Full Metal Panic! Chapter 1

I'd just as soon die.
Violently bouncing around in an automobile's interior, the girl
continued to make grim a.s.sessments of her situation.
Mud from the sloshy road splattered across the windshield,
obscuring the coniferous trees that barely were visible in the farthest
reaches of the headlights.
The girl caught a glimpse of her reflection in the side-view
mirror: a pale face, gnawing on her thumb as if possessed.
I should be tanner from tennis practice. Why am I so pallid?
How long has it been since my last tennis practice? A week? A month?
A year?
Time's not important. I can't go home, anyway.
It'd be easiest if they just killed me now.
"Almost there," shouted the vehicle's driver, a gruff man who
was wearing a stiff military uniform. "In just a couple of miles, we'll
be in the mountain district. From there, you'll be able to return to j.a.pan."
Liar. We'll never get away in a vehicle like this.
Those people will capture me, drug me, strip me, and lock me up again in that
water tank—that deep, dark water tank, a place where nothing exists but endless,
meaningless questions. No matter how much I beg, they won't let one out.
"I'll do anything, just let me out!"
They won't hear me. I can't even hear myself.
Gradually, they will break me.
The only thing I have left is biting my nails, That's all I can do. It is my
only joy. Nails are fantastic: They hurt, they bleed. They're great. Blood comes out, it
dissolves. Nails … nails … nailllllls.
"Stop that!" the man brushed the girl's hand away from her
mouth.
For a moment, she stared absently at him. "Let me bite—or
else, kill me. Let me b-bi-bite."
The man's face contorted with pity as the girl's speech devolved
into a pathetic stutter, like that of a broken tape deck. His sympathy
turned to anger.
"Those sc.u.m bags did some bad things to you, didn't they?"
A bright flash of light behind the vehicle punctuated the man's
sentiment, inspiring him to crank the wheel furiously. The light
painted a streak across the sky as it sailed over the fleeing Jeep.
A rocket!
An explosion sent flames and debris hurtling toward the front
of the Jeep, which skidded sideways. The windshield shattered, and
the jeep toppled and rolled through the flames.
Not wearing a seat belt, the girl was tossed clear of the wreck
through the side window.
If she had taken a breath at that moment, or if she had opened
her mouth to scream, the whirling flames would have scorched her
lungs. Sadly, she lacked the willpower to scream.
Crashing shoulder first into the snowy, muddy ground, she tumbled to
a stop. Although laid out like a doll, the girl had no desire to move.
But her cloudy consciousness cleared. When she slowly lifted
her head, she saw the mostly destroyed Jeep snapped in half like a
twig, its rear wheels spinning futilely.
The girl tried to get up, but there was no strength in her
shoulder—it was either broken or dislocated. Oddly enough,
however, she felt no pain. She half-crawled toward the automobile
wreckage, spotting the battered and b.l.o.o.d.y driver pinned beneath
some of the car's plating.
"Take this," he gasped, holding out a CD case with a trembling
hand. "Go . . . south. . .”
His eyes were wet with tears.
"Hurry. Run."
And that was it for him. His tear-filled eyes were still halfopen,
forever frozen in anguish.
The girl did not understand why the man was crying. Pain? Fear
of death? Something else?
Suddenly, her survival instincts kicked in. She stood, took the
CD case, and began to plop one dirty, b.l.o.o.d.y foot after another
through the mud. She had no idea which way south was, but she
walked in a straight line regardless, continually biting her thumbnail as
she went.
Rotors chopped noisily through the air. An engine howled as
it sucked in air and gas. It was a helicopter—and it was approaching
quickly! The forest swayed in the man-made wind.
The girl looked up to see a gray attack helicopter, its body
rugged and gnarled like an old tree.
How ugly, she thought.
"Halt!" warned the helicopter's external speaker. "Or you will
be shot to death!"
Of course, she did not halt. She continued to drudge in a
straight line.
"Where do you think you're going?" The helicopter's machine gun
fired a few rounds into the ground near the girl. Chunks of earth flew
through the air, and the girl fell to the ground.
"Bad girls get punished."
As she tried to pick herself up using her one good arm, a
smattering of shots struck the ground around her.
The impact of the bullets in the ground near the girl made it
impossible for her to get up. The sound of laughter came through the
helicopter's loudspeaker.
Determined, the girl continued to crawl.
