CHAPTER 4

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Mountain Zone―Military Trench]

THE SKY ABOVE OUR NEWLY DUG TRENCH WAS A BRILLIANT BLUE. Just beyond the lip of the trench, peeking above the spoil pile like lace trim, was the mountain’s black ridgeline. From where we stood, the mountain didn’t seem particularly tall, but I knew its peak was over 3,000 meters above sea level―a towering giant that was right at home here in the Mountain Zone.

　Even this area where we’d dug the trench was at a considerable altitude. Which made sense, since keeping the high ground in relation to the enemy was one of the ABCs of battlefield strategy. Well, it was according to No. 21, anyway.

　No. 22 piped up with, “Hey, No. 21, look! I wonder what kind of bird that is.”

　A black shadow soared through the patch of sky beyond No. 22’s outstretched finger. The sound of artillery fire roared in the distance. No. 21 looked up just a bit too late.

　“What bird?”

　“Way up high. It’s flying around and . . . Oh! It just landed on that tree over there.”

　“Does it matter what it’s called? This really isn’t the time for bird-watching.”

　At No. 21’s sharp response, No. 22’s mood shifted to silent and sullen. It was hard to say either of them was in the wrong, but I decided to offer No. 22 support first.

　“Hey, no need to be like that. No. 22’s just trying to ease the tension a little. How about we all take a deep breath and relax?”

　But the lines furrowed across No. 21’s brow only deepened. I knew he had to be racking his brain, trying to determine the best possible mission strategy; probably more than ever, in fact, considering the unusual nature of our current op. Command had picked up a distress signal inside enemy territory. We were to check it out and extract whoever it was that needed help.

　That was the idea in a nutshell, anyway. But there were complications. The signal originated from somewhere deep in the Mountain Zone. Traversing the area would be difficult enough, but to make matters worse, the signal originated in an area particularly rife with hostiles. And the terrain and enemy presence prevented us from establishing communications; as a result, we didn’t even know who exactly we were trying to help. I had my own theory, of course: it was probably a member of one the many Resistance groups active down here on the surface.

　We were no strangers to fights against overwhelming odds. Nor, at this point, did we lack experience fighting on difficult terrain. But we’d never been tasked with a rescue op, and we’d never made contact with a non-YoRHa android on the surface. So No. 21’s consternation didn’t surprise me; there were a lot of unknowns for our Scanner to try to account for.

　We had to locate the target, proceed with the extraction, and make it back alive. This time, success required survival. Rushing in with a suicide mentality wasn’t an option. And yet we still faced the usual quantity of enemies, at their usual strength, and with the terrain generally working in their favor.

　So there we were in the trench. No. 3, No. 4, and No. 6 had gone ahead to scout out the area and note possible entry routes. The location we’d inserted at was supposed to have a comparatively low concentration of enemy units―the key word being “comparatively.”

　No. 22 hadn’t accompanied the others on the scouting efforts because No. 21 had been assigned to the rear. Instructor Black felt that we’d be better off having our Scanner perform wide-area scans from the back lines this time around.

　It occurred to me that it had been a long time since the three of us were together during an op. For some time now, No. 21 and No. 22 had been consistently assigned to forward roles, which inevitably involved charging headfirst into heavily-occupied enemy territory.

　 “I just wanted to know what it was called,” No. 22 ventured hesitantly.

　He was talking about the bird, but the words implied something more. I knew what he meant, and I’d long since realized I felt the same way. We were giving everything we had to a war meant to reclaim a planet we didn’t even know.

　“And the names of other things, too . . .” No. 22 continued. “I want to know all about the earth. It’s our home. We should take the time to get to know it.”

　Hmm. It seemed his perspective was a little different from mine. Still, our feelings would’ve come from basically the same place. Of course, I’d never dare speak the conclusion I’d come to out loud. I knew it was a pretty negative outlook, the kind of thing that would make anyone who heard me feel uncomfortable. And on top of that―

　There was an odd sound, like a faint whistling.

　“Do either of you hear that?” I asked.

　I put my previous thoughts on hold and examined the area around the trench.

　“What are you talking about?” No. 21 replied, head tilted quizzically. “I don’t hear anything.”

　It felt like something was heading toward us, and that it was getting close―like it was almost on top of us.

　That was when it clicked for me. It was literally almost on top of us. I glanced up to confirm pure terror falling fast.

　“Get down!” I shouted. “It’s an EMP bomb!”

　I didn’t think. I just reacted, throwing up my defense shield, praying that I’d been fast enough―that the shield would materialize in time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw No. 21 tackling No. 22 to the ground. Light exploded everywhere. There was a millisecond of silence, and then the roar of the blast washed over us.

　When the explosion subsided, I checked myself over. I didn’t appear to be damaged and felt a rush of relief. My shield must have held up.

　But a piercing scream drove that relief away. I recognized the voice as No. 22’s, yet at the same time, it sounded like the cry of an animal. I whirled around to find him writhing on the ground.

　“It’s . . . it’s inside my circuits! No. 9! Help me!”

　“Just stay calm! I’m on it!”

　I pulled an injector out of my field repair kit and jammed it into the back of No. 22’s neck. I needed to halt the enemy nanomachines before they got too deep into his circuits―that was the standard mechanism for any logic virus. As I observed No. 22’s state, I silently prayed that this particular virus wasn’t some new variant we’d not encountered.

　His arms and legs stopped spasming. He was out cold from the treatment, but we’d been lucky―it looked like this virus was one of the enemy’s usual standbys.

　“You’re all right now,” I murmured quietly.

　So long as he got enough rest, he’d regain consciousness and be back to normal.

　“Wait,” No. 21 said, a worried look on his face.

　He pulled out his Support System unit.

　“Based on the data, every time the enemy launches an EMP attack, they always follow up with―”

　The tinny voice of the SSU finished his thought. “Scan complete. Machine lifeforms inbound from all directions. Hostile force exceeds 2,300 units―”

　No. 21 exhaled heavily as he muted the SSU. Were we out of options? Surely there had to be something we could do.

　“Wait. Maybe there’s something in our rules of engagement directives that can help.”

　I directed my SSU to search the documentation for anything applicable to our current situation. I had to control my voice to keep it from breaking.

　The unit’s robotic response came cold and uncaring. “No applicable resources found.”

　No. 21 shook his head. “It’s no use. No. 22’s the only combat model here, and he’s non-functional.”

　“But―” I protested weakly.

　“I’m telling you, there isn’t a combat strategy in existence that would give a single Healer and a single Scanner a fighting chance against these odds.”

　We could hear them now: the faint crunching of countless mechanical limbs on rocky terrain. The approaching forces were still a ways off, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

　Neither No. 6 nor the M001 units were here to protect us. In a stroke of bad luck, the instructor happened to be away, too. He’d headed off just minutes beforehand, hoping to find a spot with some semblance of proper reception in order to make his regularly scheduled contact with Command.

　I looked back at No. 22. There was no way he’d regain consciousness in time. His rifle lay beside him, unceremoniously dumped to the ground during his earlier convulsions. The weapon seemed almost lonely, as if pleading with its downed owner to wake up and bear it once more.

　“You’re wrong,” I announced to No. 21. “There is something we can do.”

　I reached out and lifted the rifle from the ground. Even holding it with both hands, it was so heavy I thought I might tip over. But our enemies were on their way. We couldn’t just sit here doing nothing.

　It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to shoot. Even Healers went through basic firearms training. I managed to get the butt of the rifle up and braced against my right shoulder, steadying the forestock with my left hand. The machines had entered visual range. I shifted my right hand into position on the grip.

　The moment I pulled the trigger, my shoulder and neck violently jerked back; my balance faltered and I fell, rear end ungracefully planted on the ground. The weapon’s kick was a lot stronger than I’d anticipated.

　“Don’t be stupid! That weapon is designed for Gunners! We can’t just pick it up and expect to be able to handle it!”

　No. 21 ran to my side and helped me up. I knew he was right, but I still didn’t want to admit it.

　“I . . . I can’t just give up.”

　I rose to my feet, consciously locking both knees as I leveled the rifle once more.

　“You really are a fool,” No. 21 muttered.

　But suddenly the barrel felt lighter. I realized No. 21 was standing beside me, his hand helping me steady the weapon.

　“Huh? What are you doing?”

　“You just concentrate on bracing and firing. I’ll worry about the aiming.”

　I popped out the weapon’s link cable; No. 21 took it and plugged it into his own ear.

　“I’m not saying I think this’ll work,” he said. “But it’s got a better chance than you shooting alone.”

　“Got it.”

　“All right. Here they come. Gimme two bursts on my mark!”

　He began a countdown. When he said “Fire,” I pulled the trigger. The barrel shuddered violently. I released the trigger, then squeezed it again. I was holding on for dear life. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard several explosions. They seemed to come from somewhere far ahead.

　“Did . . . did we get them?”

　No. 21 let go of the weapon and straightened up briefly to survey our work. He seemed satisfied and nodded, with a decisive, “That’ll do.” Our shots had found their mark. We’d managed to thin the enemy’s ranks. There was hope after all.

　“Let’s keep it up,” No. 21 ordered. “We’ll mow each wave of ’em down as they get clo―”

　The crackling hiss of a laser streaking through the air drowned out the rest of his words. The next thing I knew, we were both flung backward and slammed against the ground.

　“No. 21!” I shouted, looking around.

　I sprang to my feet. I seemed to be uninjured. My companion, however, wasn’t so lucky.

　“Stay . . . down . . .” he said. “They must have a . . . laser sniper unit somewhere . . .”

　No. 21 held his shoulder and grimaced as he spoke. Clearly, we weren’t going to be firing the rifle anymore. Aside from No. 22’s weapon, we had nothing we could use to resist the machines.

　“What now? Is this the end for us?”

　No. 22 lay unconscious. No. 21 was now injured. That left me and me alone. The machines were still pressing in on our position. I wasn’t even able to defend myself against the enemy, much less launch a counterattack.

　What were the machines doing here in the first place? This was supposed to be our rear line. It was supposed to be safe here.

　The advancing machines came to a sudden halt. I could see and hear them clearly now. They always paused like this just before they opened fire. All I could do was stare as they slowly rotated and readied their armaments.

　Just as I’d come to terms with the fact that all was lost, a violent burst of wind blew through our position. Enemy units clattered to the ground one after another, suddenly lifeless.

　“Aw, hell. Looks like the machines got you pretty good, huh?”

　It took me another moment to process what had happened. That was no mere gust of wind. Another android had swept in, and now he was moving from one end of the enemy line to the other, slashing machines apart with ease.

　“No. 3 . . . ?” I gaped. “Is it really you? You came back for us, sir!”

　“How many times do I gotta tell ya? Cut the ‘sir’ crap!”

　No. 3 tugged his visor up and wiped the sweat from his brow.

　“’Course, I gotta admit, the way you insist on doin’ things the right way is kinda charming.” He grinned as he spoke.

　All I could focus on was the machine lurking just over his shoulder.

　“No. 3!” I shouted. “Behind you!”

　He turned, only for a blur of metal to rush at his face. It happened so fast, I couldn’t tell if it was a punch or a kick, but at any rate, the machine was bearing down on him. No. 3 was done for.

　Once more, my dread was cut short; this time, an even-tempo volley of gunfire signaled deliverance. The looming machine burst apart, fragments of metal arcing through the sky before pattering down as steel rain across our surroundings.

　“And how many times have I told you,” a gruff voice said, “to stay focused. You’ve got a bad habit of letting your attention wander every time you finish something off.”

　I brought a hand to my chest in relief. No. 4 had come back as well.

　“Get your visor back on!” he yelled at No. 3. “The fight’s not over yet!”

　No. 4 dropped to one knee, fire spitting from his dual guns. Machine lifeforms around us crumpled one by one.

　“Are you ever gonna stop being so uptight? Quit nagging me,” No. 3 retorted, but he pulled his visor back down over his eyes before hefting his sword again. The next wave of approaching machines didn’t even have time to shift into attack mode before they were cut down.

