1: Code of Silence

13 October, 2052 Hours (West Pacific Standard Time)

1st Briefing Room, Merida Island Base, West Pacific Ocean

The round black table was surrounded by Teletha “Tessa” Testarossa and the ghosts of nine men. At least, they looked like ghosts—they were pale and slightly translucent, with veils of static wreathing their vaguely defined forms.

This was an online conference for Mithril’s high officials from around the world. The need to thoroughly encrypt their holoscreen projections and transmit them through satellite relays required them to stay at this low resolution. Their movements were also jerky, coming in at about five frames per second, in a way that brought to mind old stop-motion animation.

“In conclusion,” the intelligence official said, after thirty minutes of the droning recitation of his report, “the actions of John Howard Dunnigan and Nguyen Bien Bo were impossible for the intelligence division to foresee. There are hard limits on the degree to which we can assess the character, pasts, and financial statuses of battle group members. The matter thus calls into question the competence of on-site authorities. End of report.”

Four of the nine high officials present let out noises of outrage. Three were battle group leaders like Tessa, and the fourth was Admiral Jerome Borda, head of the operations division. It was clear why the statement would upset members of the operations division: background checks on Mithril personnel were supposed to be the purview of intelligence, yet here they were, passing the buck to them. They were all eager to tell the man to take his report and shove it.

Instead, what Admiral Borda said was this: “I’m going to assume that was a joke. Though it’s not much of a punchline for thirty minutes of setup...” He was typically a mild-mannered man, but his tone was currently full of daggers. The other three battle group heads expressed agreement with his opinion.

“What he said. Can’t you give us a more constructive analysis?”

“I feel like we got sold a lemon, and now the dealer’s telling us the breakdown is our fault. So what are we supposed to do, walk 100 kilometers without a car?”

“I’d say it’s worse than that. They want us to strap grenades to our chests with the safety pins already pulled.”

The intelligence official wilted slightly under the criticism, but his superior, General Amit, remained unfazed. “It is an indisputable fact that there are limits on what we can track,” he said quietly. “This is especially true for SRT personnel, who are preferably experienced and resourceful, as well as intelligent and shrewd—these are, of course, the qualities we demand from them. But this also means that, if one of them gets it into their head to open a secret bank account and take money from a third party, that would be extremely difficult for us to detect.”

“And we’re asking you to make it work!” Admiral Borda fumed.

“We cannot simply ‘make it work,’ Admiral,” said the head of intelligence, remaining calm. “Do you want us to monitor your personnel 24 hours a day? Or shall we encourage ‘snitching’ in your ranks? The notion is absurd. No one who would tolerate such treatment would ever be chosen for an SRT.” This comeback hit the Admiral where it hurt. The independence, flexibility, and self-reliance of the operations division’s SRTs—special response teams—was one of the keys to their success.

“This is a structural problem,” the head of intelligence continued. “Mithril’s very nature as an organization of mercenaries means that loyalty can never be entirely guaranteed. You can offer them the fairest compensation in the world, but if someone else throws enough money at the right person—five million dollars, according to your Sergeant Weber’s report, wasn’t it?—betrayal becomes inevitable. The human heart is a fickle thing.”

Borda remained silent.

“And there’s one other thing I’ll ask you to remember: it was the operations division that employed Major Bruno.”

Major Bruno was the one who had placed Dunnigan and Nguyen with the Tuatha de Danaan. Both intelligence and operations now agreed that he was likely a spy for a hostile organization, and that he had been facilitating the terrorists’ actions. He had fled the operations division immediately after the incident, and Mithril had been forced to change much of their classified data—encryption algorithms, safety procedures, supply routes and safe house locations—as a result. Physical structures like the Merida Island Base couldn’t be moved, of course, so they’d settled for just increasing security—but the process as a whole had proved tremendously expensive.

“If the TDD-1 had just vanished into the ether—as was their plan—Bruno would never have come under suspicion. He would have remained in our organization— excuse me...” The intelligence chief’s hologram stopped to light a cigarette, and then let out a satisfied plume of smoke. “—Remained in the organization to cause even greater damage.”

“But that didn’t happen,” Admiral Borda put in, “thanks to Colonel Testarossa.”

“Indeed, which is why we are not calling her command into question. Is that a problem?” The intelligence chief’s ghostly image cast a glance in Tessa’s direction. She said nothing, simply looking down at her own hands.

“Don’t you realize the TDD-1 nearly sank?” Admiral Borda snarled. “We nearly lost the amphibious assault submarine that serves as our greatest weapon and greatest asset.”

“Using a weapon always comes with the risk of losing it. We’ve been taking that risk on for more than a year, haven’t we?” the head of intelligence pointed out. “Since the moment we put it out to sea with a 15-year-old girl in command.”

Admiral Borda had no comeback for that. He just snorted, and fell back into sullen silence.

“Are we all finished?” Noticing that nobody else was speaking up, the previously silent figure of Lord Mallory spoke. He was an elderly gentleman, wearing a three-piece suit and a monocle; his posture was ramrod straight despite his advancing years.

“Good,” he went on. “Then perhaps I might offer my opinion? The structural problems that Mr. Amit so rightly points out were known from the time of our founding. Unlike a national armed force, Mithril has no tribe, religion, or state behind it; we are united only by our belief in the ideal of putting an end to international conflict, and even there, we have differing ideas of how that must be achieved. I assumed you were all aware of this when you joined the cause. Am I wrong?” Lord Mallory cast a glance around to the others, but nobody argued back.

“Excellent,” he said. “Then let’s have an end to the finger-pointing. That’s not to say I don’t want to see countermeasures; it should be possible to turn a 1% risk into a 0.5% one. That is why I want you to reconsider your current methodologies, and propose realistic ways of preventing such incidents in the future. In addition...” He trailed off for a second, then adjusted his monocle. “Continue investigating this enemy organization. That is all. Good day.” The old man’s image blinked out silently, leaving only the words ‘Connection Closed’ in its place. The other officials took that as a sign that the meeting was over, and disappeared one after another.

In the end, only Admiral Borda remained. Borda was a man transitioning to old age, with streaks of white in his thick black hair. He carried himself with a dignity appropriate to a man of his years, yet his face and arms were sunburned and toned. He gazed at Tessa with sympathy. “I’m sure you’re not happy about this. You’re the one who lost men, after all.”

There were, broadly speaking, three divisions of Mithril: operations, intelligence, and research. Their operations division was further divided into four battle groups—the Tuatha de Danaan was one of these—and operations headquarters. The intelligence division, which collected, analyzed, and evaluated the information they needed to conduct their operations, was led by General Amit. It also offered information and advice to various countries’ security forces, to try and help minimize the need for the operations division to take direct action.

The relationship between operations and intelligence wasn’t exactly an amicable one. It hadn’t reached the level of open hostility, but they certainly weren’t friendly. It seemed to be a daily occurrence that the operations division would shout, “You gave us bad intelligence and we almost died! What are you going to do about it?!” and the intelligence division would lash back, “Do you know how hard we worked to get that much for you?! Give us a break!” Of course, this was a problem faced by most organizations, not just Mithril.

“But Amit did have a point,” Admiral Borda concluded. “The risk will always be there. And someone will always have to pay for it...”

“I am aware of that,” Tessa responded listlessly.

“I wonder if you are. I’m still not convinced your current assignment is a good fit for you,” Borda told her sympathetically. “There are still many things you can learn outside of the field. Come back to operations headquarters. There’s valuable work to be done in the research division, and Mardukas is getting the hang of how that sub works. Please, won’t you—”

“I’ve made my position on the matter perfectly clear. I’m staying where I am,” she said forcefully.

“I could order you if I have to,” Admiral Borda told her flatly.

“I would leave Mithril if you did,” Tessa retorted.

Admiral Borda’s hologram let out a deep sigh. “You get that stubborn streak from your father. He gave me this sort of trouble, too.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” she yielded after a pause. “But my crew is important to me. And—”

“Is this also about Leonard?” Borda intoned.

Tessa turned her eyes downward as she found her thoughts read. “Yes. He’s made his presence known, and in the worst form possible. If they’re going to have any hope of facing him, they’re going to need my help.”

“Are you certain you’re all right with this?” Admiral Borda questioned. “We still don’t know what he’s after, but he doesn’t appear to be on our side. Pitting yourself against Leonard will likely just lead to more pain for you.”

Tessa said nothing.

“And you still blame yourself for what happened to Bani.”

Tessa said nothing.

“But, if that’s a dead end... let’s get back to the issue of the traitor, Vincent Bruno.”

At last, she let a small smile appear on her face. “Of course. That’s proceeding as we speak—many, many miles away...”

13 October, 2230 Hours (Europe Standard Time)

Outskirts of Agrigento, South Sicily, Mediterranean Sea

The well-muscled capo entered the old baroque-style room. He had two young men from the Family along as bodyguards, but at his signal, they paid their respects and took their leave.

Bruno stood up from a bench and greeted the boss with a warm embrace. “Vincenzo Bruno. Have you grown accustomed to life here yet?” the capo asked.

“Because of you, Borchia, I want for nothing,” Bruno responded in confident Italian.

“Call me Papa. I think of you as my own son, after all. Few people call the big boss ‘Borchia’ these days. It’s like this trend of girls going to college: it feels like a tragedy, but it also makes life interesting,” the capo said with a merry laugh.

In fact, Bruno was much too old for the capo to be his father. He was in his 40s, American, with brown hair, a medium height, and an average build. He had a fairly unremarkable appearance, except for his blue eyes, which always had a certain touch of insolent mischief to them.