"Oh, poor little girl. Look how worn out she is! And still, she
keeps—" the voice cut out, leaving only the sound of the chopper's
spinning blades.
"Look out! It's an AS. Increase alti—"
The high-pitched sound of crushing metal interrupted the pilot.
The helicopter became a veritable spark factory. The girl looked up
and saw something sticking out of the machine's nose.
A knife?
It was a huge knife—a throwing knife as large as a person. The
red-hot blade stuck clear through the helicopter's nose.
Fighting a losing battle with gravity, the attack helicopter
lurched in a great spin. Fishtailing like crazy, it hurtled toward the
girl. She had neither the time nor the aspiration to move from its
path. She stayed rooted in place, watching the hunk of iron that
would bring her demise.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an
extremely large figure.
The mysterious figure straddled her, spread its arms, braced its
legs, and stood in front of the oncoming helicopter.
Crash!
Sc.r.a.ps of metal flew around, and small parts rained from the
sky. The grating sounds of grinding gears and uselessly spinning
turbines played an aircraft's dirge duet.
When the girl looked up, she saw that the giant humanlike
shape had caught the helicopter with its upper body. Its back bent
vigorously, and steam gushed from the joints in its arms, shoulders,
hips, and knees.
It began to walk, its heavy footsteps kicking up chunks of dirt
and snow. The machine carried the helicopter a sufficient distance
from the girl, whereupon it tossed the whirlybird into the forest. The
chopper wreckage fell to the ground and exploded.
The machine, which was roughly twenty-six feet tall, turned
around. It was backlit by the flaming helicopter.
Finally, the girl was able to get a good look at the mysterious
behemoth, which greatly resembled an athletic person with its long
legs, tight waist, ma.s.sive chest, and burly arms; it just happened to be
coated with armor plating. The machine looked like a fighter pilot
wearing a helmet, and it carried a proportional gun and backpack,
just like a person would.
"It's an .. Arm Slave, an a.s.sault trooper!"
The AS, a mechanized giant, returned to her side.
"Are you injured?" asked the humanoid machine in a calm male
voice. "I had to use an anti-tank dagger because the helicopter was so
close to you. My shot cannon would have been much too powerful."
Still in a state of shock, the girl said nothing. The AS knelt,
braced itself with one of its giant mechanical hands, and lowered its
head. It looked like a scene from a fairy tale: a gray giant kneeling
before a tattered princess.
Ssssssss.
A hatch on the Arm Slave's torso opened, and a soldier popped
up through the hatch behind the machine's head.
He wore a black pilot suit and small, lightweight headgear that
made him appear vaguely like a ninja when the light silhouetted him.
First-aid kit in hand, the AS operator climbed out of the weapon.
He was young and Asian, with messy black hair, sharp eyes, a
knitted brow, and a tight-lipped mouth.
The soldier was still a boy—probably not much older than the
girl he had come to rescue. But there was nothing childlike about his
demeanor; he left no impression of the innocence and irresponsibility
characteristic of boys his age.

"Where are you hurt?" asked the pilot. He spoke in j.a.panese,
which surprised the girl.
When she didn't respond, he asked her if she understood
j.a.panese. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Are you with that man?" she asked, pointing to the spot where
the driver lay dead.
"Yes. I'm also part of Mithril."
"Mithril?"
"An undercover military organization with no national
affiliation."
Again, the girl did not know how to respond.
As the soldier began to administer first aid, the girl suddenly
became cognizant of her intense pain. Her breathing became ragged,
but she managed to speak through the wheezing.
"He died."
"Yes, it appears he did."
"He was trying to set me free."
"That's the kind of man he was."
"Doesn't it make you sad?"
The young soldier temporarily stopped wrapping her shoulder
in tape so he could consider his emotional state. "I'm not sure," he
finally said.
After he finished wrapping the girl's shoulder and arm, the
young man began to prod and poke the girl's body without restraint or
bashfulness.
What are you going to do with me?"
"First, I'll take you in my AS to the transport helicopter's LZ.
Once we're on the helicopter, we'll return to the mother ship, which
is at sea. I don't know what happens after that—that's where our
duty ends."
"Our duty?"
As if answering her question, two more Arm Slaves appeared,
clearing a path through the trees while keeping a vigilant watch on
the surroundings.
They looked almost identical to the first one, and they carried
rifles and missile launchers.