　“Gotta say, it’s painful watching you M001 units work. You could really use a lesson in efficiency. And in finesse.”

　No. 6 appeared as well, the flat of his blade resting against one shoulder. Though he’d said “M001 units,” I felt reasonably sure he was referring to No. 3 specifically. Even No. 6 would have to admit that there was no lack of precision in No. 4’s shots.

　The enemy forces continued to grow in number, as they always did, but somehow I felt like things were going to be okay. No. 6 and the two M001 units were with us now. They’d probably seen the EMP bomb in the sky and estimated it hit somewhere near our position, or perhaps they’d suspected something was up when our comms cut out. In either case, what mattered is that they’d rushed back to check on us.

　“Hey!” No. 3 yelled, his eyes on No. 6. “Less talking, more killing. Get to it!”

　“Yeah, yeah.”

　And then, before he could be bothered to add another word, No. 6 was leaping through the air. Two more machines were sputtering sparks by the time his feet touched the ground, but his show was just getting started. The length of his sword gleamed through his deadly dance, and before I knew it, he’d mopped up every single machine in the vicinity.

　“Happy now, tough guy?”

　“That’s ‘tough guy, sir,’ to you!”

　“In your dreams.”

　The fact that they had time to banter signaled that the tide had turned; the enemy had begun to withdraw.

　“No. 9! Deal with No. 21’s wounds before the machines regroup!” No. 4 ordered.

　“Yes, sir!”

　I turned back to No. 21 to assess his injuries. This wasn’t a time to be basking in relief. The machines often acted this way―when they realized they were outmatched, they’d withdraw just long enough to replenish their ranks. They’d be back, and in greater numbers. Out here on the battlefield, we couldn’t afford to let our guard down for even a moment.

　“Shit. Machines got you pretty good, didn’t they?” No. 6 said as he peered over my shoulder.

　No. 21’s face was contorted in pain. Now that we were out of the woods―for the time being, anyway―his body had probably begun to register the pain.

　The wound went a lot deeper than I’d imagined.

　“Instructor!” No. 3 shouted.

　A sense of relief washed through me. The instructor had returned. He quickly sized up the situation and immediately walked toward me.

　“Status report,” he ordered.

　“Sir! Immediately following an enemy EMP attack, we realized No. 22’s circuits had been flooded with a logic virus. I managed to stabilize him. No. 21 then sustained an injury while―”

　No. 21 hastily stood, interrupting my explanation with, “I was hit by enemy sniper fire, but I’m fine. I can keep going, sir.”

　“Very good,” the instructor replied, sweeping his gaze over the lot of us. “Command has been able to pinpoint the broadcast location of the distress signal. It’s about five klicks from our current position. The signal is still active, so we assume the distressed party is alive. The mission is to go ahead as planned. Make sure your equipment’s ready to go. We move out in fifteen minutes.”

　Fifteen minutes. That was all the time I had. Was I going to be able to have both No. 21 and No. 22 up and running?

　“It’d save us all a lot of trouble if this ‘distressed party’ could just kick the bucket already,” No. 6 muttered. He didn’t say it so loud as to suggest open defiance, but at the same time, I had a hard time believing the instructor wasn’t meant to catch it. I assumed his comments weren’t about personal objection so much as relaying the general sentiment that this mission was hopeless.

　“Sir!”

　“What is it, No. 21?” the instructor responded.

　“Considering M Squadron’s experimental nature, it would stand to reason that we are not currently suited for a rescue operation. Perhaps we could put in a request with Command for some backup, sir?”

　No. 21 seemed to have chosen his words carefully. Every time we’d asked for permission to withdraw or abort an operation, the request had been immediately denied. Asking for support was a new approach. I had to at least give him credit for ingenuity, even though everyone present knew the new angle was unlikely to yield any new results.

　“I already tried that.” No. 4 made the comment in a matter-of-fact way, even though internally he must have wanted to sigh.

　“There’s been no response to that request as of yet from Command,” the instructor said.

　“Hmm, now I wonder why that might be?” No. 6’s sarcastic remark was accompanied by a sinister smile.

　“I can think of two reasons,” No. 4 replied. The fact that he bothered to respond to No. 6’s quip underscored his excessively earnest nature.

　“Either there’s a problem with the communications equipment,” he continued, “or their failure to respond is . . . intentional.”

　“But why would they ignore us?” I asked.

　It was a question I knew no one here could answer. I couldn’t help but ask it anyway.

　“Who knows?” No. 4 responded. “Too many variables at work, and I don’t really feel like playing a guessing game anyway.”

　All this while, the instructor had stood in silence, listening to our exchange. Finally, he spoke. “Whatever the answer, it’s irrelevant. We are to follow protocol and prepare for the rescue operation.”

　He added a terse, “Now get yourselves ready. On the double.”

　And with that, he walked away.

　I heard a small sigh, though I wasn’t sure who it came from. Based on No. 3’s next comment, I could at least assume it wasn’t him.

　“How ’bout we quit arguin’ over stupid details and get on with it? Let’s bust our way in and kill some damn machines.”

　After our recovery work in the deep-sea base, something about No. 3’s attitude seemed to have shifted. He’d become a little too eager to fight, and it didn’t sit right with me. How could somebody be anxious to rush into battle again after witnessing the carnage of the other day? Maybe he’d snapped. Maybe the experience had steeled some inner resolve.

　“If you wanna throw your life away with some piss-poor excuse for a strategy, be my guest. But keep the rest of us out of it,” No. 4 sniffed.

　“Yeah?! Well, if the machines haven’t killed you by the time this is over, you can bet your ass I’ll be happy to finish the job.”

　I doubted that No. 4 actually wished for No. 3 to head off to certain death, just as I didn’t think No. 3 would ever really follow through on his threats to kill No. 4. Probably not, anyway.

　“Radio silence from Command, an instructor so rigid he’d snap before he bent a rule, and a stream of constant bickering from the two senior-most members of the squad. Got dealt a real winning hand here, didn’t I?”

　I’d heard enough from No. 6 that comments like this no longer surprised me. Still, I’d noted a change in him, too. His quips seemed to be growing more acerbic by the day.

　“C’mon, No. 22. Time to gear up,” No. 21 said. He attempted to haul his downed twin to his feet.

　I tried to intervene. “Stop! No. 22 needs rest. He still hasn’t―”

　Regained consciousness, I’d intended to say, but right at that moment, No. 22’s eyelids fluttered ever so slightly.

　“Are you okay?” I asked.

　“Yeah,” he replied weakly. “Sorry for the trouble, No. 9.”

　He still seemed to be in quite a bit of pain. Forget combat―in his current state, walking would still be a battle. When I suggested as much, No. 21 answered for his twin.

　“He’s fine. A few more minutes and he’ll be good to go.”

　“You can’t be serious! He needs to lie down! His auto-repair function will be able to restore the damaged circuits, but the process will take time to―”

　“Well, we can’t delay the op! Not ’cause we were careless enough to get hurt!”

　There was nothing more I could say. Nobody would be more worried about No. 22’s safety than his twin.

　“I’m . . . I’m fine. Really. I’ll . . . be ready to go . . . any second now . . .” No. 22 said.

　The way he struggled to get the words out made me certain that he was in excruciating pain. Still, I could only nod in response.

　And for who knew how many times in just as many days, I repeated the same question that was stuck in my mind.

　What in the world is Command thinking?

[Log Entry: Phlox / Mountain Zone―Cave]

In my dream, I was digging a well.

　The location seemed familiar. We were at a campsite. When had I been here last?

　The lake we’d been using as our source of potable water had dried up overnight; it seemed the machines had cooked up a new plot to kill us. Honestly, it was our own fault for not having a secondary source of water planned out. With no other options, we decided to see if we could manage to dig a well. I think it was the captain who came up with the idea. Or was it? I was hazy on the details.

　At any rate, we were making progress until Lotus came along with his explosive charge. I tried to warn him. The fastest way to get to water―the surest way―was through good old-fashioned shoveling. But Lotus just couldn’t accept that fact.

　I heard the roar of the explosion and felt the tremor shake the ground. That was when I knew he was really going through with it. He’d undo all our work; the shaft we’d dug would collapse and fill back up, and we’d be back to square one. I had to stop him. I had to get the captain . . . Captain!

　“Help! Somebody help!”

　Captain Cactus’s screaming brought me back to the waking world. The well-digging had been part of the dream, but his panicked cry definitely was not.

　“What’s the fuss, Cap? You having nightmares again?”

　I rubbed the sleep from my own eyes and sat up. Next to me, the captain was trembling, still wrapped up in his sleeping bag. Even in the dim of the cave, I could clearly make out the beads of sweat oozing from his forehead.

　“Phlox? Is that you? Oh, thank goodness . . . It was just a dream.”

　The dull roar of an explosion came from somewhere outside. Now I knew how Lotus’s explosive charge had found its way into my dream. The sound was probably the source of the captain’s nightmare, too.

　“Just some survey bombing, Cap. Remember? They carpet the area, trying to use a bunch of noise and light to flush us out. Nothing to be worried about.”

　We’d spent three days hiding out in our makeshift stronghold. Honestly, I was getting a little fed up with the captain’s touchy nerves―I thought he would have settled by now.

　For his part, the captain seemed to be just as fed up with himself as I was.

　“You don’t have to explain. I know what it is,” he pouted, cheeks puffed out like a sulky kid.

　I figured I’d just wait until he calmed down and then try to go back to sleep. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do down here. To tell the truth, pretending the cave was some kind of stronghold was optimistic at best. We were surrounded by the enemy. We couldn’t have moved even if we wanted to.

　A strange muttering echoed throughout the cave.

　“So big. So big. So big!”

　It took me a moment to realize it was Lotus. He was clutching a large box, tottering his way around the cave. The box was full of junk he’d apparently collected outside. He was supposed to have been scouting the area to get an update on enemy numbers. Instead, he’d been collecting garbage.

　“So big! Yes, yes,” he mumbled on.

　“A big catch! A big haul! A big trove of treasures!” he continued, but it was all nonsense to me. The only thing I knew for sure was that his stash of junk had him just about as excited as I’d ever seen him before.

　“A thermosensor, yes, yes, and a gravitational control unit. Quite costly, though. Not many chances to see these in action.”

　“Hey, um, Lotus?”

　He didn’t seem to hear me. He mumbled a bit more, then started laughing―a maniacal little giggle―which he followed with, “Fascinating! These must be the sights for an FFCS!”

　“Hey! Lotus!” I shouted, loud enough to echo throughout the cave this time. I finally managed to catch his attention.

　“Yes, yes. What is it?”

　He didn’t, however, bother to turn and face me. He continued gazing at his box of junk.

　“How were things outside?”

　“Isn’t it obvious? Just look at it. Quite the haul! And no trouble gathering it. No, no. Very smooth. So many treasures in here. All quite uncommon. Quite uncommon, indeed.”

　“I’m talking about our enemies! The machines! What do their numbers look like? You did remember to check, right?”

　“Goodness. Is that all you’re interested in?”

　Lotus glanced at me, his gaze now dreary.

　“No change. No. Not much at all,” he said.

　Thank heaven. He hadn’t abandoned his duties, despite the fervent attention he poured into his inane little hobby. I supposed, generally speaking, Lotus pulled his own weight despite his eccentricities; you just had to put up with his frequent miscommunications and puzzle out the odd explanations he gave.

　A long time ago, someone had explained to me that humans referred to individuals exhibiting that kind of behavior as “socially awkward.” The fact that the term existed at all told me there’d always been a few oddballs like Lotus around, ever since the dawn of human civilization.

　Lotus wandered over to me with a piece of scrap in hand.

　“Imagine that this here is our cave,” he began, drawing a circle in the dirt.

　“Now, this represents a five-kilometer radius,” he continued, drawing another, much larger circle to encompass the first. “It’s packed with machines. All active. All hostile. You get the picture, yes?”

