Episode 87

Consort ships, enemy vessels, and various structures danced across the radar screen in tiny, precise movements. Taro watched them with lazy indifference before glancing at the countdown timer on BISHOP.

"I mean, it’s alright, I guess?" he muttered. "Hard to tell without a baseline for comparison."

Vaguely unimpressed by the enemy fleet's maneuvers, Taro decided it was time to play around a bit and keyed his turrets to life.

"⟦Teiro, a detachment just broke off toward your position. Can you handle them?⟧"

Alan’s voice crackled over the radio. Taro gave a wordless grunt of affirmation and began feeding target coordinates into his turret control program.

"Good grief. Look at them. They’re totally isolated because they aren't matching their cruising speeds... Amateurs. Let’s hit the lead ship with four turrets. And let's toss some jamming at the guys following him for good measure."

The Plum II’s turrets whirled with predatory grace, locking onto the approaching vessels with mechanical perfection.

"[MODERATE DAMAGE ASSESSMENT] for enemy ship four... Correction. [MAJOR DAMAGE ASSESSMENT]. It appears ship three just delivered the finishing blow to ship four."

Koume’s report came in a voice as clear as crystal. Her face remained a mask of deadpan neutrality, though her tone held a distinct note of "I can't believe I'm watching this."

"Did they just blast their own teammate?" Taro chuckled. "Well, let that be a lesson: if you’re being jammed, don't pull the trigger until you’ve finished the math."

Having received a [MAJOR DAMAGE ASSESSMENT], the opposing ship was forced into an emergency stop by the Mock Ship Program. While the actual vacuum of space remained serene and silent, the radar screen was a chaotic mess of crisscrossing beam fire.

"Mr. Teiro, ally ship two is at [MODERATE DAMAGE], and ship eight has been [SUNK]. The right wing has folded."

"Whaaat!? No, no, no—the right wing is Alan’s unit, isn't it?"

"⟦Sorry, Teiro. They got me. Run for it, or you’ll be—⟧"

The transmission from Alan’s ship was forcibly severed. The training program—famed for its brutal realism—cheerfully informed Taro that Alan’s ship had just been reduced to a cloud of expanding plasma.

"But why is the right side getting shredded? Wait, did they just get reinforcements? An ambush?"

Several new blips appeared on the radar screen that hadn't been there a second ago. Taro spotted a massive field of debris nearby and realized they’d been lurking in the shadows.

"So, it’s Mr. Phantom... wait, this is actually bad! First Frontline Unit, fall back!! Second Frontline Unit, scatter and take the center!"

The fleet on the right was closing the gap at high speed. Taro slammed the Plum’s throttle to the stops, desperately trying to put some distance between himself and the slaughter.

"They're fast... a frigate-heavy wolf pack? Dammit, if I could just use the railguns, I’d wipe them out in a heartbeat."

"⟦That would be cheating, surely,⟧" Phantom’s calm, cultured voice echoed over the comms. "⟦The virtual enemy doesn't possess such weaponry, so it wouldn't be much of a practice session. Have mercy on us, please.⟧"

Fair point, Taro thought, nodding to himself. He glanced at his retro-style wristwatch. He’d found the piece in a Katsushika market; it was the old-fashioned kind you actually strapped to your wrist, a style that felt comfortably familiar.

"And that's time. Technically, we win on points, but let’s be real—if this were a real battle, I’d be space-dust, wouldn't I?"

On the terminal screen, Phantom gave a graceful shrug.

"⟦Who can say? In a real engagement, you would have had your live-ammunition weapons, which would have changed the tactical landscape entirely. Regardless, this was excellent training. My apologies for dragging the President himself into the fray.⟧"

As the principal of the Rising Sun Battle School, Phantom offered a salute. It wasn't the Imperial Military’s hand-to-chest style, but the one where the fingers are aligned and touch the forehead—the style Taro knew well from Earth's military and police.

Man, that salute just feels right... "Yeah, no worries. I'll be your sparring partner anytime. Simulators are fine, but they lack that 'oh crap, I'm going to die' tension, you know?"

The war games between the Battle School students and the Rising Sun First Fleet had lasted four hours. Naturally, if the First Fleet had gone all out, it wouldn't have been a contest, so Taro had let the deputies and standby crews take the reins. Even then, the gap in skill was massive, though the students had managed a few impressive pushes.

"⟦I appreciate that. Fighting a 'real' enemy helps them understand the level of the Security Department. It gives them a goal to strive for.⟧"

"A goal, huh?" Taro muttered. Feeling a bit bashful, he rubbed his nose and shut down the recorder. Every bit of comms chatter had been logged for the students to obsess over later.

"Alright, that’s that. They seem to be coming along. They can handle the basic maneuvers, and the fleet we’ve scraped together isn't half bad."

Taro scrolled through the ship list on his terminal. They had enough to form a decent defense line. It was a motley collection of old used ships, donations from Katsushika volunteers, and a handful of brand-new vessels Rising Sun had purchased. They hadn't been able to secure as many ships as they'd liked—not because of a lack of funds, but because the number of applicants had been an absolute landslide.

"The maintenance costs are astronomical, but as a forward investment, it is acceptable," Koume noted frankly. "Increasing the number of warship pilots in this star system is a vital asset. They will eventually drive the local economy."

Taro gave her a slightly pained, wry smile. "I mean, you're not wrong. For now, let’s just say we’ve got the muscle needed for the First Defense Plan. The economy is great and all, but we have to provide security first."

