable screen. Then he grabbed a magic marker that had fallen nearby and drew on the screen—a thick line cutting off the back quarter of the ship.
“Ah—” the sergeant began.
“This will be our last line of defense,” Clouseau announced, cutting him off. “Get the hostages behind it, and hold the enemy in front of it. Understand?”
“Y-Yes sir—”
Grabbing a submachine gun loaded not with rubber bullets, but with special armor-piercing rounds, Clouseau flew out of the bridge. He was worried about the status of the hostage evacuation; the cargo hold where the enemy had appeared was close to the ballroom where the students were being held. He didn’t know what the robots were programmed to do. What if they’re programmed to kill indiscriminately? he wondered. What if a killing machine like that just bursts out into the midst of hundreds of students?
Naturally, the nearby explosion had put an end to the carousing of the students of Jindai High. Most of them were now craning their necks around suspiciously and wondering about the sound. The students around Kaname, Kyoko included, were no exception. They halted their game of Scotland Yard (a board game that Kurz had brought from the shopping area, along with a mess of other toys and games to ‘pass the time’), and looked over at their masked supervisor.
He was talking to someone on his radio. After an unusually long silence, the man waded through the crowd, ran up to the stage, and spoke into the microphone. “Um, hey... sorry to interrupt the fun, guys, but there’s a small fire in the hold below us. That explosion you heard earlier was just some cans bursting—” The students erupted into concerned whispers.
“Ah, but don’t worry!” he insisted. “Everything’s fine! It’s just a lot of smoke, but to be safe, we should evacuate to the hall in the ship’s aft. Understand? Watch my finger.” The man pointed first to the ceiling, then towards the tail end of the ship. “That’s the way you want to go. Please proceed slowly in that direction. Don’t rush; be quiet and calm. We don’t want a panic, okay? Just walk at your usual pace. We’ll start with those closest to the exits—”
Just then, there was a crash and a commotion from the kit
chen: angry shouting, and the overturning of pots and dishes. Then the cooks came bursting into the ballroom in a panic, followed by Kurz. He must have been in such a fright that he’d forgotten to put his mask back on.
“Ah, Sergea— I mean, er, wait, everyone! Look at me! It’s all right. Please evacuate slowly—”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Kurz shouted, interrupting the man. “No time to lose! Run! Now! Crawl over each other if you have to! You’re all gonna die! Don’t waste time! Run, right now!” He shoved the male student standing next to him, then began firing his pistol into the air. The hundreds of students that had been standing there staring let out a collective scream, and began flooding towards the doors. The principal and the others who normally would have scolded them were so caught off guard that they simply stood in place, shocked.
“K-Kana-chan!” Kyoko was getting carried away from Kaname, caught up in the wave of students.
“It’s okay! We’ll meet up later!” Kaname just managed to shout, but Kyoko was already gone. Kaname fought back against the tide, heading for Kurz in the middle of the chaos. “Hey, Kurz-kun! What the heck is going on? Are you crazy?”
“We got a visit from those robots you told us about!” He said, shouting to be heard over the din. “And not just one, but a whole dozen of ’em! They nearly killed me in the hold, and now they’re on their way here. So get evacuated already!”
“What?” Kaname blinked in surprise. Those Alastor machines? But why? Is Leonard involved in this, too? Dismissing these questions as a distraction, Kaname continued to lay into Kurz. “S-Still, this is crazy! You’re going to get the students hurt!”
“Better hurt than dead. Hey, you!” Kurz turned around and shouted at his comrade. “Give me your P90 and AP rounds! Then round up the stragglers and evacuate to the aft! You’re Team Golf’s backup, got it?!”
“Y-Yes, Sergeant,” the man agreed shakily.
“Hostage safety is our number one priority,” Kurz instructed. “Move as carefully and calmly as you can. Now go!”