　Right. So not much had changed.

　“Of course, there is the notable addition of the autoturrets.” Lotus added a number of dots at irregular intervals around the smaller circle. Apparently they were supposed to represent turrets. “I modified several of our fallen foes and placed them strategically, you see. In the general vicinity of the entrance to the cave.”

　“Which means,” he concluded in triumph, “we are quite safe here for the time being.”

　“U-um! But what happens when the enemy takes out the turrets? Won’t they storm in and kill us all?!” The captain had crawled over to peer at Lotus’s makeshift map. He pointed at the inner circle as he posed his uncomfortable question. It seemed he’d given up on the idea of getting back to sleep. Maybe the scenes of his latest nightmare were still floating around his mind.

　“Of course not. The turrets are distributed quite randomly. No way to deduce our position. None at all.”

　That explained the peculiar spacing of the dots. Lotus had undoubtedly also set each turret facing in a random direction. They’d have scored more kills if aimed strategically along the likely enemy approach lines, but that kind of positioning would be a dead giveaway of who, where, and what the emplacement was meant to protect. What seemed to be an inefficient method at first would in the end provide us with the surest results.

　It was the same logic behind digging a well by hand.

　“Oh! And there’s more,” Lotus continued. “If the enemy manages to take down a turret? Not a problem. None at all. A lovely virus infects whichever machine happens to attack last. One turret lost, another one gained!”

　Did that mean the virus could keep taking out enemies one by one until the whole area was clear? With every machine in the vicinity dead or turned into a friendly autoturret, maybe we could just waltz on out.

　My idea was shot down before I could voice it.

　“Of course, with each additional casualty,” Lotus clarified, “the machines will place themselves on higher alert, until eventually the whole region will simply be carpet bombed. They have very large bombs, you know. Extremely large. Will blast craters a few dozen meters deep. Yes, yes. This little cave of ours won’t stand a chance.”

　I hadn’t given the machines enough credit. The Resistance had been locked in battle with them for ages, and it wasn’t like the things were gonna fold thanks to one measly virus.

　The captain tilted his head skyward and muttered, “Heaven help us.”

　Not that you could see the sky from in here.

　Lotus cleared his throat. “Do try to keep in mind that our whole predicament is your fault, dear captain.”

　“My fault? How do you figure that?”

　“Leading us deep into enemy territory. Eyes lusting after treasure, unable to resist.”

　“Wh-what?! I’m doing everything I can to . . . ”

　The captain faltered and his gaze fell bit by bit. Lotus’s remark seemed to have hit home. Our resident eccentric was intelligent enough―I’d give him that. But he never seemed to understand when not to cross the line.

　“That’s enough, Lotus,” I chided.

　Yeah, it was true that the captain had been a little too focused on his prize. But the blame for our situation didn’t rest entirely on his shoulders.

　I eyed Lotus and said, “When we first arrived in the area, all the machines were dormant. No activity to show up on our scans. There was no way we could’ve known what we were walking into.”

　“Yes, yes,” Lotus nodded, calmly acquiescing to my point. “I suppose that’s true.”

　He didn’t know when to hold back, but at the same time, when explicitly told to lay off, he didn’t continue to push. Lotus was a lot to deal with, but that didn’t mean he was a bad guy. It was just all those little miscommunications and the fact that you always had to puzzle out the things he said―in other words, all the social awkwardness.

　The captain looked at me with the eyes of an abandoned puppy. “What are we supposed to do now, Phlox?”

　I suppressed an urge to snap back that he was supposed to be the one in charge.

　“Well, Lotus’s autoturrets will keep us safe for now, but apparently we can’t afford to just sit tight forever. At the same time, we don’t exactly have any tricks up our sleeve for getting out of here. And then there’s the issue of this little item . . .”

　I flicked my gaze toward the large container positioned at the very center of the cave.

　“I’d say our only real option is to wait it out and hope that someone happens to notice the signal this thing’s been blaring nonstop.”

　The container was tall and narrow, standing about the same height as me, and damn heavy. Not that we’d weighed it or anything, but I was willing to bet it had to be at least seven or eight hundred kilos.

　“Ah, yes. The signal. Who knows? Hard to tell,” Lotus said, as he eyed it doubtfully.

　We had no idea what was actually inside the container. It had a panel that looked like it might open―some kind of lid or door―but it required a passcode. The code had us stumped, and the container itself was impregnable. We couldn’t even put a scratch on the thing with the equipment we had on hand, much less break it open.

　“If you ask me,” Lotus continued, “pinning all our hopes onto this mystery box is a bit misguided.”

　“How could you say that?!” the captain cried. He jumped to his feet and puffed out his chest.

　“This right here is a product of the Council of Humanity. Grade-A equipment from the moon itself!”

　Of course, that was just speculation―or, more bluntly, the captain’s hopeful longing.

　“Think of how much money we could make selling the contents off to some other Resistance group!” he continued. “We’d be living the high life then. Open your eyes, you nitwit!”

　“Uh, Cap?” I began. “Don’t forget that we’re part of the Council’s army too. I mean, I appreciate a good, honest opinion as much as the next guy, but maybe you oughta be a little more discreet with your intentions? Y’know, dress up the words a bit?”

　Though I was aware of that particular human-coined expression―“to dress up one’s words”―I had to admit I didn’t really understand how you’d ever put clothing on words. I mean, I guess it had to be figurative―plenty of human expressions were. Logically, I supposed it implied choosing fancier words to mitigate the kind of offense more direct terms might cause, in the same way that proper attire could make a better impression. It struck me as a fascinating point of inquiry.

　While I was lost pondering the trivialities of language, Lotus had begun tapping away at his tablet. I heard him add, “Well, I for one appreciate the captain’s clarity. His down-to-earth―”

　Something seemed to catch him off guard. He tilted his head to the right and gave a puzzled, “Hrm?”

　“What is it?” I asked.

　“One of the turrets. It appears to have been destroyed.”

　“Oh. Right. So now whatever machine destroyed it is getting infected, and that becomes the new turret, right?”

　“Yes . . . about that . . .” Lotus murmured. “The newly infected unit’s signal has also been terminated. And now―”

　He tilted his head to the other side and murmured again, “Hrm?”

　His head bobbed back to the right.

　“Something unusual?” I asked, peering over at the tablet.

　Red lights dotted the display, apparently representing the autoturrets. Several blinked out, replaced by new lights immediately adjacent to them, only for the new lights to go out, be replaced once more, and on and on in a cascade of red dots. And then, suddenly, the lights were disappearing from the display altogether, at an almost blinding rate.

　What was going on? The mystery had me tilting my head just like Lotus.

　That was when the explosion hit. A huge roar from somewhere close.

　“Whoa! What was that? What was that? What was that?!” The captain was on all fours, crawling with unbelievable speed to one far corner of the cave. When he reached the rock wall, he curled up like a pill bug.

　“Lotus, what’s going on?!”

　Lotus was busily tapping away on his device.

　“The machines! They’re vanishing,” he replied. “Not just the hacked ones. All of them. And it’s happening fast!”

　Another explosive roar shook our surroundings, this one even closer than before.

　“Whoa, whoa, whoa! We’re all gonna die!” The captain’s wailing was about as earsplitting as the explosions.

　“Captain!” I yelled. “No disrespect, sir, but please! Shut. Up.”

　The latest blast had sent a shower of dirt and pebbles clattering to the rocky floor. The cave was a natural formation. Unreinforced. I doubted it would stand up to much more abuse.

　“Lotus!” I yelled. “How about finding us a safe route outta here?!”

　Lotus didn’t seem to be listening.

　“What in the . . . Oh! Oh, this isn’t good at all!” he yelped.

　“What now?!”

　“Something’s headed this way! Straight into the cave!”

　More explosions quaked around us. I put a hand to my rifle.

　“Captain! Get your weapon ready!”

　When he failed to respond, I grabbed each of his hands with my own and slapped them onto the barrel and grip of his weapon. I clicked his safety off. Lotus was right. I could sense something drawing near.

　“Lotus!” I yelled again. “Get to the back of the cave! Keep your head down!”

　I readied my weapon. But I never got the chance to aim or shoot; the next explosion was easily a magnitude larger than the last. Visibility went to nil with the blast. I heard something flying through the air. I tried to wave away the billowing dust and smoke that had filled the cave.

　There was a body on the ground. Maybe our intruder had underestimated the toll the forced entry would take on him.

　“Who is that? Who is that? Who is that?”

　The captain was now completely gripped by panic. I saw his hands tighten on his weapon, like he was ready to start spraying fire indiscriminately. I shouted with everything I had.

　“Stop! It’s an android! Don’t shoot!”

　Lotus muttered, “An android. Lovely. The perfect vector for an enemy logic infection.”

　His caution was warranted. But I didn’t feel comfortable letting the new arrival lie unexamined on the floor, either. With my rifle still held at the ready, I approached slowly, one careful step at a time. The android was dressed head to toe in black. Judging by the frame, it was a model I was unfamiliar with. No telling what kind of specs it had. If I assumed the worst, and this new arrival was indeed carrying a virus, would the three of us and the firepower we had on hand be enough to take him down?

　And if it came to that, would I be able to go through with it? It didn’t feel right killing a fellow android, even if it was one I’d never interacted with. I found myself almost wishing he’d died on impact to spare us the quandary.

　“Aghhhhh! Dammit all, that hurt!”

　I jumped back at the sudden exclamation. The intruder sprang up from the floor, still shouting.

　“Hey! What about my cover? Thought you said you had my back!”

　“How are we supposed to provide cover for dumbass tactics like that?”

　The second voice alerted me to the fact that another figure all in black had arrived. This one wore a black coat with a hood.

　“Barreling straight in like some kinda lunatic . . .” the second android continued, shaking his head.

　Both androids had black blindfolds over their eyes. It struck me as highly strange. How did they manage to get anything done like that? Echolocation or something? Were these two supposed to be bats?

　The second android turned to address me.

　“You the ones sending out the distress signal?”

　Apparently, they could see just fine from under those things. He looked directly at me, then turned his head slightly to look at the captain and finally at Lotus.

　“We’ve come to get you outta here,” he said.

　My mind was reeling from the events of the past few minutes. I still half-expected the two strangers to declare they were here to kill us.

　“You . . . uh . . .” I faltered. “You made it through the enemy lines? That’s a lot of machines to get past.”

　Too many machines. There were only two of these androids. No, scratch that. Now more figures in black were making their way inside. Four more, all smaller than the first two.

　Still, a squad of six wasn’t remotely enough to break through the enemy perimeter.

　“Plenty of ’em out there, sure. But most of the types you got around here are real pushovers.” It was the first one―the one who had come tumbling in with the explosion―who replied. He seemed very pleased with himself as he made the announcement.

　The second android―the hooded one―proceeded to take his companion down a notch.

　“Remind me: who was it that almost got cornered by a swarm of those pushovers? Maybe if you could admit your screw-ups, you’d learn something from them.”

　“Excuse me?!”

　The two larger androids seemed ready to go for each other’s throats. Surprisingly, it was Lotus who stepped in to defuse the situation.

　“Hey! Hello, hi! A question, if I may. Are you saying you dispatched the enemies you came across on your way in?”

　“That’s right. Cleared the whole area. Sent the unlucky bastards flyin’ left and right.”

　I saw, for the briefest moment, a furrow cross Lotus’s brow. But I didn’t have time to puzzle out his thoughts as yet another black-clad visitor arrived. From the way this last one held himself, I could tell he was in charge, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t wearing a blindfold like the others.

　“Everyone unharmed?” His voice was crisp.

　The captain sensed the aura of leadership, too. He piped up with, “Yes, and you are?”

　I could tell Cactus was trying as hard as he could to project his own air of authority. Unfortunately for his attempt, he was still huddled in his corner.