He’d originally graduated from the Naval Academy and spent some time in the Department of Defense, but he’d since gone independent and done well for himself financially. Until just a few weeks ago, he had been on staff at Mithril operations headquarters in Sydney—and at the same time, getting very generous compensation as a spy for an organization called Amalgam.

Bruno didn’t consider what he’d done a betrayal. It would be one thing if he’d been in his national military, but Mithril was just a glorified security company. He hadn’t exactly pledged his loyalty to them, and he felt no qualms about taking a ‘side job,’ selling their information to another organization.

Besides... ‘stop international conflict’? What kind of grown man would swallow that superhero nonsense? World peace was a noble concept, but it was a pipe dream pursued only by men with full bellies—at a time when half of the world was starving, and he himself was still only about 80% full.

His acts of espionage had been minor, anyway. He’d merely passed on a few of Mithril’s encryption algorithms and transferred two SRT members to the West Pacific battle group. Unfortunately, these relatively small indiscretions had blown up in a way that had forced him to go on the run from Mithril. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he knew it was the only way he’d survive.

He hadn’t gone running to Amalgam; it was too easy to imagine what a shady organization like theirs would do to informants that had outlived their usefulness. Mithril and Amalgam were threats to him in equal measure, which was why Bruno had decided to go to the Sicilian Mafia, with whom he had a distant blood connection.

He had gone, specifically, to the Barbera Family, a rapid up-and-comer that sold weapons from Europe to North Africa and the Middle East in exchange for heroin. Bruno had helped to facilitate a few of their past arms smuggling operations, and a wise man knew to treasure a connection like that.

The Family had firepower on par with a small country’s military. This included a variety of firearms, of course, but also armored cars and armed helicopters, and even—though they probably didn’t have much use for them—second-generation arm slaves. Even Mithril would think twice about coming after him here; so would Amalgam.

“You can make yourself at home. I have friends across this island,” assured Boss Barbera, the “superboss”—Capo dei Capi. “I have supporters even among the police and the military. If anyone matching the descriptions you gave me arrives on this island, I’ll know.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Bruno said sincerely. He’d already given Boss Barbera descriptions of the men he expected to be after him. They’d come from Mithril’s Mediterranean battle group, the Partholón—He hadn’t been able to smuggle out portraits of their SRT members, but he’d committed their appearances to memory and relayed them. If any one of them set foot in Sicily, they’d be dead before the day was out.

After about five minutes of chatting, Barbera patted him on the shoulder. “Anyway, enjoy yourself tonight. It’s my daughter’s birthday celebration.”

“I think I’ll do that. Cheers. To the capo’s darling daughter.” Bruno held up his glass of wine and offered a sincere toast.

After the drink, he and the capo parted ways, and he headed for the large hall. Built in the 17th century and remodeled many times since, this luxury mansion had an interior both majestic and lively. The walls and ceiling glittered with tasteful gold and ornamentation carved into intricate curves. Elegant music played throughout the hall, which was full of people, people, and more people—all laughing, chatting, and enjoying the sumptuous offerings. The hour had grown late, and the party was reaching its climax.

There were women there too, all dressed up beautifully. Many groups had left their genetic mark on this region, which gave the people there a wide diversity of appearance: Middle Eastern beauties with their bronze skin, Northern European women with blonde hair and blue eyes... The women all returned Bruno’s enraptured gaze with a smile and a wave.

“La bella Sicilia...” he whispered to no one in particular. This place is like heaven. I should have run away sooner!

He wandered around the party venue for a while, and he’d just reached a state of pleasant intoxication when a young woman approached him. She was lovely, and probably had some East Asian blood. Her black hair was long and wavy, her eyes had a slight almond shape, and she smelled of some exotic perfume. Her black velvet dress seemed a modest design at a glance, but a closer look would reveal a daringly open back, cut so deeply that it almost exposed her derriere. Bruno found his heart racing as his appetites began to burn.

“Hello, there. Having fun?” the woman asked in fluent English.

Fighting back his slight surprise, Bruno grinned in response. “Yeah, it’s an amazing country. It looked a little like a shithole when I first arrived, but...” There were only a handful of grand estates like this in Sicily; most citizens lived a more modest, unassuming lifestyle.

The girl smiled politely at Bruno’s unfunny joke. “You’re from America, aren’t you? I lived there for two years.”

“Really?” he asked in surprise. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” the woman affirmed. “You have that air to you. Sophisticated, refined... I’m not quite sure how to put it. You smell different than the other men here.”

“Well, that’s no good. I’m trying to blend in.” Despite saying that, Bruno couldn’t stop a smile appearing on his face. He had a city-dweller’s natural sense of superiority, and he didn’t miss the look that came into her eyes, which suggested less-than-toward intentions.

“Where did you live?” he asked politely.

“Baltimore.”

“Oh! I lived pretty close to there.”

“Really? I’m not sure I believe you...” the woman giggled.

“It’s true,” Bruno protested. “Though that was very long ago.” Aided by nostalgia and alcohol, Bruno gave the woman his best seduction routine. Old memories and local gossip—of course, he didn’t forget to compliment her, as well.

The woman nodded along, not seeming to mind it one bit. At last, she made a suggestion: “Shall we go someplace more quiet? It’s so noisy here.”

Bruno agreed immediately. “Sure, let’s do that. I have a room in the mansion; we can freshen up our drinks there.” More importantly, there was a bed there—a bathroom, too. The woman must have known his intentions, yet she boldly took his arm.

As the two of them left the party behind, they found two large Family soldiers standing in the corridor leading to the annex. Each had a gun hanging from his shoulders, and wore sunglass-like goggles with night vision sensors.

“Who’s that lady there, Signor?” the man asked in a polite but businesslike tone. Modern-day mafias used high-tech equipment, and their enforcers received specialized training. They weren’t carrying the Tommy guns of mobster movies, but the latest model of Belgian-made submachine guns. These had boxy, compact outer shells made of fortified plastic, but they used extremely high-speed propellant that would send their shots piercing through most bulletproof vests.

“Don’t be uncouth.” Bruno led the girl past the guards. He was grateful for the security, he chuckled to himself, but it could be such a burden at times like this. “Sorry. It’s part of being a VIP,” he whispered to the woman, and her eyes widened for a moment before she let out a noise of awe.

Soon afterwards, they arrived at his room, where Bruno lost no time in putting an arm around her narrow waist. She didn’t have much padding there, but that was all right—he preferred his women slender, anyway. “Now, where shall we begin?” he mused. “That’s right, I never even asked your name...”

She laughed at him, her smile mysterious. “You want to know?”

He was close enough now to see how perfect her skin was. You just can’t beat young women... he thought, and his breathing grew faster, laden with expectation and excitement. “I certainly do. If you don’t tell me your name, what will I scream when the time comes?” He pulled her tight against his body.

The slit in the woman’s evening gown opened, revealing the smooth curve of her leg. “Just my name? You don’t want to know more?”

“Of course I want to know more,” Bruno crooned seductively. “I want to have a nice, long talk...”

“You want to know everything?” she asked.

“Yes. Tell me everything. Absolutely everything...”

“I see... I’ll tell you, then.”

What happened next, Bruno didn’t know exactly. One second he was against the wall with a blinding pain in his front teeth, and the next, there was a gun plunged into his mouth. It was a .45-caliber made by Heckler & Koch, a tactical model used by special forces—far too much weapon, he’d have thought, for a woman like her.

He grunted and tried to shout, but his voice was muffled by the steel.

At last, the woman with the gun informed the stunned Bruno: “All right, listen up. My name is Melissa Mao. I’m with Mithril’s operations division, Tuatha de Danaan ground forces, SRT. My rank is Master Sergeant. My call sign is Uruz-2...”

Impossible, Bruno thought in panic. The Tuatha de Danaan? The West Pacific battle group commanded by that Testarossa girl? What are they doing here?! He tried again to cry out, but his effort was stymied.

“And if I may add...” Her eyes were cold, brimming with hatred and venom. “I’m a woman who just lost a superior who meant a lot to me, who’s itching to pull the trigger on the one who got him killed.”

The sight of this man, gun shoved into his mouth, tears trailing from his eyes, just made Mao more annoyed.

Please. Please don’t kill me, his eyes begged her. All that bravado, gone in a flash. If he’d been a little more dignified, she would have gladly done the deed—but his utter patheticness cooled her rage. She removed the pistol from Bruno’s mouth and pointed it at his throat instead.

“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t...”

“Shut up,” Mao snarled at him. “Stay quiet.”

The hall outside was swarmed with mafia soldiers, equipped with walkie-talkies. The Barbera Family was known for its brutality, which was considered extreme even in Mafia circles. Boss Barbera acted the part of the jovial local philanthropist, but this image couldn’t be further from the truth. In reality, he was the kind of man who would kidnap a judge who rejected one of his bribes, slit his throat, shove a wad of bills into his mouth, and then send a picture of it to his family.

The mansion’s security would all be professionals who had sold their souls for money, too—and they were packed to the gills with high-tech equipment. Mao wasn’t anxious to become the next kidnapping target.

“Don’t shoot me,” Bruno tried again. “I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Shut up, then.”

“I’ll shut up. I’ll shut up. So please, spare me... I was a fool. I never meant to turn on Mithril. It all just got out of control... I’m sorry. Please. Ah, please, I beg you...”

“You are just... Ugh.” Mao pulled a syringe gun from her handbag with her free left hand, plunged it into his neck, and pulled the trigger. About ten seconds later, Bruno whispered another “please,” then stumbled a few steps before finally losing consciousness.