"Don't worry: They're with me."
The pain began to take an even greater toll on the girl—her
field of vision narrowed, and her thoughts grew cloudy. She couldn't
remember where she was.
"What's your name?" she squeaked.
"It's best if you don't talk. You'll waste your strength."
"Please, tell me."
Hesitantly, the soldier contemplated revealing himself.
"Sagara. Sagara Sousuke."
Before he even finished saying it, however, the girl had pa.s.sed out.
Armed with a clipboard and a fruit-flavored Calorie Mate, Sousuke
entered the giant submarine's overly s.p.a.cious hangar to work on his
post-mission report.
Most of the ship's weaponry--Arm Slaves, transport helicopters,
VTOL fighters, and the like—were lined up there. Sousuke gazed at
one that was being repaired.
"Hey, Sousuke!" called an overbearing voice.
Sousuke turned around to see his colleague, Sergeant Kurz
Weber.
Blond-haired and blue-eyed with a small chin and big eyes,
Kurz was movie-star handsome. His long, perfectly styled hair added a
touch of genderless charm. When he smiled, women's hearts beat
faster.
As soon as he opened his mouth, however
"Why the long face? Constipated? Hemorrhoids?"
No dignity. No cla.s.s.
"I'm in perfect health," Sousuke responded absentmindedly,
taking a bite of his Calorie Mate.
"You're really dense, you know that?" Kurz's gaze wandered
to the AS that was being repaired. Its armor was off already.
"Wow, they already cracked it open, huh?"
"Apparently, they're conducting a detailed inspection of the
frame system."
"'Well, you were pretty hard on it. I mean, you caught a
helicopter! Weren't you scared?"
“No. It wasn’t an activity beyond the specs of the M9.”
The model AS both Sousuke and Kurz used was called a M9
Gernsback. It was totally cutting edge—not yet widely used in
military circles. Compared to previous models of Arm Slaves, the M9
had extraordinary power and agility.
"I guess, but the M9 is the only mech that could pull that
stunt," decided Kurz as he took a seat on an empty ammo case. He
stared at the line of M9s in the hangar.
The Arm Slave was born in the mid-1980s. At the time, U.S.
President Ronald Reagan strongly supported the development of
a robot force to go along with the Star Wars strategic defense
project:
"The next great development in localized dispute resolution."
"A grand technical challenge!"
"A labor-saving contribution to infantry forces!"
Driven by suspicious rhetoric, the AS became reality just three
years later. The humanoid weapon once thought to be an impossible
joke now ran at speeds of more than sixty miles per hour, employed
numerous weapons, and matched a tank in terms of strength.
Specialists were blown away—after all, non-military bipedal
robots barely could take a step or two without falling over.
What genius had masterminded this project? What think tank had
developed it?
"It's technology from interplanetary visitors!" claimed UFO
fanatics, temporarily boosting the sales of their magazines and books.
Eventually, however, people came to regard the AS the same way
they saw the cruise missile or stealth fighter jet—as a very high-tech
weapon.
About ten years later, AS technology continued to make
explosive progress. It got to the point where it was dangerous to
approach one carelessly, even in an attack helicopter.
A thought interrupted Kurz's stare. "Hey, Sousuke, about that girl
you picked up ..."
"Will she live?"
"Yeah, but she was pretty doped up."
"Narcotics?"
"Cannabinoids or something like that—they still don't know
exactly, but they think it came from the KGB research facility. I don't
know what kind of experiments they're doing there, but they're pretty
d.a.m.n cruel."
"Will she recover?"
"Who knows? Even if she does, it probably will take a long time."
Sousuke didn’t know what to say. Although the superior officers
seemed to know what kind of guinea pig the girl, was, they didn't
share that information with Sousuke and Kurz. It was protocol,
really: Frontline combatants rarely had all the details.
The man who died in the Jeep was a spy from Mithril's
intelligence bureau. Saving the girl wasn't part of his original mission,
which was to dig up information on the KGB research facility.
However, he had suffered a tremendous twinge of conscience and put his
own life at risk to rescue the test subject.
In spite of the spy's death, the CD wi th the top-secret
information still made it back into Mithril's hands, thanks to
Sousuke and the others.
Breaking the silence, Master Sergeant Melissa Mao quickly entered
the hangar. "There you are."