　“M Squadron,” the leader announced. “We’re a team composed of new YoRHa-type models, here to provide assistance. ”

　Lotus tried to interject with an “Um . . .” but was ignored by both our captain and the leader of this M-whatever.

　“You’re here to rescue us?” the captain asked.

　“That’s correct. We picked up your distress signal.”

　One of the shorter black-clad soldiers―er, rather, “YoRHa models”―poked his head out from behind his commander.

　“And it wasn’t easy. You wouldn’t believe what we went through to get here.”

　He was smiling as he said it, but something about his tone felt accusatory. I found myself scrambling to deflect the blame.

　“It wasn’t us,” I said.

　“Huh?”

　“The signal. We aren’t the ones sending it. It’s coming from this thing.”

　All of us―or, all of us with the exception of Lotus―turned our attention to the container. Lotus stuck doggedly to the captain’s side, fidgeting and continuing to throw out the occasional “Erm . . .” and “Um . . .” The captain, of course, ignored him.

　Cactus’s priority was to cement the claim he’d staked on the container. “Oh! But, uh, see . . . we discovered the object. It’s obviously very valuable, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to split the spoils with you. But, um, I guess if you just want to look at it, we could consider allowing you to do so.”

　I had no idea why the captain felt like he was in any position to put up a front. For their part, the strangers didn’t seem to find him the least bit intimidating―though I supposed we were just lucky that they didn’t take offense. They walked over to examine the container as if permission had never been an issue to consider.

　“ID number . . . 219432D, it looks like.”

　The leader read out the tiny number inscribed on one surface of the container. We’d seen it, too; for a while, we’d hoped it was a clue to solving the passcode needed to open the thing, but it hadn’t gotten us anywhere.

　“Don’t bother,” I said. “Thing won’t open. We even tried to force the lid, and it didn’t budge. Whatever the hell it’s made out of, it can sure take a beating.”

　“ID number 219432D.”

　My helpful advice went unheeded. The guy simply recited the number again while standing in front of the crate, as if beginning some kind of fancy voice activation sequence.

　“Requesting unlock. Identify voice signature: YoRHa M Squadron, Instructor Black.”

　So the leader’s name was “Black.” Hmph. Couldn’t have been any more on the nose if you tried. And apparently he was some kind of instructor, to boot.

　A new voice emanated from the crate itself. “Voice signature confirmed. Commencing unlock procedure.”

　“H-hold on . . . ! What did you just do?!”

　The captain’s attempt at an authoritative demeanor slipped into flustered confusion. Normally, I’d have found it funny. But I wasn’t laughing this time. I was just as confounded as the captain. What was going on?

　There was a hiss, and white smoke trickled from the seams in the container’s exterior. The panel slid open, and something fell out. Something humanoid and dressed all in black. It happened so quickly, it took me a second to process. The new arrival seemed to be unconscious; he lay facedown on the ground, completely motionless.

　“That’s YoRHa gear!” one of the strangers exclaimed.

　“Is this soldier one of yours?” the captain demanded, his voice uncharacteristically forceful. “Who exactly are you YoRHa units?!”

　“It’s him . . . He’s here . . . No. 2 Type D . . .”

　Now it was this Instructor Black guy who was stumbling over his words. You’d think recovering a lost comrade would be a cause for celebration. Instead, his reaction seemed almost conflicted. I took it to mean that there was something unusual about the guy they’d recovered.

　“Umm . . . !”

　Lotus was still at it.

　“Enough!” I shouted. “Can’t you see we’ve got bigger things to deal with than whatever you’re on about?!”

　I was getting pretty sick of his constant mumbling. I figured a few sharp words would be enough to shut him up, but my attention had the opposite effect.

　“Yes, yes,” he began prattling on, more frantic than ever. “I can see you’re all quite busy, but I really do think we ought to reassess the most pressing issue at hand. I have what could very well be a matter of great importance. Very great. And you do like to emphasize the value of good communication, yes, Phlox? I admit, I tend to get wrapped up in my collection. So many fascinating parts, you see. Quite easy for the need to relay information to slip my mind. Still, this particular thought does seem quite pertinent. A time to be proactive, really. Get everyone up to speed, so to speak. Yes, so that’s why I’d very much like to―”

　Seemed I’d hit the wrong switch. It’d be almost impossible to shut him up now.

　“Fine! Whatever!” I pleaded. “We’re listening, so what is it?”

　A faint noise filled the air―an unusual sound, like the beating wings of a swarm of insects. I wasn’t sure if I was really hearing it or if it was my imagination. But I didn’t have time to think about it. Lotus thrust a finger toward the first of the so-called YoRHa units to arrive―the one that came barreling in with the explosion.

　“That one! The one in black! Erm . . . I suppose they’re all in black,” Lotus hesitated. “The, um, the one with the short hair and shorter temper. He said it himself.”

　Lotus’s words, as usual, were poorly chosen. The specified android was understandably upset, and he took a threatening step toward Lotus.

　“What did you just say about me?”

　But Lotus wasn’t the least bit perturbed. If anything, it was those of us watching the scene unfold that were the most on edge. Lotus probably didn’t even register the man’s words as a threat.

　“‘Sent the unlucky bastards flying left and right.’ That’s what he said, yes?”

　“And what of it?”

　“Phlox, Captain Cactus, and I have spent nearly three full days holed up and surrounded. We’ve been very cautious. Established a threshold. Never destroy more than a few machines at once.”

　“Sounds like a hell of a lot of trouble to go to. Why bother?” This question came from the hooded man.

　“Mm, yes, well, in areas with a high concentration of machine lifeforms, any extremes in action tend to get one noticed. Marked, even. By the enemy forces, of course.”

　Oh no. How had I forgotten? We’d even had a serious discussion about it when our situation became clear. We needed to observe a careful limit on takedowns to avoid drawing attention. It was precisely why we were stuck, unable to fight our way home.

　The strange noise I’d been unable to place returned to the forefront of my mind. It most certainly wasn’t my imagination.

　“What do you mean, ‘marked’?” the hooded android asked.

　“Yes, well, there are a number of possible patterns. But when the enemy forces suspect the presence of an android squadron of significant strength, then based on existing experience, collected data, and so on and so forth, we know they have a particular penchant for bombs. Wide-area aerial bombardment, specifically.”

　This was bad. The buzzing sound grew louder. Now it was something I definitely recognized. Enemy bombers, inbound on our position.

　“Ah! The sound you hear now, yes? I believe this perfectly illustrates my point.”

　Lotus pointed up at the cave’s ceiling. Now there was a sudden, intermittent whooshing sound coming from overhead. Dozens upon dozens of enemy units. By the time we realized the bombs were falling, it was too late. Everything had gone dark.

[Log Entry: Lotus / Mountain Zone―Cave]

It’s been a while since I’ve had such a restful sleep.

　I must have been down for quite an extended period. My neck is still cracking and popping with every movement.

　What was it I’d been working on?

　Let’s see . . . It must have been . . . Ah, yes! The autoturrets. The design still needed improvement. I’d decided I’d very much like to see their range extended. They really ought to be able to fire just a teensy bit further.

　Time to get back to work, then. Erm . . . Oh dear. Oh dear, indeed. Just look at this part. All twisted and warped. Well, I suppose it would be. Lots of wear and tear near the barrel. Yes, yes. All those rapid temperature fluctuations to contend with, too. But we can’t simply leave it. No. Not like this. The whole turret will suffer. Terrible reduction in accuracy. That won’t do at all. I suppose I ought to start here, then. Improved range won’t mean a thing if it never gets a hit off!

　Now, the simplest solution is a more robust part. I could alter its shape, yes, or select a different material. But if I alter the shape, hrmm . . . I’d have to run the numbers all over again, wouldn’t I? And oh what a bother that would be. No. It absolutely must fit perfectly in place. Even the slightest gap could produce such nasty vibrations. It could throw the whole turret into disarray. Yes, so a change in materials it is, then. Fashion the same shape out of something new. Yes, yes. That’s the sound and simple approach.

　But then, what material to use? Quite a demanding set of specifications. Is there nothing in my collection that’s up to the task? But I had such a big haul! A big catch! How can there not be a single item that meets my needs? Augh! Emptiness among such vast riches! What irony!

　I really must resolve this as quickly as possible. I suppose that means venturing outside yet again. More searching. More collecting. But what if I’m unable to locate the remains of a suitable machine? Does any such material exist in the types lurking near our cave?

　Ouch! What was that? It felt like something hit me on the head . . .

　Hrmmm?

　I-I don’t believe it! A machine part! And its makeup, why, it’s perfectly suited for my needs!

　And . . . is that another part over there? And one over here, too? What in the world?! Here’s another! And another one over there! I don’t believe it! Is such expediency possible?

　Well, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This is big. A big catch! Big haul! Big trove of treasures! My autoturrets will shoot farther and more accurately than ever before. And they’ll be energy efficient, too!

　Hrm?

　But wait. Wait, wait, wait. Assuming I first go with the . . . and then the . . .

　Yes. Of course. It can be even better than I imagined! I’ll just have to make some adjustments. I’ll move that like so, and then tinker a bit with this . . .

　Ah, my heart races at the thought! Modding machines is the greatest thing ever!

　And there are so many more mods I’d like to make. But alas, this area doesn’t have the number of machines I’d need to make it happen. Or, rather, it’s not an issue of population. It’s the imposed limit: I can only harvest so many. Too many units down all at once, and we could find our whole location marked for bombardment. Wouldn’t like that. No, no. Why, just a few moments ago . . .

　Hrm? What, what? It feels like I’m on the verge of remembering something. Something important. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but―

　“Dearest Loootus!”

　Hm? What was that? Someone calling my name? Why, that looks like a . . .

　Whaaat?!

　Machines! A whole horde of them!

　I’m done for! They’ll tear me to parts!

　“Dearest Loootus!”

　Preposterous! The machines! They’re . . . speaking?! What an astounding evolutionary―

　No! That’s not the issue right now! Why are they calling me their dearest?! Why are they sidling up beside me?!

　“Dearest Lotus! We need you. ♥ Hurry up and mod us. ♥”

　There are so many of them! Little ones! Medium ones! Big ones! Flying ones! Every type of machine I could imagine, right here before my eyes! And they’re baring everything―they’ve got their brain unit compartments popped right open, as if inviting me inside. They’re telling me to take a peek. To look anywhere I like. To, erm . . . touch them, if I wish!

　I-it’s like that thing I read about in human civilization! The harem trope! A cast of tempting morsels all circled around an inexplicably irresistible main character!

　 . . . Oh dear.

　Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

　No! Stop! This isn’t right! Reality isn’t supposed to work like this. I’m certain of it!

　I need to set them straight!

　“Ahem! Excuse me, but . . . that language is not appropriate. A machine would never say things like that. Do you hear me?!”

　They’re machines! Not human girls! Most certainly not!

　“dEArEst . . . LoTuS . . . dEaReSt LoTUs . . . mOd us. PLeaSe!”

　This! This is exactly what I’m talking about! This suggestive language! This power disparity! Do they not see it?! This is the problem!

　 . . . Well, now. With that settled, which one of these delicious little units shall I mod first? I could start by taking the sights from that flying model, or perhaps the brain unit from this mid-sized cutie . . .

　“pICk me! I wAnt tO Be mODdEd, tOO!”

　“mE fIRst!”

　“No! i wANt To bE fIrST!”

　Ah, this is the life. Not like when those ruffians in black showed up. What a nuisance. Wiping out every single machine lifeform in the vicinity of our cave, ensuring our location would be marked and bombed to smithereens.

　Finally, I’ve found true happiness. It’s so perfect, in fact, it’s almost like a dr . . .

　Hm?

　Marked by the enemy?

　Bombed to smithereens?

　Erm . . .

　Yes, on second thought, this entire situation does seem a little too expedient. All the hallmarks of indulgent slumber.

　 . . . No. No, no, no! I refuse! This cannot be a dream. I forbid it! I will not wake up from this. I swear it on my life!