“For heaven’s sake...” She removed the stuffy wig and false eyelashes, mussed up her short black hair, and then whispered, “Uruz-2 here. Target secured. I’m disabling the alarm system now.” The micro-transmitter in her ear picked up the vibrations in her skull and carried her voice to her ally. She pulled a tool from her handbag and used it to begin tinkering with the security system’s control box. After a simple bypass of the circuit, she had the alarm for the window shut off; the indicator light that would normally turn red remained green.

That should do it, Mao told herself. An alarm system like that was easy to disarm if you could get to it on the inside. She approached the window, undid the lock, and opened it.

From the small fourth-floor terrace, she could see the stone walls of the annex, a tall fence—and faintly, in the moonlight, the gently rolling hills of the countryside beyond. Lights of a city glowed faintly on the horizon.

“Let’s see...” Mao murmured, walking up to the railing as the cool night wind brushed her cheek. It was almost enough to make her forget that she was in the middle of an enemy encampment.

“Beautiful. You look like the goddess of the night,” said a voice from just behind her. A man was standing behind the open windowframe, in a dimly lit corner of the terrace. He was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, and looking insufferably pleased with himself.

“And how long have you been there?” Mao asked indifferently.

“Since around the time the bastard put his hands on your ass.” The man stepped out of the darkness. Dressed in a tuxedo, Kurz Weber appeared in the moonlight. He was a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes; done up like this, he could easily pass for a young nobleman. “Anyway, see? I told you that dress was a sure thing.”

“You did,” she admitted. “One look and he was hooked. This is the last time I wear something like this, though... I feel like some brainless starlet at the Oscars.”

“No way. I think you look perfect,” Kurz said, whispering into her ear after approaching with elegant steps.

“I think you just have trashy taste,” Mao told him pointedly.

“No, it’s amazing. From behind, you have an air of bewitching solitude... Did you know that the goddess of the night, Hecate, is also the goddess of revenge? You’re definitely her incarnation tonight...”

“Are you drunk?”

“Si, Signorina. You’ve made me a poet, intoxicated by your beauty.” He chuckled to himself.

“Oh, come on...” Mao scoffed.

Kurz wrapped his arms around her from behind, and the bracing smell of citrus from some kind of cologne washed over her. Caught off guard, she could have easily found herself surrendering to the moment, but—

Unfortunately, Mao was on a mission. She glanced down for a minute, and then reared her head up sharply. The back of her skull cracked against the bridge of Kurz’s nose.

“Urgh!” he groaned.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve made your point, now back to work.”

“That hurt,” Kurz whined. “What’s your problem?”

“Learn a lesson already,” Mao said curtly. “There’s a time and a place for these things—and right now, our place is ‘surrounded by scary goons.’”

“A tragic reality!”

“C’mon, pull out our gear already,” she ordered.

“Tsk.” With a hand to his nose and tears in his eyes, Kurz reached for the backpack he’d left at the corner of the terrace. It was one of a few bits of equipment that he’d smuggled in a few days ago, alongside the food and decorations for the party.

It hadn’t been easy to make all that preparation, and then to sneak in as party guests on top of it. Knowing that there could still be spies in Mithril’s ranks, they’d had to conduct the mission with almost complete independence; they hadn’t informed the intelligence division, or the North Atlantic/Mediterranean battle group. Their infiltration of the unfamiliar region had been made possible thanks to the personal connections of their commanding officer, Major Kalinin; the computer savvy of Mao; and Kurz’s network from his mercenary days.

Kurz pulled a miniature winch and cable from the bag, and then the two of them worked together to drag the unconscious Bruno onto the terrace. “Just throw me a bone for once, dammit,” Kurz grumbled all the while. “I had to pry a total babe off me at the party to get here, okay?”

“A ‘total babe’?” Mao questioned.

“Yeah. A wealthy widow of Milan,” Kurz boasted. “You should’ve seen her necklace—biggest diamonds you ever saw! And she was hot for me, I’m telling you.”

“Liar.”

“It’s true! ‘You’re marriage material,’ she told me, with tears in her eyes...”

“Oh, really?” Mao sounded skeptical.

They secured the winch to the railing. There was no security visible in the courtyard four floors below; Kurz had taken them out with a stun gun before climbing up. He was getting ready to climb down from the terrace to the underbrush, but Mao stopped him.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll go down first.”

“If you insist,” he readily agreed, “but why?”

Mao didn’t respond. Oh, she thought to herself, he’d just love to know that I’m going commando, wouldn’t he? The dress was very thin, and the back was open ‘down to there,’ so she couldn’t exactly wear underwear with it... and the high slit meant that if a strong wind blew, and Kurz was below her... Well, he’d get a full view of her bare behind.

“You’ve got me really curious now,” he tried again. “Why?”

“Shut up,” Mao snarled at him. “Why do you even care?” After removing her high heels, she stepped onto the railing in her bare feet, and then swiftly climbed down to the shrubs below. Next, Bruno was lowered with the winch, and at last, Kurz joined them.

“Is the route to the car secure?” she asked tersely.

“No worries,” Kurz reassured her. “I knocked out every lookout from here to there.”

“Okay,” Mao decided. “Let’s make a break for it, then.” All they had to do was reach the guest parking area, shove the man into the trunk of their Ferrari, then drive their way out of there.

Kurz hefted Bruno’s limp body on his shoulders. Mao had just started towards the parking area, silencer-attached pistol in one hand, when—

“Signore!” came a husky female cry into the courtyard.

“Erk...?” Kurz choked awkwardly.

“Signor Karius! Wait a moment!” A middle-aged woman, adorned with glittering jewels, came running from around the corner of the annex. She was a very round woman, with a prosperous air around her; her ample belly and bosom swung every time she moved, giving her the appearance of a great big rubber ball.

“Would this be... the ‘babe widow’ you mentioned?” Mao questioned mirthfully.

“Huh?” Kurz blinked. “Um... w-well...”

“And who’s ‘Karius’?”

“Just a fake name I gave,” he shrugged. “It was the name of an old pharmacist in the sticks where my dad grew up—We’d go there for summer vacation and I’d stop by his place to play. For some reason, he had a ton of Japanese-made tanks and plamodels and—”

“Karius!” The woman dashed right for the hesitant Kurz and threw her arms around him, half-crazed, and wailing furiously. She didn’t seem to notice the fact that he was carrying Bruno, or the presence of the dumbstruck Mao next to him. “Oh... Karius, my love. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! How could you leave me behind like that?”

“Er, well...”

“If I said anything to hurt you, I apologize profusely. It is clear to me now that you’re a very sensitive man! Oh, the sorrow behind those blue eyes of yours! Just stay and talk a little longer... Let us nurture the vine from which the fruit of love grows,” the widow coaxed. “It takes time for it to put down roots and to bloom... But I’m certain that we’ll come to an understanding. So, I beg you...!” Her unrestrained shouting had Mao and Kurz in a panic.

“Hey, lady! Could you keep it down?” Kurz begged. “Please?”

“Don’t leave me, Karius! Per favore!” She began to weep dramatically at the top of her lungs.

“Look, the crying isn’t gonna—”

“Shut her up already!” Mao hissed at him. “If she keeps wailing like that—”

The farce only went on for about thirty seconds, but that was more than enough time for somebody nearby to hear her. A submachine gun-wielding man in black came from around a corner about twenty meters away. “What’s all this noise?! Ah—” A hysterical woman, a beautiful girl with a pistol, and a pretty-boy carrying their VIP American visitor unconscious on his shoulders—The second he sized up the situation, the guard sprang into action. “Intruders! Intruders!” the man cried out, and pointed his submachine gun at them.

Mao pulled her pistol’s trigger in almost the same instant. She hit the mafioso in the shoulder and side, causing him to fire at the ground. The muzzle sparked with flame, and the shots kicked up a cloud of dust.

The sound of the submachine gun was far louder than the woman’s wailing, and an alarm reminiscent of a police siren immediately blared out across the vast estate’s grounds. Mafia guards poured like an avalanche from the main building, from the annex, from the guardhouse and the barracks. There were angry shouts and gunshots; trained dobermans barked madly as they took chase; spotlights combed the grounds for the intruders. The old-fashioned mansion was suddenly as loud and lit up as a disco on the weekend.

“Darn it!” Mao cursed as the gunshots rained, forcing her on the run. “This was supposed to be a quiet, elegant operation, and now it’s a damned firefight. This is your fault, okay?!” she shouted angrily, holding back tears, as she took shelter behind a waist-high stone wall.

“Look, it was out of my control,” Kurz argued as he joined her a few seconds later. He seemed exhausted from all the running with the heavy Bruno on his shoulders. “Come on, I’m a nice guy. We had some pleasantries, some small talk, and then all of a sudden, she got serious. Though I think I see why her husband died young...”

“Is now really the time?!” Mao screamed back. “I’m pretty sure we’re gonna die here!”

Incidentally, the widow in question had jumped out of her skin when the shooting started and then fainted dead away. Mao and Kurz left her behind, ran across the grounds, and made it to a corner of a garden in full bloom, but...

“Behind us, a three-meter fence,” Mao went on screaming at Kurz. “In front of us, 100 mafia guards. We’re trapped! And all we’ve got for weapons is a SOCOM pistol and a taser!”

“But aren’t you glad?” Kurz asked, looking for a silver lining. “Just the other day you said that expensive gun of yours was a stupid purchase, because you hadn’t gotten to use it in live combat.”

“Like hell!” she screamed back.