Solidly in her mid-twenties, Mao was an American of Chinese
descent. Her short black hair nicely framed her pretty face without
masking her true, spirited nature. Like Sousuke and Kurz, Mao was a
skilled AS operator. The three of them often were lumped together as a
team, and Mao always was the leader.
"Good work on the overtime," said Mao.
Sousuke grunted and nodded.
"What's up, girl?" said Kurz.
"Wipe that grin off your face, Mister. You always look like the
comic relief around here."
"Do you know who you're talking to? It's me, Kurz Weber,
model extraordinaire. This delicious face graced the pages of Esquire,
you know."
"Oh yeah, I think I saw that. Wasn't it a farce—like that
Charlie Sheen movie Hot Shots?"
"You b.i.t.c.h."
Quickly, like a cat, Mao reached out and grabbed Kurz's cheek.
He yelped.
"What did you call me?" she demanded.
“Jus the smar'es, preddies', mos debendable—”
"That's what I thought," she said, letting go of his face.
Quietly nibbling, Sousuke watched the whole exchange.
Mao noticed when he swallowed.
"Those things any good?"
Smiling, he nodded. "Just the right sweetness."
"Cool. Sousuke, the lieutenant commander wants to see you."
“Understood.”
“You too, playboy.”
"Aw, man! I thought you said we were off duty!"
"Consider this a countermand," said Mao, laughing. "I, however, am
off duty. If you need me, I'll be in the bath." She cackled as she left.
"If that b.i.t.c.h knew what was good for her," commented Kurz,
she'd be clawing her name into my back."
As she walked away, Kurz flipped her backside the bird.
"What kind of curse is that?" wondered Sousuke.
Knock knock!
"Come in!"
Sousuke and Kurz filed into the small room filled with
doc.u.ments, bookshelves, and a large man clad in an olive-green combat
uniform—Lieutenant Commander Andrei Kalinin. Although
Kalinin had long gray hair, his beard and mustache were cropped
short.
"Reporting as ordered, sir," stated Sousuke, crisply saluting.
"Yeah, here we are." Kurz submitted a halfhearted salute.
Indifferent to Kurz's att.i.tude, Lieutenant Commander Kalinin
looked up from the doc.u.ments he was reading.
"There's a mission." Lieutenant Commander Kalinin didn't
beat around the bush. He tossed a file folder toward Sousuke and
Kurz. "Take a look at this."
"Yes, sir," replied Sousuke.
"You got it," quipped Kurz.
The doc.u.ments in the file appeared to be a personal history,
including a black-and-white photo of a smiling Asian girl. Roughly
age twelve in the photo, the girl was nestled up against a woman,
ostensibly her mother. With fair skin and clear-cut features, she was
a lovely child.
Kurz whistled. "I'll bet she grows up to be hot."
"Actually, the photo is four years old," announced the lieutenant
commander. "She's sixteen, now."
"So, where's the picture of her now?"
"We don't have one."

As he already was accustomed to Kurz's manner, Sousuke paid
him no attention, focusing instead on reading the girl's biographical
information.
According to the brief, her name was Chidori Kaname, and
she lived in Tokyo, j.a.pan. Kaname was a student in one of Tokyo's
many high schools. Her father was a U.N. High Commissioner.
She had one sibling: an eleven-year-old sister who lived with
her father in New York City. Her mother had died three years
earlier.
There was additional information: height, blood type, medical
history, and more—the report spared no detail.
One sentence popped out at Sousuke: Probability of being a
W*******d: 88% (according to Miller Statistics Act).
Sousuke knew that the word that had been censored haphazardly
with black marker was the real reason Kurz and he were being
a.s.signed the mission.
"So, what happened to her?" asked Kurz.
"Nothing," responded Kalinin. "Yet."
"Huh?" Kurz grunted his confusion.
Turning slightly in his creaky chair, the lieutenant commander
looked at a map of the world that was mounted on the wall. It was
up to date with the latest national borders—the complexly divided
Soviet bloc, the split of the northern and southern Chinese territories,
and the scribble of lines that made up the Middle East.
"All you two need to know is that there are a number of enemy
mm
agencies, including the KGB, that might want to kidnap Chidori
Kaname."
"Why?" inquired Kurz.
"That," Kalinin said stoutly, "is something you gentlemen do
not need to know."
"Oh, right."
It all seemed pretty vague to Kurz. This girl, Chidori Kaname,
was only a potential target.