　Just look at all these pretty machines gathered around me. So many of them, and they’re all . . . all gone? Hm? Honestly? Is this really a dream?

　Wait! Just one! That’s all I ask! Let me mod one single machine before I wake up! Pleeeeease!

　“Grngh! Nooooo!”

　 . . . I looked around to find myself in the cave. I’d awoken to the sound of my own yelling.

　Drat.

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Mountain Zone―Cave Ruins]

“Do we have to? My uniform’s gonna get dirt all over it.”

　It sounded like No. 6’s voice. But I couldn’t see. Everything was dark. Pitch black. Was I dreaming? Had I actually heard anything at all? My chest felt a bit tight. It was hard to breathe.

　A vague thought formed in my mind.

　You’d think a dream could at least be pleasant.

　“Ah. You’re alive, too. How very nice. Yes, yes.”

　“Yeah. Guess the cave wasn’t at the epicenter of the bombing.”

　“Oh, is that so? Hmm. Quite fortunate.”

　Now I was sure the voices I heard were real. This wasn’t a dream. No. 6 was speaking with one of the Resistance members we’d encountered. What was his name? Lotus, or something like that.

　“And the rest of your companions? What about them?”

　“Beats me.”

　“Beats you . . . ? Aren’t you concerned for their safety?” This new voice belonged to another Resistance member we’d met. Phlox.

　It was all starting to come back to me. We’d finally made it to the source of the distress signal, only for the whole area to get blasted by enemy forces. Everything after that was a blank.

　“Doesn’t really make a difference, does it? I can be concerned all I want, but if they’re dead, they’re dead, and if they’re alive, they’re alive.”

　I’m alive! Right over here! I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t make the words come out. My arms and legs wouldn’t budge. It was as if they were frozen in place. No. Not frozen. Stuck. The reality of my situation finally dawned on me. The cave had partially collapsed, and I’d been buried alive in the rubble.

　“No. 9. Can you hear me?”

　It was the instructor. Suddenly, I felt my body being tugged free. Air rushed violently into my mouth and nose, so much so that it left me in a coughing fit.

　When the fit subsided, I was finally able to respond.

　“Y . . . yes, sir. Th-thank you.”

　The inside of my mouth was rough with grit.

　“No. 4. Keep up the search for the rest of our squad,” the instructor ordered.

　“Yes, sir.”

　I looked around. No. 3, No. 21, and No. 22 were nowhere to be found. I was filled with the urge to join in the search, but I was unable to stand. A considerable length of time seemed to have passed since the bombing. My joints were painfully stiff and my body was uncomfortably cold.

　“You wouldn’t happen to know where our captain is, would you?” Phlox asked.

　“Yeah. He’s lazing about somewhere around here.”

　“Ah, good. So he’s safe.”

　As I listened to the exchange between Phlox and the instructor, I managed to get my arms and legs to move by small degrees. My body ached all over.

　“Captain! Captain, wake up! It’s morning!” Phlox called.

　Cactus continued to snore away happily.

　Lotus intervened.

　“No, no. That won’t suffice. Not at all,” he said, picking up a large stone from the cave floor.

　Oh, no. He wasn’t planning to . . .

　Was he?

　Phlox exclaimed, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Lotus!”

　“Dieeeee!” Lotus screamed.

　It was as I’d feared. Lotus aimed the stone right at Cactus’s forehead, his arm sweeping down. It happened so quickly, none of us were able to step in.

　I felt positive that, had the captain been human, the assault would have claimed his life.

　“Ngaaah!”

　Instead, Cactus sprang awake with a shriek of pain.

　“Lotus!” he shouted. “What’d you do that for?! Ever heard of being gentle? And I could’ve sworn I heard you scream ‘Die!’ You did, didn’t you?!”

　When the captain pressed him to answer, Lotus blithely admitted, “Why, yes. I believe I did.”

　I began to suspect the three of them might forever be beyond my comprehension.

　“Now, now, captain. We have guests, remember? The YoR-whatever Squad.”

　“YoRHa Squadron,” the instructor corrected. He seemed exasperated, as if he’d already had to say it many times over.

　A shout from No. 4 drew our attention.

　“Found No. 2!” he called.

　I got to my feet. I was still shaky, but I managed to stand. And now I remembered: there’d been another. Just before the bombing commenced, we’d made contact with the seventh member of our squadron, designated No. 2. Another senior M001 unit.

　“No. 9. Prep him for activation.”

　“Right away, sir!”

　I hurried to No. 2’s side. My joints creaked and protested with the sudden movement, but I tried to put it out of mind.

　No. 2’s body was caked in mud. I knelt down beside him and began checking him over. I couldn’t have said whether it was because he’d been buried or because he was in suspend mode, but his limbs were even colder than mine.

　As I performed my duties, I overheard No. 4 speaking with the instructor.

　“Sir, if I could ask, who exactly is this No. 2, anyway?”

　“The final member of YoRHa M Squadron.”

　I didn’t know very much about this new squadmate of ours, either, so I strained to hear the instructor’s response.

　“No. 2 Type D,” he continued. “A defense-oriented model. Initially, he was scheduled to descend as part of M001. His calibrations were taking more time than expected, however, so Command decided to send him down later. By the look of things, he must have been en route aboard a transport, and the enemy intercepted and took it down, forcing No. 2 to board an escape pod. I assume that’s how he ended up here.”

　“So this guy’s definitely one of yours?” Cactus interrupted.

　The instructor didn’t seem to mind. “That’s correct.”

　He added, “Sorry to disappoint. Turns out your find wasn’t full of treasure after all.”

　Cactus shook his head in disappointment. “Damn. Just our luck . . . We had big plans. Sell the contents off, make bank, and go retire in luxury somewhere far away from any machines.”

　Now that I was aware of the three Resistance members’ plan, I was glad we’d fought our way in. I wouldn’t have wanted No. 2 to be sold off.

　“Sir, No. 2 is ready to boot.” I announced.

　His limbs were still cold, and there were a number of scratches across his frame, perhaps suggesting he’d been jostled around inside the pod on impact. But his condition wasn’t so severe as to interfere with the activation sequence. Once he was up and running, it wouldn’t take him long to recover, either.

　“Activating now.”

　No. 2’s body jerked as if shocked by a violent surge of electricity. He began to cough and hack. And then, before I knew it, he was on his feet, scanning the surroundings, seemingly ready to take on any imminent threat. The speed with which he moved reminded me of No. 6’s agility.

　“Where am I?” he asked.

　He continued to look about, wary of the unfamiliar location. If his transport really had been shot down, I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. It was hard to say at what point he’d lost consciousness, but regardless, he’d almost certainly been surrounded by the enemy and in dire straits immediately prior to entering suspend mode.

　The instructor replied, “A cave in the northwest sector of the Mountain Zone. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

　“Are you are?”

　“Assembled before you are the members of YoRHa M Squadron. I am Instructor Black, the squadron’s commanding officer.”

　No. 2’s eyes widened slightly. Yeah, I’d have been just as surprised. His escape pod would have been launched in the general direction of our base camp, and it had been broadcasting a distress signal. All the right pieces were in place for us to eventually link up. But that said, the arc of potential landing sites for the escape pod still encompassed a vast area. To wake up and find your squadmates standing in front of you would seem like an extraordinary stroke of good luck―and an event of extremely low probability.

　“I’m guessing your transport must have been shot down en route. Is that right? We’re going run a check on your vitals and scan for any trace of a logic virus just to be safe. No. 9, get to it.”

　“Yes, sir!”

　As soon as I’d responded, the instructor turned to address No. 4.

　“I’m still not seeing the rest of the team. What’s the holdup, No. 4? We’re YoRHa units. It’s going to take more than a few falling rocks to wipe us out.”

　“It’d be a lot easier if we had our Scanner around, sir.”

　The instructor began to look about the cave. He shouted, “No. 21! Do you hear me?”

　A faint groan came from a short distance away. “Over . . . here . . . sir.”

　The voice was hoarse, but it was definitely that of No. 21. I breathed a sigh of relief.

　“Are you injured?”

　“My leg seems a little off . . .”

　“No. 9, go take a look.”

　“Right away, sir,” I replied. But I’d barely begun treating No. 2. What was I supposed to do?

　No. 2 picked up on my hesitation. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “This, uh . . . No. 21, was it? Go ahead and attend to him first.”

　It seemed our newest squadmate was a very kind-hearted individual. I bowed my head slightly in a mixture of appreciation and apology, then hurried over to No. 21’s side.

　“I’m going to be touching your leg now,” I informed him. “Tell me where it hurts.”

　No. 21 nodded. I very slowly worked my way along his limb. It was smeared with mud, but fortunately it didn’t seem to show any obvious lacerations or breaks. I pressed down carefully, inch by inch, watching my patient for any reaction. I started with the ankle, carefully bending it back and forth. Nothing. Next came the knee. No. 21 grimaced. He must have been in a great deal of pain; I knew from experience that he didn’t so much as wince for mild or even moderate injuries.

　“This is no time to act tough,” I chided. “If there’s pain, you have to tell me.”

　“ . . . Yeah. I know, I know.”

　“Does it hurt when I do this?”

　“A little bit.”

　It was as I feared. His frame was significantly damaged, which would impair his motor functions. This was a major issue. The kinds of parts I’d need to repair it were all the way back at base camp. There was only so much I could do for him in the field.

　I turned to address the instructor. “Sir! In regard to No. 21’s leg, I’ve provided makeshift repairs, but unfortunately, a full recovery will require replacements that I don’t have access to out here.”

　“Understood. No. 21, in your current condition, are you able to run scans for us?”

　“I’m ready to go, sir,” No. 21 answered, struggling to his feet. I hurriedly slipped my shoulder under one of his arms to help him keep the weight off his damaged knee. The more he used it, the worse the pain would get.

　“It’s okay to sit this out, No. 21,” I pleaded.

　“I’ll . . . be fine.” His voice and expression were obviously strained.

　As he began his scan, I saw a faint sheen of sweat appear across his brow. We still hadn’t located No. 3 or No. 22. That was probably why No. 21 was so intent on fulfilling his duty despite the pain.

　“I’m detecting faint black box signals . . . One there . . . and another over there.” He raised an arm to point out the locations as he spoke.

　“But . . .” he added, only to falter and fall silent.

　I knew I wasn’t the only one who could guess the words he was unwilling to say. The instructor, No. 4, and No. 6 would have all understood, too.

　“No. 6 and No. 4, get them out of the debris.”

　“And what, No. 9’s just gonna sit there and watch? That’s real fair,” No. 6 complained.

　The instructor came to my defense. “You two are Attackers. You’ll dig more efficiently with your superior strength.”

　Still, I understood No. 6’s feelings.

　“I’d like to help!” I announced.

　I might not make a big difference, but right now, every minute counted. We needed to get our squadmates free as soon as possible. I reached down to begin lifting handfuls of cold earth away. The sensation reminded me of my own chill prison of just moments ago. I shuddered involuntarily. It wasn’t right to allow our comrades to remain buried under the earth any longer. And there was another reason for my discomfort: I had a feeling we weren’t going to like what we found.

　No. 6 and I managed to pull No. 3 free from the fallen dirt and rocks, while No. 4 got No. 22 loose. Both bodies were limp. They hadn’t moved in the slightest as the rubble was cleared away. My premonition had been correct.

　“Assessing black box status,” I said, checking each recovered squadmate over. “ . . . It appears they’ve both gone into emergency shutdown.”

　No. 21 had been anxiously peering over my shoulder as I worked. At my words, his features stiffened. No. 6 let out a very audible sigh, and No. 4 just looked at the ground in silence.

　Cactus watched, a perplexed expression on his own face.

　“What’s the problem?” he asked. “Aren’t you gonna fix these two up? Y’know, reboot ’em real quick, just like you did for the other guy.”

　I only wished it were that simple. A quick reboot, and No. 3 and No. 22 back with us, good as new. That’d be nice. Nothing in the world would have made me happier at that moment.