Their bickering did nothing to stop the enemy fire from continuing to ricochet all around them. Stone shards and soil went flying and rained down on Mao and Kurz.

“Ugh, dammit!” She thrust the pistol in question out from behind their hiding place and fired five times. She managed to hit two charging dobermans in the heads, which caused them to fall and writhe in pain on the ground.

“Ah, poor things,” Kurz said sympathetically.

“Who cares!” Mao retorted. “I’m not going to be their dinner.”

“Fair, but... ah, whoops!” Kurz fired his taser at a man who came leaping at them from the shadows in another direction, just a few meters away. A bolt of lightning erupted from it and took the man down. “Damn, wish I had a rifle,” Kurz lamented. “I see a commander-type in the window of the main building there...” With Kurz’s skill, he probably could take out the commander in one shot. Though he might share a name with a kind of 9mm cartridge, this particular Kurz was a master with a rifle, a sniper who could take out an enemy at any distance.

“I’m not sure severing the chain of command would really help us at this point...” said Mao.

“We gotta do something, though,” Kurz argued, changing the battery cartridge in his taser. “They’ve almost got us surrounded.”

“And whose fault is that? Maybe we should get it over with before they take us down...” Mao swapped a clip and cast her eyes at the peacefully sleeping Bruno.

“What, you mean kill him?” Kurz asked. “We came here to kidnap him.”

“I’m joking,” she sighed. “Just a little wishful thinking...”

It was then that they heard a new voice in their earpieces. “Don’t abandon hope yet, Uruz-2.”

“Huh?”

“It seems I’m just in time. Get down.”

“What? Are you nearby? Sou—” Mao’s words were cut off by a blast and a shockwave.

The fence exploded in a roar of flames and flying shrapnel; someone had blown up the fence from outside the grounds. Black smoke wafted up from the explosion site, temporarily cutting off all visibility. The mafiosos shouted at each other and continued firing, haphazardly. Mao looked around in confusion.

“I’m at four o’clock with your back to the wall,” said the voice over their transmitters. “Run.”

The smoke stung her eyes, but Mao held back her tears, grabbed Kurz by the shoulder and ran as instructed—behind them, to the right. About two meters’ worth of fence was down; an explosive of some kind had blown it free from the outside. As they stepped over the rubble to the other side of the fence, they could hear the sound of braking from somewhere in the smoke.

“This way!” a familiar voice yelled. On the road that circled the estate they saw a secondhand Fiat; a boxy, cream-colored coupe, so small that even four people might make for a tight squeeze.

Their eyes went wide as they saw who was driving. “Sousuke?!” They were being rescued by their comrade, Sagara Sousuke, with his disheveled black hair, a sullen expression and a tight frown—he currently had on a black combat uniform underneath an olive green flight jacket. Their surprise was only natural; they’d left Sousuke in Japan. He wasn’t even assigned to this mission.

“What’s going on? I thought your midterms were starting today!” Kurz said, chucking Bruno into the Fiat’s back seat.

“Affirmative. But there was a change in the escape plan; the Major ordered me here to pass on the message and offer assistance.”

“A change?” Mao questioned.

“You won’t be going to Marseilles by sea; the fishing boat captain we’d hired was hospitalized for alcoholism,” Sousuke told them. “So the major pulled some strings elsewhere, and instead we’ll fly from a NATO—”

Enemy fire, piercing through the smoke, tore through the Fiat’s rear view mirror. Mao yelped.

“—We’re going to fly from a NATO air force base to Turkey,” Sousuke went on. “Then we’ll take a series of air shuttles along the usual route. Tomorrow morning, fake US military IDs and marching orders, as well as Marines uniforms, will arrive at a post office in Catania so that—”

“Explain later! Drive now!” Mao screamed as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Understood,” said Sousuke, slamming on the gas. The Fiat launched into sudden acceleration. Its engine roared, the back wheels kicked up dirt and pebbles, and Mao was almost thrown from her still wide-open door.

“Whoops! Hey, watch it!” she yelled at him, desperately trying to hold down her dress’s flapping hem.

“It was necessary to avoid enemy fire. Although...” Sousuke cast a glance over at her. “That’s an unusual bathing suit. Were you planning on swimming to Marseilles?”

“No! It’s not a swimsuit,” she said defensively. “This was for the party!”

“I see.” Sousuke turned the wheel sharply. The car tilted hard to the left, and Mao banged her head on the passenger door’s window. The unpaved road made for a bumpy ride and threatened to tear apart the economy car’s suspension.

“A little rough on the driving, aren’t you?!” Mao asked him.

“Not an issue,” Sousuke responded calmly.

“By the way, Big Sis. What should we do about our Ferrari in the parking lot?” Kurz whispered.

“Just forget it,” she said. “It’s a rental, anyway.”

“You sure?” Kurz asked uneasily. “I left a satellite transmitter and stuff in the trunk...”

“What?! You idiot...”

“I rigged it with explosives, too, though—I flick the switch, it goes boom in fifteen. So we can clean up after ourselves if we need to...”

They’d left a transmitter full of their codes behind. While Mao sat there, speechless at the thought, Sousuke hesitantly addressed her. “Well? Should I turn back?”

“Of course not! Don’t you—” She heard the sound of something whizzing through the air, and a bullet tore its way past, just over their heads. A black 4WD vehicle was rushing down the road just 100 meters behind—It was a Cherokee, and it was heading right for them. A man was standing out of the sunroof, firing a submachine gun on full automatic. The bullets zinged through the air, putting holes in the Fiat’s rear window and scattering glass shards through the car’s interior.

“—Don’t you realize the situation we’re in?!” Mao screamed. “Hit the detonator! Blow the damned thing up!”

“Roger that. There.” Kurz pressed the button on the cellphone-sized remote detonator. “There, it’s activated. Goodbye, Ferrari. Welcome, Fiat.”

“This car’s not as bad as all that.” Sousuke held the jerking wheel tightly and increased their speed. Still, the Fiat’s lack of power put hard limits on what they could do—on top of that, they were being chased by a car with four-wheel-drive and over twice their engine displacement.

“They’re going to catch us,” Mao predicted flatly. The black car was coming closer and closer. Noticing there was a big curve ahead, she stood up out of the Fiat’s sunroof. “Dammit!”

Holding her pistol tightly, Mao opened fire; she landed a hit on the hand of the enemy that was holding the gun, causing him to drop back out of sight. She fired again, causing sparks to fly from the Cherokee. None of her shots left a dent; they must have modified the vehicle to be bulletproof. Still, she emptied her clip, landing about ten .45-caliber shots into the car’s driver’s side. None of them pierced the bulletproof glass, but each produced a spider’s web of cracks that eventually turned the whole windshield white.

They were approaching a sharp curve in the road. With great finesse, Mao loaded her last magazine and fired some more: three shots on the left and three on the right, to take out their headlights.

“About to turn!” Sousuke called out.

A second later, the Fiat plunged around the corner, suspension screeching. The car tilted alarmingly as the right-side tires left the ground. Mao, Sousuke, and Kurz all leaned to the right to compensate, and—

“Whoa!”

The car righted itself, and its tires touched ground once more, allowing the Fiat to regain its traction and round the corner successfully. Then, with the wobble of a stumbling drunkard, the puny car picked up speed again.

Meanwhile, their pursuers—windshield cracked and headlights out—didn’t seem to see the curve in front of them. They barely slowed down at all as their wheels left the road, and their vehicle ended up careening down the steep slope beyond. With the sharp roar of an engine, the black car sailed into the night air. It seemed to hang there, weightlessly, for just a moment... Then, rolling hard to the left, the 4WD smashed into the ground. It flipped over two or three times, scattering debris, and even caught fire as it continued on its course.

“Poor guys. If they had wings they could have flown. Heh heh...” Mao blew them a kiss, as if to salute them.

“What is this, spy movie day?” Kurz muttered.

The Fiat put the unpaved road behind it and got up onto the pavement. They were now in a region full of low hills and gentle, winding curves. It was late enough at night that there were hardly any cars coming the other way. One minute, two minutes—the car continued uneventfully down the dark road.

“Is it all over?” Kurz wondered.

“Seems too easy, somehow...” Mao put in.

Far behind them, coming from the other side of the hill, they caught the light of one set of headlights. The driving was reckless. It was running full speed—a new set of pursuers, apparently.

“Another car?” Kurz asked.

“Just one, but it’ll still be hard to handle,” Mao replied. “My gun’s out of bullets...”

“No, look closer,” Sousuke said.

There was indeed just one car at first—but as they drove further, their sight lines changed, and they got a better view of what lay behind the hill. They saw another set of headlights. Then another. And another. The trail of lights seemed to go on and on—

“Th... Thirteen cars...” Kurz’s jaw dropped.

“Sousuke, can’t you go any faster?!” Mao asked urgently.

“No. We’re overweight, after all,” Sousuke responded calmly enough. The Fiat was a low-horsepower compact, meant for city driving; it wasn’t made for a car chase carrying four grown people inside. Besides that, they had no weapons. They’d hidden a stockpile in an old church in case they needed them during the escape, but that was in a poor village far from here.

Mao turned her gaze intently to Bruno, who was still snoring in the back seat. “Maybe we really should kill him and dump him?”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think that’s a great idea,” Kurz responded. Vincent Bruno didn’t hear a word of their earnest discussion over his fate.

“To lighten the load?” Sousuke inquired.

“Yeah. They’ll catch up with us if we don’t.”