"What, exactly, is our mission?" pressed Sousuke.
"You'll guard the girl, naturally. I'm giving this one to you guys
because you're both fluent in j.a.panese."
"I guess that makes sense."
Kurz's father was a newspaper correspondent and, consequently,
Kurz had lived in the Edogawa section of Tokyo until he was
fourteen. Thus, he spoke the language like a pro.
"I've briefed Master Sergeant Mao already. The three of you
will handle this."
That seemed like an awful lot of work to Kurz. "Whoa, just
the three of us?"
"I barely can spare that many. It's decided already."
"Rough," a.s.sessed Kurz.
"That's why you're here."
Sousuke, Kurz, and Mao were more than just AS pilots,
they were highly trained soldiers capable of airborne landings,
reconnaissance, combat, and more. They were members of a team
picked from numerous candidates. And to them, an AS was just one of
the many tools of their trade.
"Upon Mao's insistence, I've granted you Cla.s.s B equipment."
The two soldiers' jaws dropped open.
"We're taking an Arm Slave?" asked Sousuke.
"Yes."
"But it's in the heart of a major city!" protested Kurz.
"You'll just have to operate in ECS invisible mode," reasoned
Kalinin.
Though the technology was pioneered for Arm Slaves, many
modern weapons used some form of ECS—or Electromagnetic
Camouflage System. Using hologram technology, the cutting-edge
stealth equipment could hide very large objects from radar and
infrared rays. Mithril’s ECS systems were so advanced that they could
nullify visible light wavelengths.
In other words, it made them invisible.
It took a lot of energy, so invisibility was not practical (or even
possible) during combat, but it was no problem when the vehicle was
sitting still or hiding.
"You'll take one M9 with you. Armament will be minimal, so
carry two external condenser packs."
"Check," affirmed Kurz.
"It's imperative that this mission is kept top secret."
"Say what?" Kurz frowned.
"If the j.a.panese government finds out," Kalinin continued,
"it'll get messy. So you must protect Kaname without her or anyone
else knowing. But you still must be ready when trouble comes."
"That sounds very..." Kurz struggled for words.
"Difficult," concluded Sousuke. Guarding someone without her
knowledge or permission was beyond absurd.
"Depending on how you operate, it shouldn't be that difficult.
This girl—Kaname Chidori—spends most of her time at a co-ed
public high school. Our youngest soldier is the same age as she is,
and he's even j.a.panese."
"Oh, ho ho!" Kurz lit up and turned to Sousuke, who blinked a
few times under the scrutiny.
"You don't mean—"
"We're forging the student transfer papers right now."
And Kalinin signed the directive.
"Say 'cheese,' Sousuke."
Sousuke scowled at the camera and at Kurz, its operator.
"Come on, man," goaded Kurz. "Don't you want a nice picture
on your student ID?"
Calling on little-used muscles, Sousuke formed an expression that
looked more like a facial neuralgia than a smile.
"Close enough." Kurz snapped the picture.
Like an elastic band that is stretched and released, Sousuke's face
instantly returned to its most comfortable, sullen expression.
Kurz sighed.
"What is all this?" Sousuke asked, staring at the collection of items strewn
across the table. He picked up some of the objects and scowled at them: a
brush, some hair gel, a portable CD player, CDs by Hiroshi Itsuki and SMAP,
a.s.sorted charms from Narita-san temple, eye drops from Rote Pharmaceuticals,
a coupon for “Tower Records,” a Game Boy, a Mister Junko watch, Yunker
energy drink, Marlboro cigarettes and Libera, “Popeye”, “Josei Jishin”, and
“Dragon Magazine,” etc., etc…
Melissa Mao beamed. "I went around the ship and gathered up all the
things a typical j.a.panese high school student might have."
"I see." Somewhat confused, Sousuke picked up a little square
of vinyl that contained a rubbery-looking circle.
"That's a condom," said Mao.
"I know. But I can't figure out why a high school boy would
need one."
"Don't play innocent, you hornball!"
"As a matter of fact, I have used them many times," said
Sousuke. "They can hold an entire liter of liquid."
Melissa Mao's mouth dropped open.
"Yes, if you've lost your canteen in the jungle, these can be a real
lifesaver," Sousuke concluded earnestly.
"Is that so?" Master Sergeant Mao rolled her eyes.