　“You don’t get it, do you?” No. 6 replied, giving an exaggerated shrug.

　“The black box is a critical part of our system. It’s like our heart. When it goes into emergency shutdown, we enter safe mode and all our functions cease.”

　“Well, what’s so different about the fella you pulled out of the crate? He wasn’t moving much.”

　“No. 2 was just in suspend mode, awaiting reactivation. That’s totally different from an emergency shutdown. No. 3 and No. 22 aren’t getting any power to their brain units right now. That means their memory banks have gone unstable.”

　“Their memory is starting to fail? Won’t they die if that happens?”

　“Well, that’s how it works for a normal android . . . Hey, No. 9? When you’re done with your chores over there, try and bring them up to speed. I’m kinda sick of explaining this stuff.”

　And with that, No. 6 turned away from Cactus and the others. I continued working on my “chores” in silence. First, I needed to get No. 3’s self-repair routine operating at max speed. Then I needed to disable his black box’s safe mode. And after that, the list just went on . . .

　It took a while, but eventually I was done. No. 3 sprang up as if he’d been pinched. He coughed violently just as No. 2 had, shoulders heaving up and down with each spasm.

　When he’d caught his breath, he demanded, “The time! How many hours?!”

　It was the same exchange we had every time I revived him. I read aloud from the display on my SSU.

　“Thirty-five hours and thirty-two minutes.”

　“Shit! It’s been that long?!”

　He slammed a fist against the ground. Cactus looked on with the same perplexed expression as before. Of course he had no idea what this was about, and neither did his comrades Phlox or Lotus, so to them, No. 3’s preoccupation with the time and his violent reaction would seem bizarre.

　“But you’re back with us, yes?” Cactus asked. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

　“It has to do with a new feature present in YoRHa units,” I explained. “Something that hasn’t been seen in androids before. You see, we’re able to back up our consciousness data.”

　“What do you mean, your ‘consciousness data’?”

　“Memories, combat proficiencies, personal quirks . . . things like that.”

　In other words, everything that made us who we were. The essence of our selves.

　“As the squad Healer, I’m responsible for backing up each member’s data and periodically uploading it to our command server.”

　“But doesn’t that mean you can fix ’em? I still don’t see the reason for all the long faces.”

　The backup process involved encoding each squad member’s personal qualities and sending it to the Bunker’s server, where it would be stored. That way, even if we ran into unforeseen circumstances on the surface and lost our own internal memories, we could always download the backup for reinsertion, and everything would be restored just the way it was. Or that’s how I’d assumed the process would work, until my squadmates actually began dying.

　“If only it were that simple,” No. 21 said, quietly shaking his head. He continued to gaze at No. 22’s still form as he spoke.

　“The backup process takes time, and in order to upload it to the server, we need a strong and stable signal.”

　“Well, yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” Cactus conceded. “It does sounds like an awful lot of data.”

　“That means a good stretch of time without any enemy attacks or interruptions to the connection. Two conditions that aren’t even common on their own, much less together. The last time I was able to run a complete backup was thirty-five hours ago.”

　“Ah!” Lotus chimed in, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So they’ll have lost all memory of everything that occurred in the interim, yes? A thirty-five hour window of amnesia, so to speak?”

　Strictly as a definition of what occurred, it wasn’t inaccurate. But there was more to it than that.

　I continued with No. 22’s reactivation procedure. I disengaged the black box’s safe mode and began reinstalling his consciousness. How many times had I been through this process? How many times had I witnessed their anguish on reawakening to the world?

　When No. 22 stirred, his twin clasped his hand and exclaimed, “No. 22! Are you all right?!”

　“I’m . . .”

　How many times had I witnessed the sadness that clouded their faces once they realized what had happened?

　“It’s not amnesia,” I said to Cactus. “It’s more than that. It’s like undoing everything they experienced. For No. 3 and No. 22, the past thirty-five hours never happened. That data is gone. Erased. Lost forever to the world.”

　Thirty-five hours between my most recent backup and the moment they were revived. Thirty-five hours. It wasn’t a trivial span of time. Nothing they experienced or felt during that period remained with them.

　It was why No. 3 kept telling me I could “quit with the ‘sir’ business.” He’d never remember all the times he said it. It was why No. 22 kept wondering aloud about the names of the same birds he’d seen flitting among the trees countless times before. And I felt certain I’d hear those things again. Because I was the only one who remembered.

　“In other words,” I continued, “you can restore the memories, but the person who is revived isn’t the same as the one who died.”

　“And lemme tell you, this sure as hell isn’t the first time any of us have died,” No. 4 muttered. As he said it, the shadow over his downcast eyes seemed to deepen.

　Also erased from their minds were the fear that preceded death and the agony they suffered the moment it closed in. And it was precisely because they couldn’t retain that knowledge that I suspected something else might be building up inside them. Each time the squadron was inserted into a new battlefield only to be completely annihilated, I could see their expressions grow a shade darker, a hint more grim.

　They were unaware of what they had lost, yet they knew that something was gone. I imagined it must have felt like having a hole inside oneself―one that opened to an impenetrable blackness.

　“Sure isn’t,” No. 6 agreed. “Killed and brought back to life who knows how many times over the past two months. The whole lot of us.”

　Though he said “the whole lot of us,” I knew the expression didn’t include me. To ensure everyone else could come back to life, it was imperative that I not be struck down. I would never die. It was the heavy burden of duty that I alone was fated to bear.

[Log Entry: No. 3 / Mountain Zone―Cave Vicinity]

When we headed out of the half-collapsed cave, we found a half-collapsed mountain. Before, the peak had been pretty impressive. Now, there was a giant gouge in the landscape. It brought new meaning to the concept of ground zero; a few meters closer and the cave we’d been hiding out in wouldn’t have been half-collapsed.

　At least the fireworks show had cleared the area of enemy units―for the time being, anyway. They’d be back soon enough.

　“Why’s every place they send us to gotta end up lookin’ like a damn wasteland?” I muttered.

　This time around, a twist of luck had left us alive to tell the tale. I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or not.

　“Surrounded by the enemy just like on every op, and this time we’re short on parts for repairs and dragged down by a bunch of worthless Resistance members to boot.”

　Normally, I wasn’t much for complaining, but when you were knee-deep in shit, it was hard not to grumble.

　“And to top it off, we gotta welcome some mystery recruit to the outfit.”

　No. 4 flicked his gaze toward me and said, “Mystery recruit, huh? I assume you mean No. 2.” From his expression, I could tell he had an opinion or two to share about my thoughts.

　He added, “He’s been scheduled for assignment to the squad since the beginning, y’know. He’s not some stranger.”

　“Dammit, you know that’s not what I meant!”

　I should’ve known better than to mutter my complaints in front of the wrong guy. Now I had to explain what I meant, and I had to find a way to make it so simple that even a guy dumber than a rock could understand. What a pain in my ass.

　“I’m talkin’ about being squadmates or brothers-in-arms. Y’know, eatin’ outta the same pot or whatever. Not that we actually got any pots to begin with, but . . . You get what I’m sayin’, right?”

　Count back and you’d find that two whole months had passed since the lot of us formed up into M Squadron. Two months spent blowing shit up together created a certain kind of bond among us. We were comrades now. I’d come to realize that scrawny No. 22 had a pretty steady arm on him, and No. 21’s intel was always solid. My ass had been saved by No. 9 who knew how many times, and even No. 6 did all right, for all his goddamn attitude.

　But now this No. 2 character was thrown into the mix. Not back at the Bunker, not at base camp, but right here in the field, popping outta some creepy crate like a science experiment.

　“The six of us have a good thing goin’, and now we gotta throw in some outside element so tiny that it’s like it’s not even there. But it is. Do you get it now?”

　“No. I don’t.”

　I gave a massive sigh. Of course he didn’t. No. 4 couldn’t read a room even if the instructions were painted on the walls.

　It occurred to me that of all the squadron’s members, No. 4 might be the hardest one to wrap my head around. The hell was his deal? Deciding he was gonna let me have the Attacker spot even though he claimed he was better at the job? And then he says he did it ’cause we gotta have the best people we can get in every role? His reasoning didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

　Ugh. Time to quit bitching. I wasn’t going to figure out No. 4 any time soon, or ever, and I needed to focus now. Just as I had that thought, I heard someone calling from behind.

　“Hey! Hey, wait up!”

　I turned to look. It was the Resistance’s, uh . . . their captain, or whatever. Cactus, I think he said his name was. With him was another one of their guys. Phlox, or something like that. Yeah, that sounded right. The two of them were rushing up to us.

　No. 4 stopped and asked, “What’s the trouble? Got something you need?”

　Typical. Real class act, that No. 4. If he ever spoke politely to someone, I’d probably die from shock.

　“No trouble. We just, uh, feel kinda bad. Thought we could at least give you a hand with the scouting. A little thanks for saving our behinds, y’know?”

　The way he said it, you’d have thought scouting was supposed to be easy. But it wasn’t like the machines just waved little flags to show you where they were. You had to find the damn things.

　Honestly, the Resistance members would just get in our way. So I gave them a decisive shake of the head.

　“We got this. YoRHa models are the latest and greatest. You just sit back and relax. Catch some Z’s back in the cave.”

　“C’mon, now. That’s a little harsh,” No. 4 interjected.

　That was the last thing I wanted to hear from a bolthead like him. But before I could tell No. 4 off, Phlox piped up with, “No worries. You’re obviously much stronger than us. If we tried to take down one of the bigger machines around these parts, we’d probably be fighting all day.”

　Well, look at that! Someone able to own up to his shortcomings. I kinda liked this guy.

　“Takin’ down machines is what we do,” I replied. “It’s what YoRHa was designed for. And as an Attacker, I guess you could say I’m the strongest of the bunch. No need to be embarrassed relyin’ on us. We’re happy to help.”

　Not to mention, we were sworn to assist and fight alongside any androids we came across in the field. Seemed like a good enough reason to me to keep them safe.

　“You’ll have to excuse my comrade. He knows how to handle himself in a fight, but he falls a bit short in the intellect department.”

　“You wanna say that again?!” I shouted back.

　But Cactus interrupted before I could really set No. 4 straight.

　“I should point out, it’s not our first time around the block. The Resistance hasn’t been carrying on the fight for however many hundred years just for optics, and I’d say what we lack in strength, we more than make up for in experience. It wouldn’t be wise to disregard that.”

　“Experience? Like what?”

　“Y’know. The knowledge we’ve built up over the years. The focused training. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

　A little bit of this and that? What the hell was this guy talking about? I was lost.

　And then, while I was busy trying to wrap my brain around it, Phlox started apologizing for some reason.

　“Hey, let’s just forget it,” he said. “I’ll be the first to admit our captain’s a coward. He just can’t stand being shown up, so he feels like he has to argue a bit.”

　“What do you mean he’s a coward?!” I demanded. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Phlox! He’s your superior officer! Treat him with the respect he deserves!”

　He shot me a sardonic smile. Ah. Now that was a feeling I could relate to. I totally understood what he was getting at. Apparently this Cactus guy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. The kinda guy who didn’t have a lot going on upstairs, but you couldn’t hold that against him.

　“All right. I gotcha. You can tag along. Just don’t push yourselves too hard, hear?”

　I didn’t know exactly why, but I’d started feeling a kind of camaraderie with the Resistance members. I clapped a hand on Cactus’s shoulder.

　Suddenly, No. 4 had his handgun up at the ready. Had he spotted an enemy?

　“Stay sharp, No. 3. Machine inbound. Looks like a scout.”

　Even without his warning, I’d have figured it out. My visor display was soon flashing a hostile signature.

　“I see it. You don’t have to tell me,” I grumbled.

　I began sprinting in the direction indicated by my HUD. There! Dead ahead. It was a pretty hefty-looking one. And a flier, to boot.

　I slammed into it with my sword. I wasn’t about to let the thing have the spare moment it’d need to shift into attack mode.