“You’ll need to dump more than him,” Sousuke said. “I have weapons and ammunition stored under the back seat; throw that out first. An assault rifle, a shotgun, a disposable rocket launcher with high-performance grenades. It’s about 40 kilograms in all, so—”

“You have what?!” Kurz shoved Bruno aside, and scrambled around in the cramped car to lift up the back seat. Beneath it lay a minor weapons storehouse—German-made assault rifles, Italian-made shotguns, American-made rockets—a perfect stockpile of heavy arms, perfect for shattering even bulletproof glass.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier, stupid?!” Mao and Kurz yelled in unison, faces purple with rage.

“I didn’t mention it?” Sousuke asked innocently.

“No! Darn it...” The two cut short their anger as each picked up a gun, clacked levers into place, and checked pre-loaded ammo. Kurz smashed out the bullet-riddled rear window and took aim with his rifle. Mao climbed out the sunroof again, now with a slug-loaded shotgun at the ready.

“I guess the party’s not over yet,” she remarked. That familiar sensation of steel on her skin—It filled her with joy. “You ready, crew?!”

“Anywhere,” Kurz said affirmatively.

“Anytime,” Sousuke agreed.

The pursuers were drawing closer, and were almost right on top of them.

Yes... Mao thought gleefully. At the end of the day, this is how I like it. “Rock ’n’ roll!” Shouting over the howling wind around her, Mao let loose with her shotgun.

“I’ve never been so humiliated!” Boss Barbera shouted, in a full-body rage. “They kidnapped my guest from the venue, on the day of my daughter’s birthday party! Now I’m sending waves of my men after the bandits, and they’re still getting away!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Capo dei Capi,” his chief of security said with fawning humility. They were standing in the mansion’s parking area; about half of the cars parked there had been dispatched in pursuit of the bandits. “But we’ll have them very soon. The net is tightening around them. We will bring back Bruno and slaughter those vulgar—”

“I don’t care about Bruno!” the boss said with perfect honesty. “The man was nothing but trouble anyway. Kill him if you must! Do whatever it takes! Deploy the arm slaves if you have to! Step on women, children—anyone who gets in our way!”

“Er... the arm slaves, sir?” the chief of security asked in shock.

“Yes,” Boss Barbera fumed. “I bought those robots in preparation for something like this. Send the mercenaries at once! You hear me? Kill them! I want their heads on my desk!”

“But if we deploy ASes, the state government might be forced to—”

“Don’t argue with me!” Barbera snarled. “If they get away, I’ll have your head too!”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me!” In what was perhaps a habit from his military days, the chief straightened up before running straight for the security center.

“Hmph!” Barbera watched him go, still fuming. Then, as if with great effort, he pulled out a cigar and lit it. He was hoping it would calm his nerves, but he just couldn’t enjoy it. Each thought of the humiliation he’d endured made him feel like exploding with rage again.

He’d clawed his way to the top by slaughtering anyone who stood against him. That included members of his own family, even children—he’d been absolutely ruthless. The point was to plant fear and doubt in his enemies, and he’d made sure his son and daughter witnessed every moment.

That’s right, my daughter, he remembered. I have to comfort her. The dear, sensitive girl must have been traumatized... Having reordered his priorities, Barbera began walking out of the parking area with his guards.

There was a line of the guests’ luxury cars in the lot: Jaguars, Benzes, Lotuses, Porsches, Rolls Royces, Lamborghinis—He was just striding past a bright red Ferrari F40 when suddenly, he heard a beeping sound. It was coming from the Ferrari itself. He stopped, listening in curiously as the beeping tone became higher and higher pitched. Instinctively, he turned to peer at the Ferrari that was making the strange sound.

One second later, the five kilograms of plastic explosives rigged up to the car went off. The shockwave tore the car to pieces. Fireballs from the burning gasoline rose up, sending a storm of destruction all around. The hood tore through the air like a frisbee and lodged itself in the main estate’s wall 50 meters away.

Nobody even knew that Barbera was dead. Unfortunately, his order to kill the bandits would remain in effect for some time after.

Same Timeframe, Jindai High School, Chofu, Tokyo, Japan

Chidori Kaname knew nothing of the chaos that was unfolding halfway across the world.

She was a girl dressed in a school uniform, with long black hair, and a lively appearance that belied the aura of maturity she had about her. Her eyes had a sort of sharp, understated beauty to them, and while her figure wasn’t exactly that of a supermodel, most people would call her pleasingly slender.

Peaceful Japan, peaceful high school; peaceful weather, peaceful skies... Thanks to the absence of a certain not-so-peaceful person, yesterday’s tests had gone off without a hitch.

It was morning, and Kaname was getting ready for their first test of the day. There was a classmate talking on the phone in the seat next to hers, and she couldn’t help but listen in.

“—Ah, hello? It’s me. Yeah, I’m about to start the test. Yeah, I think so. Haha... I know, right? Yuck! ...I told you, I’m trying. You know that, don’t you, Hiro-kun? ...Yeah. ...Yeah.” She was probably talking to her boyfriend. Kaname remembered hearing he was off at college somewhere.

“Yeah... Hey, what are you doing right now? ...Just finished an all-nighter? ...Ahaha, sorry. Yeah, that report, right? ...Yeah. ...Yeah. That’s true. I’ll try to keep up...” The syrupy tone in her voice... she sounded so unlike her usual self.

Hmph. She thinks she’s so great... Kaname thought to herself, resentment on full blast. It’s a little early in the morning for that stuff, isn’t it? Lost in some world with just her and her boyfriend. She sounds like a lovesick puppy! As dismissive as her thoughts were, it would be a lie to say that Kaname wasn’t a little bit envious; it would be nice to hear from someone special just before a big test like this. What would it feel like to have a guy like that in her life? What kind of man was that girl talking to right now, and about what?

If I ended up in a relationship with someone like that, and we lived in separate places, Kaname mused, maybe I’d make puppy-dog eyes and call him all the time, too? Then... hypothetically, what if that guy was... him? It’s hard to imagine...

Kaname didn’t have much time to dwell on the idea before Kyoko spoke up. “Hey, hey. Kana-chan.”

“Huh?” said Kaname, coming out of her daze.

“How are you feeling, math-wise? I think I’m doomed.” Kyoko punctuated this statement with a mock sob.

“Ahh... Sorry to hear it. I think I’ll do okay, maybe?” Kaname dodged the question with the stock phrase reserved for those well-prepared for upcoming tests.

She’d probably get a near-perfect on English. In classics, she’d probably do okay. Science, she’d have a perfect no problem. Math II, a certain perfect. She was pretty confident she’d get another near-perfect in physics, too, the subject that usually gave her trouble.

Tessa’s prediction had come true, after all; she’d awakened as a Whispered, and her intelligence had skyrocketed. She wasn’t actually creeped out by it; it felt a little bit odd, but no more than that.

For some reason, though, Kaname didn’t feel like she’d gotten any smarter at all. She could go on and on about the conductivity of an AS’s drive system and the chemical formulas for its shaped memory polymers; she could speak about the principle behind single-electron elements making use of quantum tunneling, and come up with unique applications for it that nobody had ever considered. But that didn’t feel any different to her than talking about the best way to make a mackerel miso soup; after all, how many people knew that adding a little bit of grated ginger really made the flavor pop? That was all it felt like to Kaname. Otherwise, she still laughed at stupid comedy shows and talked to her friends like she normally did, and since thinking too hard about it would just depress her, she’d decided not to dwell on it.

The only problem was the apparent abundance of people who really wanted to know how to make perfect miso soup...

“Oh, you liar!” Kyoko said, noting Kaname’s confidence. “Like you didn’t take top of the class on our last math final!”

“Oh, well... I just got lucky,” Kaname returned, modestly.

“How’d you study, or did you cheat? Give me all the dirt!” Kyoko’s large eyes were twinkling behind her glasses.

“Can’t,” Kaname retorted. “You lack the appropriate clearance.” Then, she laughed. “Just kidding.”

“Pfft... Oh, that reminds me; Sagara-kun’s absent again, right?” Kaname’s little joke seemed to remind Kyoko of Sousuke. Even though they were in the middle of their all-important midterms, Sousuke wasn’t at school. He’d abruptly gone missing for a few days at a time in the past, but this was his first time doing so during a test.

“I guess. Doesn’t that jerk care if he gets held back a year? After all the trouble he’s caused us already...” Kaname snarked, but she was also genuinely worried. She wished he’d care more about his standing as a student. As laid-back as their school was, even these teachers would be forced to take action if this kept up. “Seriously, it’s a real problem.” She sighed.

“Well, have you called him? He might come by if you threaten him,” Kyoko said, and pulled out her own brand-new PHS. It was a recent purchase, so naturally, she was ready to use it at the drop of a hat.

“Not happening,” Kaname said. “When he runs off like this, it’s total radio silence. He’s probably off fishing in some middle-of-nowhere mountain town.”

“Aw, you don’t know that,” Kyoko coaxed her. “He might actually pick up!”

“No way. Forget it,” Kaname insisted offhandedly, but Kyoko still fiddled with her PHS and then put the receiver to her ear. She stayed silent for a while, waiting for an answer. “See?” Kaname said pointedly. “Nothing, right?”

“Hmm...” Kyoko hummed.

“It’s like this every time,” Kaname told her. “You can’t even get his voicemail. Honestly, he’s so—”

“He picked up,” Kyoko informed her.

“Huh?” Kaname blinked in surprise.

“See?” Kyoko held out her PHS.

Beside her, the classmate from before was still flirting with her boyfriend over the phone. For some reason, Kaname envisioned herself projected onto that scene. Fighting a sort of inscrutable self-consciousness, Kaname hesitantly took the PHS and spoke into it, with a measure of disbelief. “Hello?”