The plan, drafted by Mayor Silverman and the rest of the Katsushika bigwigs, was a classic: BB Makina would provide the massive railguns for static defense, the Battle School fleet would act as the shield, and the Rising Sun First Fleet would be the sword, jumping in to intercept and destroy threats. The Second Fleet, meanwhile, would keep patrolling the Katsushika-Delta Line and occasionally slap the Enzio Alliance whenever they got too rowdy.

If the railguns and the school fleet proved their worth in a real fight, it would be a massive PR win. The railguns didn't have enough field data to be marketable yet, and the Battle School was still in its infancy. In the business of war, reputation was everything.

"Alright, let's head back and check on the campus."

Taro swung the Plum around and engaged the [OVERDRIVE] toward the glowing speck of Katsushika.

---

"School." It was a nice, academic-sounding word, but the Rising Sun Battle School was, in every practical sense, a soldier factory.

The campus was a sprawling mess of facilities—lecture halls, auditoriums, athletic fields, labs, cafeterias, and dormitories—built largely on a whim to accommodate the flood of students from Katsushika and beyond.

These facilities were open to both students and Rising Sun employees. In fact, the company was already starting to merge its own cafeterias and gyms with the school's. It was just more efficient to run one giant facility than two medium ones.

"Oh, hey, Teiro-san! Good morning!"

As Taro walked across the campus, a burly student spotted him and came jogging over with a wave.

"Oh, hey there—"

Taro started to raise his hand, but his greeting was cut short by Phantom, who appeared out of nowhere like a vengeful shadow. Phantom lunged forward, grabbed the massive student by the collar and waist, hoisted him into the air, and spun him like a pizza crust. The student, seeing the floor rushing toward his skull, shrieked. At the absolute last second, Phantom caught him by the ankle, dangling him upside down like a prize fish.

"You," Phantom said. His voice was terrifyingly low, every syllable sharp enough to draw blood. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

The student gritted his teeth, his face turning red with fury, and swung a kick at Phantom’s head.

"A feisty one. Spirit is good, I suppose."

Phantom caught the flying foot with his free hand as if he were catching a slow-pitch ball, then casually slammed the student against the wall. Despite the effortless, balloon-animal lightness of Phantom’s movements, the CLANG of the student hitting the steel bulkhead was heavy enough to make Taro’s teeth ache.

"I will ask again. Who are you?"

Phantom stood there, holding the student aloft by one ankle. The boy wheezed, gasping for air.

"Whoa, whoa, Phantom! I don't know what’s going on, but you don't need to—wait, hang on!"

SLAM.

The student hit the wall again. The dull thud echoed down the hall, drawing a crowd of curious, terrified onlookers.

"I will ask again. Who are you?"

"P-Pilot Training Course... Zero-Zero-One-Two-One... Ein, sir!!" the student blubbered, his voice cracking with tears.

Phantom dropped the boy onto the floor like a piece of trash, then planted a boot on his back and yanked his head up by the hair.

"This man standing before you. Who is he?"

The student’s eyes darted toward Taro, his jaw trembling as he searched for the "correct" answer that wouldn't involve more wall-slamming.

"Tei... Mr. Teiro... President. He is Mr. Teiro, the President... sir! I mean, de-arimasu!"

"Correct," Phantom hissed. He gestured toward Taro. "Now. Who is the Supreme Commander of this Battle School?"

"It is... Commander Teiro, sir!"

"Who is the man providing you a home for free, feeding you for free, teaching you skills for free, and offering you the chance to become a hero?"

"IT IS COMMANDER TEIRO, SIR!!"

"Exactly. If you understand that, then you will never use the name 'Teiro-san' again. At least not while you are enrolled here. Personally, I think trash like you should be expelled immediately, but Commander Teiro is merciful. He likely won't do it. Be grateful you still have a job."

"YES!! THANK YOU, SIR!! THANK YOU, COMMANDER, SIR!!"

The student looked at Taro with tear-filled eyes, shouting at the top of his lungs. Taro gave a series of frantic, pained nods, gesturing for the poor kid to just go away.

"...Seriously, Phantom. That was way too much. I don't care what they call me."

Taro whispered this as the student was dragged away by his peers. Phantom turned to him, his voice returning to its usual tone.

"It doesn't work that way, President. There must be an order. Students must learn to follow superiors unconditionally. A soldier who questions his orders or doubts his instructions is a liability. They are worse than useless."

Taro frowned, wondering if that was really how it had to be. Phantom saw his expression and pressed on.

"In the heat of battle, do you have time to explain the strategic nuances and the philosophical necessity of every order to every subordinate? Of course not. And even if you did, it’s a waste of time. Their job is to act, not to vote. And furthermore—"

Phantom looked Taro straight in the eye.

"—One failure to follow orders can compromise an entire operation. That means comrades die. If a man wants to die alone, that’s his business, but dragging his teammates down with him is unforgivable. It looks like petty bullying, but it’s the foundation of survival. You’re the man at the top now. You need to harden your heart."

Phantom offered a sharp, wolfish grin. Taro wanted to argue, but he couldn't find the words. He knew Phantom was right, or at least right in a way that Taro’s own emotional response couldn't refute.

"Fine... I get it. But try not to go overboard. The company has a relaxed vibe, and these kids have families who might get the wrong idea."

"Understood," Phantom replied smoothly. "But don't worry. After a few months of this, they’ll go home for a visit, and their families will be thrilled. They’ll say, 'My lazy, good-for-nothing son came back a disciplined man!'"

Phantom shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Taro couldn't tell if he was joking or not. All he could do was offer a weak, non-committal smile.