　“Another on your right!” No. 4 yelled.

　Oh, so this machine wasn’t working alone, huh? Invited a buddy along to play?

　“Yeah, I see it.”

　I knocked the next machine down, then just for good measure, kicked it as hard as I could. It went spiraling through the air. Time to go bye-bye. You and your buddy can have a nice nap!

　“Hmph. I guess that about covers it,” I said, sheathing my sword and preparing to rejoin the two Resistance members. But something didn’t feel right. I heard a rustle, like movement in the brush.

　“Another one?! Where the hell were you hiding?!”

　It was long and skinny, like some kinda snake or centipede or something, and it was bearing down fast. I reached for my sword. This was gonna be close . . . or . . . no, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna draw in time!

　Just as despair washed over me, the third machine exploded into pieces. The thing had been right in my face.

　“How many times am I gonna have to say it before it sinks in? You’ve gotta stop letting your attention wander every time you finish something off.”

　Seemed No. 4 had been the one to take out my assailant.

　“Yeah, yeah,” I said.

　Way to ruin all my fun. So I’d goofed. Big deal.

　I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing No. 4’s smug face, so I made a point of not looking his way. I turned to the Resistance members instead and was met with a pained groan.

　“Auuugh! My back!”

　Cactus was sitting with his butt on the ground, one hand rubbing his lower back. Maybe that last machine had scared him, and he’d jerked back so suddenly it did a number on his spine.

　“Again?” Phlox asked. He looked exasperated as he ran over to Cactus’s side. “How many times have I warned you not to make sudden movements? Throw out your back once and it’ll bother you forever.”

　Cactus accepted the shoulder Phlox offered and managed to get to his feet, body still awkwardly hunched over. Oh, great. Did this geezer still want to tag along, looking the way he did now?

　“Captain, maybe you oughta head back, at least for today,” Phlox suggested.

　“Well, I really think . . .”

　“I can go along on the scouting operation.”

　To which No. 4 added, “Y’know, captain, one of our squadmates back at camp, No. 9, he’d be able to fix up a problem like that real quick. Go have him take a look at it.”

　Finally, Cactus seemed to give in.

　“Think you can get back by yourself, Cap?” Phlox asked.

　“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

　He tottered away. Or jerked with pain every step, really. The kinda pitiful shuffle I wouldn’t wanna be caught dead doing. Phlox’s eyes remained on his captain’s back. He was probably worried whether the guy would really make it back on his own.

　I figured Phlox must’ve felt the same way about the old man as I’d felt about the Resistance members. To him, having the captain around just meant feeling dragged down.

　“Seems like you got a lot to put up with,” I offered.

　A weird look crossed his face. I wasn’t sure how to describe it. Maybe it was kinda like the way you felt when there was a little bit of sand stuck in your boot, but you couldn’t get it out, and eventually, it somehow made it from your boots to the insides of your socks.

　“I know he doesn’t look like it now, but back in the day, the captain used to be a real fighter,” he replied.

　Guess I’d been wrong. Way off the mark. Oh well. Not like any of my expectations or guesses ever came true in the first place.

　“He’s a hero. A veteran of countless battles,” Phlox added.

　And then he started to share the story of Captain Cactus’s past or whatever.

Honestly, I found it all pretty hard to believe, considering the way the guy had just limped off hunched over in pain. But apparently Cactus was a real celebrity among the Resistance forces in this area.

　And that wasn’t all. He was a sort of legend, always fighting his way into locations filled with hundreds of machines and managing to survive the ordeal. I had to admit, it sounded a lot different from us and the way we got annihilated every single time we went out.

　Cactus’s popularity meant that soon enough, tons of soldiers were flocking to his command. I mean, of course they were. Nobody wants to die, and if there’s some captain out there who seems to make it out of every mess alive, well, that’s an easy choice to make. Fight alongside that guy, and you have a better chance of survival.

　Cactus’s command grew pretty sizeable in numbers, and as it did, he was racking up bigger and bigger victories on the battlefield. Pretty soon, wouldn’t you know it, expectations for the guy were through the roof.

　And then one day, he headed out with a handful of fresh faces on a recon op. Easy stuff. No danger expected. Perfect chance to let the rookies rack up some experience. Or so they thought.

　While they were out on the op, Cactus and the kids managed to tail a stray machine. It was a pathetic, rusty old thing. Didn’t give the slightest indication that it knew it was being followed. And lo and behold, the thing led them right to the enemy camp, which contained not only the majority of their forces, but their server, too.

　Cactus realized that this was his shot. If he could take the server down, every machine connected to that network would stop dead in its tracks. It’s a standard approach―as solid a play now as it was however many hundred years ago. Cactus was pumped.

　But it was a trap.

　The pathetic, rusty old machine; the concentrated forces; and the server itself were all bait. A tasty morsel left out in plain sight to lure in a particularly strong android squadron. And Cactus and his rookies gobbled it right up.

　Once they were deep inside enemy territory, a huge swarm of machines swept in from behind to block their exit. That was one of the enemy’s standard plays. They loved to do that.

　Being a scouting party, they didn’t have many units, and to make things even harder, the majority of them were rookies. They were outnumbered and outclassed. But Cactus, war hero of the ages, wasn’t going down without a fight. He fought them off tooth and nail and finally broke free of the enemy perimeter. Friendly squadrons raced in to his aid. They ended up finishing off the whole lot of those damn machines, and Cactus claimed victory once again.

　Only this time, it came at a high cost: the life of every rookie who was with him that day.

“We were so sure it’d be an easy day’s work, perfect for helping the new recruits find their feet,” Phlox said and shrugged. “We underestimated the machines.”

　Something about that look seemed kinda familiar.

　“The captain took it the hardest,” Phlox continued. “He was the only survivor from the scouting party. Just imagine. Your whole squad annihilated except for you.”

　Annihilation. It was the same thing our squad had been through, over and over and over and over again.

　“Anyway, maybe you can see why he is how he is now. He’s not a bad guy, honest.”

　Everyone else annihilated. The only one left standing. I had a pretty good idea how big a toll that took on a person’s mind. That time I’d been assigned as No. 9’s escort on the back lines, just looking at the poor kid was hard enough. It showed me real clear what he was going through.

　“I think right now he’s just feeling a little lost,” Phlox said, still talking about the captain. “He still wonders if there was some other way. Some better strategy he could’ve used.”

　Was there a way things could’ve gone different? I’d wondered the same thing a bunch of times. I hated dwelling on stuff like that, but it still stuck to my brain like old gum that couldn’t be scraped off. What if I’d done this or that? What if, what if, what if . . .

　My mind kept repeating those questions even though I knew no amount of thinking or puzzling would change what’d happened. It was probably the same for both Cactus and Phlox.

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Mountain Zone―Cave Ruins]

No. 21’s injuries, it turned out, were even more serious than I’d thought.

　“Nothing you can do, I take it?”

　“Yeah. No number of patches to your motor functions program will change the fact that your knee’s going to have to bear some of the weight.”

　From off to the side, No. 22 looked on with obvious concern. When it came to repair work, he was completely out of his element. But this time, the damage was so obvious, even he could tell how bad things were. His expression quickly clouded over.

　“Hey, you really need to take it easy, No. 21,” he said.

　Of course, he knew better than anyone that No. 21 wasn’t the type to take that advice willingly. Maybe No. 22 just felt compelled to say it out loud, even though he knew it might not make a difference.

　An obnoxious rattling noise interrupted my thoughts. I looked over to find Lotus drawing near. The whole time we’d been here, I’d only ever seen him doing one of two things: either poking at junk or staring at his tablet. Right now, it seemed he was doing the former. Except this time, he was pacing around while absorbed in his latest bits of garbage. I hoped he didn’t trip or walk into someone.

　He suddenly stopped and looked about.

　“Hrm? What happened to the captain?” he asked.

　“He went off with the others to scout the area for machines.”

　Though No. 21 had answered his question, Lotus made no effort to go looking for the captain. He merely sat down on the ground and began pulling scraps out of the box he was carrying. It occurred to me that he might not have had any interest in finding his captain in the first place.

　 “You new androids sure are strange,” he mumbled absently.

　I found it rather odd that an individual now stacking metal plates to form a haphazard tower should be the one to describe others as strange.

　“Really, I can’t see why you’d want to stick around here,” Lotus continued. “Why not just head home? Leave us deserters to our own devices.”

　So the three of them were deserters. I’d suspected as much. Three units wasn’t a full squad, so they probably hadn’t been dispatched to the area, and it didn’t seem like the bulk of their group’s forces were anywhere nearby.

　“YoRHa squadrons,” No. 21 replied, in an overly matter-of-fact way, “are sworn to assist and fight alongside any androids we come across in the field.”

　He tried to pass it off as something a duty-bound soldier might come up with, but he was actually just parroting word for word something the instructor had said before this mission began. In fact, it had been the instructor’s reply to No. 21’s own complaint; No. 21 had been grumbling that a rescue mission was impossible given our squad size and available equipment.

　“Listen,” No. 21 said, “tomorrow we’re ditching the cave and getting back out of enemy territory. And we’re taking you three with us.”

　“Oh? Well, that’s very brave. Do take care.”

　That seemed a little harsh. Lotus was talking like the matter didn’t even concern him.

　No. 21 seemed to have the same reaction. He lifted one eyebrow just slightly at Lotus’s latest declaration, then added, “Though, to be honest, I’ll be glad once we part ways. I never would’ve guessed there were Resistance members that scurry away from the enemy like cowards. Kinda grosses me out.”

　No. 21 was angry. Really angry.

　“I think that’s going a little far,” No. 22 said timidly. I was pretty sure this hesitant rejoinder had zero effect.

　Lotus, for his part, seemed unfazed. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you would,” he replied, as the metal plates in his busy hands continued to clink and rattle.

　Suddenly, he asked us, “Are you familiar with the lazy ant theory?”

　Now he was spouting off completely unrelated nonsense. I really did not understand this guy.

　But No. 21 humored him, perhaps out of morbid curiosity. “No, what is it?”

　“It’s a theory based on observation of ant colonies. It states that if every member of a society is a worker critical to its function, when something happens to said workers, the system will collapse. But if some of the society’s members are idle, they can step in and replace the workers as needed. Thus, in any organization, a buffer naturally forms. Twenty percent of the population turns into layabouts, for the sake of the greater good.”

　“Sounds exactly like the kind of excuse I’d expect from you,” No. 21 retorted. He really wasn’t going to cut this guy any slack.

　“Perhaps,” Lotus said, but he didn’t exhibit the slightest trace of embarrassment.

　One was just as bad as the other: No. 21, with his merciless jabs, and Lotus, brushing the criticisms off without a thought.

　As suddenly as he’d arrived, Lotus stood up and began to walk away.

　“And just where do you think you’re going?” No. 21 yelled after him, his harsh tone apparently meant to stop Lotus in his tracks.

　“Off to set up a sensor array. One that will alert us to any approaching machines so we can all sleep soundly tonight,” Lotus said. “I built this sensor from repurposed enemy parts, you see? The rate at which the machines have evolved this past while is really quite astounding. Yes, yes. Perhaps you’d like me to elaborate on what makes this particular sensor so spectacular?”

　I was beginning to learn that Lotus marched to the beat of his own drum.

　“No thanks,” No. 21 said. He wasn’t about to give in, either.

　“Yes. I’d assumed as much,” Lotus replied.

　The two of them were equally obnoxious. I was ready to throw my hands into the air and leave them both to their own devices. But then, without warning, Lotus whirled to face me in particular.

　“Ah. No. 9. Yes. I believe No. 2 was asking for you,” he said.

　Huh?! When had he bothered to remember my code number? He’d seemed so uninterested in learning the most basic details about us that I’d figured I could repeat my designation to him a hundred times and he still wouldn’t remember. But somewhere along the way, it apparently―and unexpectedly―sank in.

　“He was saying his logic virus diagnostic was complete.”