“Chidori?” Sousuke sounded alarmed. “What is it?!” She could hear shouting in the distance, and the call was thick with static, but the speaker was definitely Sousuke.

“Ah... Sousuke,” she said hesitantly. “Where are you?”

“Canicattì!”

“Canicattì... What?” Kaname had no idea what that meant. What was he talking about? She was concerned about the long gap between responses, too... “Um... We started tests yesterday, you know? Did you forget?”

“No, but a job came up!” Sousuke yelled. “I had to go!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Kaname argued back. “I spent three hours tutoring you in classical literature so that you wouldn’t completely suck at it! And now the test’s about to start!”

“I’m——ry about that!” The static grew worse for a minute.

“Don’t ‘sorry’ me, you jerk! I covered for you wrecking the teacher’s car too, just so you know!” The explanation she’d given Kagurazaka Eri had turned out thusly: Sousuke wanted to do you a favor by running some maintenance on your car. But halfway through, he got sick, and he had to run off to a hospital for treatment. He said that he’d fix your car once he was feeling better, but he hopes you can get by for a few days.

It was a pretty strained excuse, but the overly-trusting Eri had replied, with tears in her eyes, “I see... I didn’t know he had a chronic condition like that, but if that’s the case, I’ll wait.” The car was still out there behind the school, all in pieces covered in plastic tarps.

“Do you even realize what I go through?!” Kaname wailed.

Sousuke didn’t respond immediately. Five seconds, six seconds, seven seconds passed. Just as her annoyance was about to reach a breaking point, he spoke. “I do!”

“No, you don’t! You’re so ungrateful!” Kaname said accusingly. “Don’t you realize all the leeway you’re getting? From everyone? Why do you always have to cause trouble?! Hey, are you listening?!”

“Yes! I am liste—” A second later, she heard a roar like thunder. It was followed by a violent rumbling sound, and then a wave of high-pitched static. After a pause, Sousuke continued: “I am listening! —We’re coming to a straightaway!” Sousuke shouted, inexplicably.

Kaname sat there, stunned. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

“That wasn’t to you!” Sousuke said urgently. “I’m driving, all right?!” Just then she heard another sound over the phone—it was like the whiz of a firework shooting for the sky.

Same Timeframe, Outskirts of Canicattì, Southern Sicily

The Mafia Benz took a rocket to the undercarriage and flew into the air, burst into flames, flipped, and slid along the cobblestone road, where it was hit by another pursuing car and sent into a violent spin. The two became entangled as they crashed into an abandoned marketplace, but Sousuke paid them no mind.

Their flight had taken them into an old city, clustered with buildings made of stone. Sousuke drove the Fiat through this night-cloaked town at top speed, showing no hesitation at their surroundings.

“That’s ten down! Three cars left!” Mao shouted, tossing aside the one-shot rocket launcher. Her dress was covered in soot and torn so thoroughly, it had left her half-naked.

“Was that our last rocket?!” Kurz shouted, changing his rifle’s clip. He’d already tossed his tuxedo jacket aside, and his blond hair was a mess.

“Affirmative,” Mao told him. “We’re down to grenades!”

“Dammit,” he cursed.

“Focus fire on the grills!” she yelled. “I’ll keep the gunmen in check!”

A new set of pursuers quickly moved to take the place of the ones they’d just dispatched. They opened fire, which Kurz and Mao returned. Then... amidst all the howling and noise, Kaname spoke up, casually, through the satellite channel. “Excuse me? Did you mean you’re driving a car?”

“Affirmative!” Sousuke yelled into his transmitter headset while jerking the wheel back and forth, hard.

“Um, isn’t that dangerous? It’s illegal to use a cell phone while you drive, right? Plus, you’re not old enough. Can’t you just pull over for a minute?”

“I can’t!” he told her urgently. “If I stop, I’ll never be able to take the makeup tests!”

“Huh?”

Sousuke’s Fiat was in a miserable way, riddled with bullet holes and scratches; it looked like a junkyard on wheels. It was basically a miracle that the engine remained mostly intact.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to take some makeup tests, sure... but you’re seriously in danger of failing your classes, okay?” Kaname lectured. “You’ve been missing class all the time lately.”

“It’s for missions!” Sousuke said, defending himself. “I can’t help it!”

The Fiat plowed through a pile of vegetables on the roadside. He sent the car’s back wheels into a drift, taking them onto the sidewalk, and then into a narrow alleyway. The enemy remained on their tail. A bulky BMW plowed through cases of wine, trash cans, bicycles, and carts in pursuit.

“Yeah, but it’s not like you can tell the teachers that, right?” she reminded him. “And if you don’t pass your classes, you’ll be held back a year, you know? You won’t become a third-year.”

“I hadn’t thought of that!” Sousuke admitted.

Gunshots, gunshots, gunshots. The walls of the winding back alley blurred past them at terrifying speeds. The pursuing car’s front bumper smashed into the Fiat’s rear, and its wheel went out of control. The frame creaked.

“What if you get held back?” Kaname lectured him. “We’ll all end up graduating without you.”

“I don’t like that idea!” said Sousuke.

Smoke poured from the pursuing car’s engine; Kurz’s rifle must have done its work. It swayed back and forth, slipped, then spun into a stone wall, taking it out of the chase.

“Two cars left!” Mao reminded them.

As the Fiat flew out of the alley, one of the enemy cars that had gotten around ahead of it tore after them on the main road.

“I don’t like it either,” Kaname replied softly.

“What was that?!” Sousuke asked, unable to hear her as Mao and Kurz went on shouting at each other and firing.

“Umm... Nothing.”

“I couldn’t hear you! Could you repeat—”

They were focusing fire on the enemy’s front tires. A hubcap went flying and bounced along the roadside. As they came to a T-intersection, Sousuke quickly yanked the wheel.

With its own front tires spent, the pursuing car was unable to complete the turn at the intersection; it went up onto the sidewalk, and slammed into an unoccupied restaurant. Fragments of glass and dust went flying; the downed car’s horn let out a shrill, constant whine.

“One car left!” Mao shouted.

“What’s going on?” Kaname wondered. “Is someone else there?”

“Nothing to worry about!” Sousuke reassured her. “Anyway... could you repeat what you said?!”

The final pursuer slammed into them from behind, tires squealing. This one was a huge pickup truck; it sped up again, got alongside them, and slammed recklessly into the Fiat.

“Oh, just forget it!” she scoffed. “You’re not even paying attention, are you?”

“No, it’s just pretty noisy where I—”

They were rocked by a powerful jolt, followed by a violent vibration as their compact car scraped the wall. The truck slammed into the Fiat once more; the rear bumper had fallen and was scraping the ground, sending up blinding sparks.

“Sousuke?” Kaname said.

“It’s just pretty noisy here!” he told her. “But it’ll be over soon!”

“Yeah, yeah... Sousuke, sometimes I wonder if you listen to a word I say!”

“I always try to listen! Even now—”

“Sousuke, brake!” Kurz shouted as he pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it into the bed of the truck slamming into them. Sousuke reacted immediately: The brakes squealed and the Fiat screeched to a stop, nearly pitching over, as the enemy pickup truck passed them by. “Get down!” Kurz yelled again.

“Hello?” said Kaname.

A second later, the grenade exploded in the bed of the truck that just passed them. Some of the shrapnel hit the Fiat, tearing holes through it as if it were made of tissue paper. Meanwhile, the pulverization of the back half of the pursuers’ vehicle had immediately thrown it off-balance. Wreathed in black smoke, the truck skidded into the town plaza—but even crashing into the rim of the central fountain didn’t stop it. It just sent the car into an arc, toppling end-over-end on its side, where it fell onto the center of the fountain, and—

There was a loud metal crunch. Sousuke had stopped the Fiat just before the plaza, and as they all turned their eyes to the fountain, they could see the black pickup truck speared upside-down on its spire-like centerpiece. Its wheels continued to spin fruitlessly as smoke rose up out of the wreckage.

“Now that’s art,” Kurz said admiringly, touching the tips of his fingers together to make a picture frame. “A perfect fusion of the medieval and the modern.”

“Down to zero cars, now,” Mao groaned, fixing the slipping bust of her dress. “But... wow, what a mess.”

The Mafia men poured out from the truck’s open doors and splashed through the fountain water, climbing over each other to escape. It seemed that they’d finished off the last of their pursuers.

Sousuke readjusted his headset and swiftly called out to the person on the other end of the line. “Chidori, I’m finished now. So... what were you saying again?”

There was no response, and an uneasy silence hung over the line. Eventually, Kaname whispered, “Forget it.”

Sousuke blinked in confusion.

“Just get back here ASAP, okay?” she told him.

“All right. I wi—”

“Jerk,” she interrupted sullenly, and the satellite connection to the cell phone he’d left in Japan shut off. Sousuke switched off his transmitter and let out a deep sigh.

They’d escaped their pursuers, but they couldn’t rest easy yet—The local police would be on their way by now. They didn’t have a spare car, so they’d have to use their roughed-up compact to get some distance from the city. It was a bumpy ride, but the Fiat bravely persevered.

“Anyway, head east,” Mao said. “We’ll abandon the car just before Delia, then switch to a loaner there.”

“How do we get one?” Sousuke asked.

“We’d probably be best off stealing it,” she said with a sigh. “If we avoid the main highways and drive all night, we should make it to Catania by daybreak.”