　“I’ll be right over!” I said, wishing Lotus could have shared the news a little sooner. No. 21’s repairs were a big job, but my work on No. 2 was going to be difficult in its own way.

　Our squadron’s newest addition was resting in an area just outside the cave. It was a precaution―something I thought was for the best until his virus diagnostic came back all clear. The fact that he’d asked for me meant that everything was all right. Probably.

　Aside from the virus diagnostic, there was a long list of other treatments I needed to administer. I had to hurry if I was going to get through them all. I started dashing off in No. 2’s direction, but another thought occurred to me that stopped me short: I realized I really ought to make the situation absolutely clear to No. 21. He had to take things slow. I didn’t know how much of an effect my advice would have, but I knew if I didn’t say anything at all, he’d definitely push himself too hard.

　When I’d half turned to jog back, I heard a few emphatic admonitions from No. 22. “I’m serious! Lay off! Were you not listening to anything No. 9 just said?!”

　It surprised me. No. 22 rarely, if ever, spoke sharply. Maybe I didn’t need to be the one to make things clear after all.

　“All right, I get it already,” No. 21 sulked.

　Interesting. I’d considered this possibility before, but I’d never had any real data to support it. It seemed that the two of them indeed acted a little differently with each other when nobody else was around.

　I found the discovery a little . . . What was the word? Oh, right. “Humorous.”

　I stifled a chuckle and turned around. It seemed I could leave this job to No. 22.

　As I resumed my dash toward No. 2, I caught one last comment from No. 21.

　“Hey, have you thought any more about what we talked about?”

　His tone was suddenly hushed. What did he mean? I felt a slight twinge of curiosity, but I couldn’t exactly turn around again to ask what they were talking about. It’d be obvious that I’d been listening in.

　And besides, I needed to attend to No. 2. I didn’t have time to waste.

　This time, I ran as fast as my legs would take me.

[Log Entry: No. 2 / Mountain Zone―Cave Approach]

It was an odd sensation, having a complete diagnostic workup done in a place that was neither a maintenance booth nor one of R&D’s training areas. The fact that it was another YoRHa android running the diagnostic―not a member of the maintenance team―only heightened my dysphoria.

　When No. 9 arrived at my side, I could feel the intensity of his gaze even through his visor. The dossier I’d read in the Bunker didn’t mention it, but apparently he had a very earnest personality.

　“How does it look?” I asked.

　“Seems you’re clear, sir” he responded. “Nothing shows up on the virus diganostic.”

　I was glad to hear it. That eliminated my greatest concern. No. 9 seemed relieved, too. Pleased, even. He gave a faint smile. Perhaps I’d judged him too harshly. Perhaps his formal manners were the product of a gentle personality.

　“Could you, uh, dispense with the ‘sir’s, maybe?” I asked.

　Terms of address like the one he’d used were a means of showing respect. But No. 9 had no reason or need to pay me any respect.

　The request seemed to take him off guard. “Huh? But you’re an M001 unit, sir. You’re my senior in service.”

　“And yet I’m the last of the squad to arrive here on the surface. Really, I don’t mind.”

　“I’m still not sure . . .”

　His hesitation seemed to stem more from confusion than from deference. I added one more detail to my store of data regarding No. 9: he was exceptionally humble.

　“All right,” I said, “then consider it a direct order. No. 9, I’d like you to address me informally, please.”

　“Yes, sir! Uh! I mean . . . sure thing!”

　“Perfect. Just like that.”

　His face brightened, and I felt like I’d finally come to understand what it meant when humans described someone’s eyes as “sparkling.” Not that I could actually see No. 9’s eyes―they were covered by his visor, of course. It was just a figure of speech.

　His bashful smile suddenly popped into an audible, “Oh!”

　He seemed to have remembered something of importance. After rummaging around in his pockets for a bit, he pulled out a roll of adhesive medical bandages.

　“You injured your wrist, if I’m not mistaken.”

　“Hm? Oh, yes,” I responded.

　When I awoke after extraction from the escape pod, I realized immediately that my right wrist had sustained damage. It seemed to be a result of the emergency landing, perhaps because I’d failed to properly brace for impact due to my dormant state. Fortunately, the injury was minor. The parts themselves would be fine―I wouldn’t require any replacements or firmware patches. In fact, I’d been quite confident that it wasn’t in need of medical attention at all.

　“I happened to come across some tips on the server archive,” No. 9 explained. “One recommended taping as a way to address minor joint injuries. See? Like this.”

　I was startled when he suddenly took my hand. He’d just completed a full diagnostic of all my systems, so it seemed superfluous to devote additional attention to the wrist. Also, something about the warmth of his hands was unsettling.

　“Apparently, there are a lot of different ways to tape an injury,” he continued as he worked. “I’m just using the method I know. It’ll help keep your artificial muscle tissue in place. The restricted motion is supposed to help speed recovery.”

　He skillfully wrapped the tape around my wrist. Not wanting to betray my consternation, I forced out a feeble protest. “But won’t that interfere with my combat performance?”

　“Well, the whole point is to get you fully healed so you’re ready to fight at maximum efficiency again.”

　He was kind. He demonstrated concern for his companions. Through this one brief interaction, I felt I’d come to know everything about No. 9’s behavior in regard to his squadmates.

　“ . . . Thanks,” I said.

　It was the first time I’d experienced either of those things―the first time I’d been on the receiving end of kindness or concern. It gave me a warm feeling.

　I found it very unsettling.

　No. 9 finished winding the tape, but he still didn’t leave. He didn’t seem to want to leave. He was visibly eager to continue talking.

　“Your designation is No. 2 Type D, correct? I have to admit, I don’t know much about your model type. What kind of specialties do you have?”

　“The ‘D’ stands for Defender. Built to withstand attacks, both physical and otherwise, and I’m equipped with a defensive barrier to protect against logic viruses. I’m an experimental model.”

　“Experimental?”

　“Correct. My frame features improved physical strength, so I’m better able to bear physical assaults, and I’m also equipped to withstand viral infection.”

　“Wow! That’s incredible!”

　“I’m meant to position myself on the front lines, absorbing enemy attacks amidst the fray, and I’m even prepared, as one of my duties, to lay down my life to keep my comrades safe.”

　It was just empty talk. A standard description I’d memorized. But as soon as the final sentence was out of my mouth, No. 9 froze.

　Right. He was a Healer. Probably overly sensitive to discussions of death. I should’ve been more careful. I felt bad for making him uncomfortable.

　But when he finally responded, he sounded bright and cheerful.

　“Well,” he said. “Sounds like some extra work for me.”

　The tone was a little too cheerful, in fact. It seemed he was trying hard not to offend me.

　“As the Healer,” he continued, “I’m responsible for fixing up the squad’s injuries. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get too carried away.”

　I smiled back. I felt obligated to give some kind of response to acknowledge his tactfulness. I even tried to laugh a bit―something I never did. My little show seemed to work; relief swept over No. 9’s face.

　But a moment later, it was gone. The Healer’s voice grew somber as he told me, “Actually . . . I should probably let you know something. All of our other squadmates have already died. Lots of times.”

　Ah. Right. I’d heard them discussing it earlier, with the Resistance members. The three non-YoRHa units were taken aback. But not me. I’d already heard the reports from my SSU. I knew that M Squadron had been annihilated numerous times.

　“Whenever it happens,” No. 9 confided, “I reinstall their consciousness data. But . . . sometimes I suspect they still feel it inside, as if the pain and sorrow of death somehow stick with them.”

　This bit of information, however, was new to me. I knew about the casualties insofar as they were recorded as data. I hadn’t realized the way they made No. 9 feel as he stood all alone, observing his squadmates die over and over and how they reacted after.

　“So, um . . . that’s why I’m asking. Please. As best as you’re able. Please don’t die, No. 2.”

　For a moment, I was unable to answer. I didn’t have any sort of prepared response for someone pleading with me not to die.

　“Uh . . . sure. I’ll do my best.”

　It took everything I had to piece together those few words. I was curious to see if he bought them, but No. 9 quickly stood, and I could no longer see his face.

　“I’ll go get you some water,” he said.

　“No need. My tank’s still―”

　“Nonsense. If you happened to run low during a fight, you’d lock right up. It’s best to maximize the spare energy you have on hand. Wait right there.”

　I watched him run off and realized I was relieved to see him go. I knew it would be best if we didn’t converse like that any further. Not to mention, I didn’t enjoy being eavesdropped on, and I certainly wasn’t so dull as to fail to notice it happening.

　“No. 2.” My eavesdropper spoke up. Instructor Black.

　He’d been waiting for No. 9 to leave. I heard his footsteps drawing near, but I didn’t turn to face him.

　“It’s been a while,” he said. “Not since our chat in the Bunker’s hangar, I suppose.”

　I hadn’t realized you could call that a chat. In my mind, it was more like he’d shown up unannounced to check on my progress.

　“When do you start?” he asked.

　“You’re not authorized to know.”

　Was he fishing for information? If so, why was he doing it under the pretense of having a casual conversation instead of just issuing me a direct order? Was that just how he operated down here on the surface? Or did it imply something else?

　“No. 2 Type D . . . How long do you plan to operate under a false identity?”

　“Nor are you authorized to know the timeframe under which I intend to reveal my identity.”

　It wasn’t as if I could refuse to answer a direct question from a superior officer―as much as I hated to admit he was one. So I kept my answers brief and my words vague. After all, you never knew who might be listening in.

　“You and I both know who you really are, No. 2 . . . Type E.”

　With a single stroke, he smashed my careful attempts to keep the conversation discreet. It was upsetting, to say the least. What the hell was he thinking, saying my proper designation out loud like that? He obviously lacked judgment.

　“A specialized unit for the express purpose of executing an active YoRHa Squadron, charged with the complete destruction of all units―black boxes included―to prevent dissemination of details regarding YoRHa androids, the Council’s most vital secret.”

　It was poorly considered comments like these that made fools with partial clearance so dangerous. Could he even begin to comprehend the danger of the words coming out of his mouth? And if he did, what was he hoping to get out of me that he was willing to take such a risk?

　“Of course, that description is just another lie.”

　As if he needed to point it out. The Type E model was surrounded by lies. Lies, secrets, and deceit. That described my entire makeup. That was who I was.

　“As I understand it, your line was originally intended as a means to quell insurrection among YoRHa units. Suppression duties. A trump card held in reserve by the Council in case everything went wrong.”

　“I am not authorized to respond to that. However, I would remind you that of YoRHa Experimental M Squadron, you alone have been made aware of my purpose. Allowing that information to leak to the other units is a punishable offense.”

　I allowed my tone to grow menacing to drive home the point. It was unclear to me where Black’s true motives lay, but in any case, casual mention of the Type E designation was absolutely unacceptable.

　“I’d be more concerned about your own actions,” the instructor replied. “Allowing yourself to become attached to your squadmates could prove a real obstacle when it comes time to kill them.”

　Bastard. Now he was just trying to provoke me. And he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

　“Your concern is unnecessary. I’ve trained for this.”

　“Ah.”

　And then, with nothing more than the briefest acknowledgement, Black pivoted on his heel and walked away.

　That was when it finally hit me. The questions he’d been asking―what if there was no ulterior motive to them? No lies. No deceit. Maybe he just wanted to know when it would all begin.

　But how would that knowledge change anything? What, was he going to offer a helping hand or something? The thought was absurd.

　I was here to kill my squadmates. That job fell to me, and me alone. I was outfitted with everything I’d need to get the job done, and no one would stand in my way.

　Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the taped wrist.

　So, um . . . that’s why I’m asking. Please. As best as you’re able. Please don’t die, No. 2.

　Why did he have to be the one to say that?

　What would he do if he knew what I really was? Would he hate me for it? Would he try to kill me? Or would he―

　No. Leave it. Best not to entertain irrelevant thoughts. The only thing I needed to think about was my mission . . . And my mission was to kill all of my comrades.