“Ah, so it’s an all-nighter... Typical.” While Kurz grumbled, Vincent Bruno remained in peaceful slumber beside him. He mumbled the name of some woman, with a perfectly relaxed smile on his face. “I can’t believe this bozo. Is he really a spy?”

“That’s what the major and Tessa said. He admitted to it also,” Mao responded, and then peeked into the cracked rear-view mirror. She quickly wiped the soot from her face and straightened her disheveled hair.

“What’s this world coming to?” Kurz groaned. He yanked off his bow tie and threw it out the window.

They could hear the rattle of the car’s frame and the clatter of tires kicking up pebbles. They were riding through hilly terrain now; if the sun had been up, they would have had a breathtaking view of the verdant countryside. But their one remaining headlight showed only the dark road ahead, and the only other light came from the moon and stars above.

I might not even get back to Japan in the next two days... Sousuke thought to himself, feeling a lurking fretfulness in the back of his mind. He’d missed his tests; he might not make the makeup test. How would he explain his absence if his homeroom teacher, Kagurazaka Eri, asked about it? He’d also have to justify his disassembly of her car.

He wanted to advance to the next grade. He wasn’t sure why, but... he really wanted to.

He spent at least a few minutes wrapped in those thoughts, but just as the car crested a low hill, he was interrupted by a sound.

At first he thought he was just imagining things—but he wasn’t.

He thought it was an issue with the car’s engine—but it wasn’t.

It was there, in the distance. The high-speed whir of turbine blades; the low, muffled sound of exhaust; the regular rhythm of heavy footsteps—they all added up to tell him that something was approaching.

“Hey,” he called to Mao and Kurz. But even before he’d even gotten the word out, they were both up and alert, scanning the area. The sides of the country road the Fiat was traveling were thick with black shrubs and brush, making visibility poor.

“Five o’clock,” Kurz said. Behind them and to the right, far beyond the underbrush, he had seen a sudden rain of leaves. Something huge was out there, pushing trees aside as it ran parallel to the road.

The sound grew louder. Its identity was now clear: this was a bipedal creature, mounted with a gas turbine engine. In other words...

“It’s an AS,” Mao said grimly. “Not good...”

“The Mafia has them?” Kurz asked incredulously.

“As part of their product lineup, yeah,” Mao replied. “They buy them secondhand from Eastern Europe and Russia and sell them to guerrillas and dictators in Africa. There are major restrictions on Western machines, so lately, the Soviet ones are—”

“It’s coming!” Kurz interrupted.

A massive figure appeared, mowing down the shrubs behind them. It was a Soviet arm slave, the Rk-92 Savage—The eight-meter giant stood tall among the falling leaves. It had a round, egg-like torso and a large head that resembled a frog’s. It also held a small autocannon in its right hand. Its two red eyes glowed faintly as it sized up their Fiat. The next instant, the AS began to run, its acceleration explosive.

“Hell... it doesn’t rain but it pours,” Kurz cursed. “These guys don’t give up. Think this is the last of it?”

“It’ll be the last of us, if we don’t do something!” Mao said. “Can’t we go any faster?”

“I’m sorry to repeat myself,” Sousuke rebuked her politely, “but this is our limit.” He was driving a compact car, carrying four people down an unpaved back road. There was no way to get it over 100 kilometers per hour. Meanwhile, even on uneven terrain, the pursuing Savage could reach a top speed of 130 km/h—and that was just the recommended maximum listed in the catalog. With modifications, a machine like that could go even faster.

There was more than one pursuer. Two—no, three... One after another, they broke through the underbrush and bounded over the road towards them.

“We can’t shake them,” Sousuke whispered. Passing classes and taking make-up tests were the least of his worries now; one wrong move and he’d never make it back to school ever again.

“We could surrender...” Mao considered. “Though, I doubt they’d accept it.”

“Yeah, not after all this...” Kurz agreed.

As they spoke, the first Savage began closing in on the Fiat; it was leaning forward, running at top speed. The dark-green machine brandished its stout left arm. The AS wasn’t going to use its gun—it was going to punch them.

“Get down!” Sousuke slammed on the brakes. The Savage swept its left arm and hit the top of the car, tearing the Fiat’s roof off and sending them on a dangerous tilt.

Another strike was on the way, and they all braced for impact. Sousuke turned the wheel to avoid it, sending their vehicle towards the Savage’s feet. It nearly got them stepped on, but they just managed to avoid the enemy’s strike.

Still, the Fiat was almost at its limit. The front tires were letting out a strange cry, and the engine was spewing white smoke. He couldn’t get its RPM up. Their speed continued to decrease.

The Savage slowed a little and straightened up; it seemed it was going to stop striking and start firing. It pointed the autocannon in its right hand in their direction.

“It’s no use...” Kurz groaned.

But just as they’d resigned themselves to their fate—something long and thin struck the Savage’s front armor, where it exploded; an ear-piercing roar tore through the area a moment later.

The group stared in shock. It had only been visible for a second, but Sousuke had recognized it as an anti-tank dagger—the thrown AS explosive had struck the enemy machine dead-center. The Savage staggered, then caught flame, and finally toppled over. The two machines following the first seemed thrown off by the suddenness of it, but immediately took evasive maneuvers.

“Who did that? Where are they?” Mao began looking all around. In front of them, down the dark country road, they could make out a vague silhouette. The air rippled, and a pale blue electric glow spilled forth—and then, as if bleeding through some invisible membrane... an AS appeared. It had been using an electromagnetic camouflage system—an ECS—to turn invisible.

“An M9?” Sousuke wondered.

The lithe form of the newly-revealed machine was immediately familiar to them. It was an M9 Gernsback, one of the third generation ASes that Sousuke and the others used every day. But it differed from their M9s in several key ways—It had bulkier thighs and upper arms, and the head’s shape was different; it actually looked more like the Arbalest. In addition, rather than being gray, its paint job was matte black. From its head to its toes, the only color visible was the faint orange glow from its head-mounted sensors.

“Who’s it with?” Kurz wondered.

“No idea,” Mao told him.

The black M9 launched into a sprint. The two remaining Savages decided to leave Sousuke and the others for later and prepared to engage the machine of unknown affiliation. They dashed in opposite directions and moved swiftly to try to flank the M9 with their attack...

But before the shots came, the black M9 leaped into the air. It vaulted over their autocannon fire, wove sharply through the terrain, and made skillful use of natural obstacles as it closed in on one of the two machines. Crossing the distance in the blink of an eye, the M9 drew its underarm monomolecular cutter and stuck it into the Savage’s chest as they passed.

The Savage’s armor let out an ear-splitting squeal. It was another precise blow to the cockpit—the operator must have died on impact. The M9’s actions crackled with ruthless efficiency.

The remaining Savage didn’t even have time to flinch; it just charged at the black machine, autocannon firing wildly. The M9 used the enemy it had just butchered as a shield to endure the barrage.

As both sides approached each other, the M9 suddenly threw its “shield” aside and made a flitting movement with its hand—the next instant, the final Savage exploded. The M9 had thrust an anti-tank dagger into it at close range, and then immediately moved itself clear of the explosion’s danger zone. To a watching amateur, it might have looked like a blur.

The fire finally reached the fuel tank of the machine it was using as a shield, and that one exploded into flame as well. The three Savages lay burning in the area around the Fiat, which could now only putter along, emitting black smoke. The battle had lasted a mere 30 seconds since the first shot was fired.

“Whew,” Kurz whistled at length. It had taken out three opponents with only its complement of knives; not a single firearm. Even if the M9’s maneuverability was much greater than that of a Savage, it was still clear that the machine’s operator was extremely skilled.

The black machine ran alongside the Fiat. It didn’t seem like it was going to stop. The M9’s head was installed with dual sensors similar to those of the Arbalest, and as the hawk-like “eyes” looked down at Sousuke and the others, the M9 let out a roar. It was actually the sound of exhaust being expelled from its cooling devices, and while they knew it was no more than a standard venting of steam after a battle—it somehow sounded like a lion’s call of dominance.

The three of them remained silent. The M9 simply pointed east, then it changed its own course southward and dashed into the distance. It hadn’t said a word; it hadn’t even tried to.

Mao looked on questioningly. “Hang on a minute...”

Parts of the machine’s armor began to slide, exposing red lens-like devices. Its ECS activated. The M9’s laser screen scorched the air around it to wreath the machine in a veil of light, and it immediately disappeared, as if dissolving into the darkness. Only a faint purple haze remained, lingering over where it had once been. Silence fell over the area again.

“What’s going on?” Kurz demanded to know. “Who was in that thing?”

“I don’t know,” Mao told him plainly.

“But it’s a Mithril machine, right?”

“I’d imagine so, but...”

“Who was it, then?” he asked again. Stunned, all they could do was watch the mysterious machine’s invisible departure. They wouldn’t find out the black M9’s identity that night.

The only organization in the world currently using those cutting-edge M9s was Mithril—even the US military’s test prototypes were still in the EMD (engineering and manufacturing development) phase. And the only ones who knew about Mao and Kurz’s Sicily operation were Tessa, Mardukas, and Kalinin. The most likely explanation was that Kalinin had called in further aid from somewhere—but that didn’t explain why it had appeared without revealing its affiliation, and then disappeared without so much as a word. In the end, Mao used Sousuke’s satellite transmitter to call Kalinin and ask for an explanation.

“You’re not authorized to know,” came Kalinin’s typically businesslike response.

“Not even me, the operation commander?” Mao asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Focus on your escape for now.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, hesitantly. “Uruz-2 out.” Then, after closing the transmission, she went right to grumbling. “Ah, it’s so annoying! Why does he always have to be like that? That old man, I swear...”

“Right? Yet all the girls on base are nuts for him. Even though I’m way younger and more handsome, and I’m also nice,” Kurz grumbled.

Sousuke looked surprised. “Nuts? For the major?”

“Yeah,” Kurz sighed again. “You never heard? Try listening to ’em in the mess sometime. The communications and logistics girls are always blabbing away, ‘Oh, the major’s so hot.’ There’s been rumors of him having private rendezvous with Nora-chan in engineering, too.”

“Lieutenant Lemming?” said Sousuke, feeling bewildered. “What kind of rendezvous?”

“What other kind is there? The major’s got needs too, after all, and I guess she’s seeing to them...” Kurz chuckled lasciviously.

“Hmm...” Sousuke wasn’t entirely sure what Kurz was talking about, but judging from his laugh, it was the kind of thing he couldn’t imagine Kalinin doing. As far as Sousuke was aware, Kalinin’s only romantic partner had been his wife, who had died in an accident back in Russia—Her name was Irina, and she had been a rather famous violinist, with a slender countenance and a frail constitution. Though, now that he thought about it, Second Lieutenant Nora Lemming did resemble her a bit...

“Anyway, enough with the gossip,” Mao finally declared. “Let’s get off this damned island already.”

“Good idea.”

After some discussion, they decided to hurry towards the city of Catania, as initially planned. Their escape proceeded so smoothly from there that it was almost a let-down; they changed cars in a nearby town, drove all night, got their fake IDs and US military uniforms in Catania, and then proceeded from there to a nearby NATO air force base. Mao was a former US Marine, and the remote base’s security was fairly lax, which made it simple for them to get inside. They had no trouble boarding a transport at the Aviano Air Base in Northern Italy, either.

Their hostage, Vincent Bruno, remained asleep the entire time—they’d stuck him in a retired officer’s uniform and propped him up in the seat. Their pretext was that he’d been in a coma since getting badly wounded on a secret mission in the Middle East. He’d spent his best days in Sicily, and his family’s only wish was to have him brought here, the story went—and because he was related to a prestigious member of Congress, they had to keep the trip under-the-radar. Sadly, not even the sounds and smells of this nostalgic place had stirred any signs of wakefulness in him.

“So he’s... unconscious? Really?” The transport’s steward seemed skeptical of the supposedly coma-bound man’s fit physical state.

“He is. Fortunately, his organs are all intact... What are you looking at him like that for?” Mao, wearing the rank of a first lieutenant, raised her voice to the corporal.

“Er, well—”

“Don’t you look at him that way. He was injured in the line of duty, fighting for his country. Don’t you realize the hell he’s seen? I won’t allow a second of pity or scorn for him!”

“Y-Yes, ma’am,” the steward stuttered. “Please excuse my rudeness...”

“No, I think you need an attitude adjustment,” Mao declared. “I want your name, rank, number, and squadron!”

With tears in his eyes, the corporal gave up his ID and squad numbers, apologized profusely, and didn’t ask any more questions about Bruno. It was a success they wouldn’t have achieved at a civilian airport.

“You’re quite an actor,” Kurz said admiringly, once the corporal was gone.

“It is impressive,” Sousuke agreed.

Mao just looked weary. “Talking like an officer is exhausting,” she grumbled. “I almost tossed a few F-bombs in there...”

The rest of the boarding went smoothly, and their transport took off a mere ten minutes behind schedule. They could rest easy, at least for now. From here, Mao and Kurz would head for Australia, where they’d drop Bruno off at operations headquarters; Sousuke would part ways with them earlier and return to Japan alone, likely to arrive in Tokyo the next day.

The roar of the turboprop engine carried even into the cabin—loud, but not so bad once you got used to it. Most of the cabin was empty, with just five or six soldiers present.

The sunlight of Sicily in autumn streamed in through the aircraft’s windows and made it hard to sleep. They hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and they’d need a bit more time to steady their nerves before they were ready to try. Nevertheless, the three of them were hit by the lethargy that follows the end of a combat operation.

“Hey...” Kurz said, slouching down in his barebones seat—his were the first words spoken in the listless silence that had pervaded for ten minutes after takeoff. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“In what sense?” Sousuke responded sullenly, flipping through a world history vocabulary sheet.

“That. Your tests,” Kurz pointed out. “You missed ’em, right?”

“Yeah.” Missing his midterms was disheartening, Sousuke had to admit. He’d been called out abruptly on the overseas mission, and his grades in several subjects were already sagging from countless unexplained absences. Kaname was right—at this rate, he might end up repeating a year. “But my work here is important. What would you have done if I hadn’t arrived last night?” Sousuke pointed out, noting Mao and Kurz’s dicey condition at the Mafia mansion.

“We’d have made it out somehow,” Kurz told him. “Right, Big Sis?”

“Hmm, maybe,” Mao answered, leaning back in her seat. “I won’t say I hadn’t thought of a few potential next moves...”

“I see...” Sousuke looked down with a sense of alienation. He felt vaguely like he was being told he wasn’t needed and should have just gone to school.

“That’s not to say we aren’t grateful for the help,” Mao added, seeming to catch onto his mood. “But I’m a little worried, too. About... you know.”

“Whether I’ll pass my classes?” Sousuke clarified.

“Not that. Everything about your current situation,” Mao told him. “Protecting Kaname at school, taking part in these missions, having the Arbalest forced on you... It’s not becoming too much for you to handle, is it?”

Sousuke said nothing.

“At first, I thought it would only be temporary, so you could handle it... and you’d been keeping up with your work pretty well. But lately—”

“I haven’t made any errors,” he interrupted defensively.

“That’s not what I mean,” Mao told him. “I’m talking about simple issues of physics and time. Things are slipping for you at school, right?”

“Well... yes.”

“I know we’re short-handed,” she went on, “but there have to be limits. If I were in your situation, I’d give the major a serious chewing-out over this.”

“But when you think about it,” Kurz threw in, “what’s the big deal? It’s not like he has to do well at school. He’s attending under a forged ID anyway. Is there some reason he really needs to graduate?”

The only reason Sousuke was going to Jindai High was to make guarding Kaname easier. Acting as a mercenary for Mithril was still his primary job; his life at high school was merely a temporary situation. He was different from Kaname and the other students on a fundamental level—Kurz was right, in that there was no particular reason why he needed to graduate.

“That’s true, I suppose...” he responded unhappily, and Mao cast a glance Sousuke’s way.

“I hope this isn’t too prying, but... what do you think?” she wanted to know.

“About what?”

“About what you’ll do from now on,” she said.

“I’ll follow my orders. That’s all I can do,” Sousuke responded lightly, staring into the bright light that poured in through the window.

Typically, Mao would laugh at such a typically guileless answer from Sousuke... but for some reason, this time, it seemed to annoy her. “That’s what you always say. I’m talking about a plan for your life. You’re only seventeen, right? What are you going to do with your future? Have you ever thought about it? Are you sure all this talk about orders and missions isn’t just an excuse to run away?”

“You think I’m running away?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Mao answered bluntly. “It’s a lot easier to just live your life doing whatever people tell you to.”

Sousuke said nothing.

“You seem weirdly mad about this, Big Sis,” Kurz said.

“I’m not, especially. I’ve just been thinking about it for a while,” Mao responded, then fell silent.

They could see Mt. Etna through the window in the distance. It was Europe’s largest active volcano. The air was foggy today, so it seemed dimmed by misty gray.

What to do from now on... Mao had been pretty harsh with him, but Sousuke found he wasn’t annoyed. It actually made him think. And Kaname had said something similar to him last night, too...

A plan for his life. He could infer what that meant, more or less, but when he really thought about it, he also felt it was the first time he’d heard the phrase. It was like a strategy for his personal long-term campaign. A set of self-imposed guidelines, based on what he expected to be doing in five or ten years... or something like that.

Sousuke had never thought about where he might be five years in the future. He had never even considered the concept. Most of Sagara Sousuke’s life had been lived in a maelstrom of battle and survival. Could a wild animal concerned mostly with finding its next day’s meal really think about five years from now? There was no word that felt more hollow in his ears than “future.” The future? What did that matter? He was more concerned with where he’d get his next ammo clip. That’s how he’d always felt—at least, until six months ago.

Sousuke had a vague idea that a change had been slowly coming to this barren mental state of his. This new life—going to Jindai High School, interacting with Kaname and the others—had been exerting an unseen influence over his mind. It was like the permafrost had begun to melt, revealing signs of fertile soil beneath.

A future... Will I have one, too? Sometimes, somewhere in his mind, he’d find himself asking that. He didn’t know the answer. But at the very least, he’d finally begun to ask it. It was new.

The passage of time could change anyone. Every way of life would reach its end someday, and he, too, was being swept along by the waves of transformation. The end of one routine would bring about a new future—though he was vaguely aware of that principle, thinking about it made him feel a little restless. “Kurz...”

“Yeah?”

“What will you be doing in five years?” Sousuke asked suddenly.

Kurz seemed stunned. “Not sure. Well... I’d like to get set up in a nice life with a pretty girl.”

“Do you think it will happen?”

“Not sure,” Kurz repeated, pulling the brim of his shabby uniform’s cap low over his eyes. Then he folded his arms and yawned, adding, “but it doesn’t hurt to think about it. Nighty-night.” That was the last word from Kurz. Sousuke looked at Mao and saw her leaning her head against the wall, already fast asleep. Mt. Etna continued to recede into the distance. The transport was leaving Sicily behind.