Clutching a remote, Kurz ushered Sousuke in front of an LCD
screen. "Okay, take a look at this. These are j.a.panese high school
students, so pay attention."
When Kurz hit play, a generic-looking cla.s.sroom filled the
screen. It looked like it was evening, and there were only two students
in the cla.s.sroom. Despite there being plenty of s.p.a.ce in the room
they were standing in the corner, very close to each other.
"I've always thought of you as a childhood friend," admitted the
young man, slowly letting out the words, "until now. I can't believe it
took me this long to realize the way I feel about you."
"Oh, Tohru-kun!" gasped the girl, hugging the boy.
As the young man leaned in to kiss her, the door to the
cla.s.sroom creaked open. Turning in surprise, the couple in the corner
saw another student standing in the doorway.
"Naomi!" called Tohru.
"How could you?" she demanded as she ran away in tears.
The boy started to chase after her, but the girl in the corner
pulled on his sleeve and told him to let her go.
Kurz hit the pause b.u.t.ton.
"Why did she run?" asked Sousuke. "Isn't the girl in the corner
her enemy?"
Kurz blinked in awe of Sousuke's lack of social sense.
"Unless… Naomi now knows a secret that could get her
eliminated. She ran because she's a survivor. Clever girl!"
"Or something like that," said Kurz, rolling his eyes.
As the Tuatha de Danaan rested half-submerged in the sea like a
vigilant hippo, the hatch to its flight deck groaned open, revealing
the tarmac from which the Arm Slaves, combat choppers, and VTOL
planes could take off.
A seven-rotor transport helicopter sat on the flight deck,
waiting for permission to leave. The cargo hold was stocked full of
all kinds of gear, including an Arm Slave M9.
After tossing his small bag behind his seat, Sousuke fastened
his seat belt. He checked to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything
vital, such as the forged student ID that was stashed in his breast
pocket.
Mao, who sat next to him, stared at the ID card.
"You put your real name on there?"
"I did. But I don't exist in j.a.panese record books, anyway, so a
problem arises, I always could change my name."
"Oh, okay."
"It's not a problem. Let's get a move on."
The helicopter began to prepare for takeoff.
"Are you nervous? I mean, it's your first day of school," pointed
out Kurz from his position in the back seat.
"I'll do my best," replied Sousuke.
"Tessa seemed worried," commented Mao, referring to the
submarine's captain.
"I'm not surprised. It's an important mission," said Sousuke,
eliciting a simultaneous sigh from both Mao and Kurz.
Before they could continue the conversation, the pilot of the
helicopter informed them that it was time to take off.
"Totally sucked," said a disgruntled Chidori Kaname.
Her dark brown eyes wandered for a moment, surveying the
group of students walking with her. As Kaname walked, the black
hair that hung clear to her hips swayed to and fro at a leisurely pace that
was in great contrast to her walking speed.
"Completely and totally sucked," she concluded after a moment of
thought.
Tokiwa Kyouko, a cla.s.smate, said "Gee, Kana-chan, you haven't
talked about anything else all morning. Was it really that terrible?"
"Worse!" insisted Kaname. "He talked incessantly without ever
actually saying anything. I did him the favor of going out with him
and everything, so you'd think he could find at least one interesting
thing to talk about."
Like you? thought Kyouko. His father's a designer, he's got a
friend in the J-league—seems interesting to me. To avoid trouble,
though, she just said "Uh-huh."
"I mean, there's the life of Zhuge Liang, the pollution in the
Pacific, religious strife in the Middle East—"
"Uh-huh,"
"Are you even listening to me, Kyouko? Or are you just saying
`uh-huh'?"
"Uh-huh,"
"Stop that, Kyouko! The least you can do is listen to my
postdate recap. After all, you're the one who introduced him to
me."
"He asked me to."
"If someone asked you to sell me off to the mafia, would you
do that, too?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Ha ha! You brat," Kaname said fondly.
As the school came into view, they could see a line of students
extending from the front door.
"Oh man, security searches," groaned Kaname, the victim of
many random bag and pocket searches.
"Yeah, it sure is. You don't have anything illegal, do you, Kanachan?"
"Not unless they outlawed books over the weekend." Indeed,
Kana had several books she'd borrowed from friends: Living Like
Zhuge Liang!; Warning of the Dolphins—So Long, and Thanks
for All the Fish; and Marvels of Archeology: Did Moai Write the
Dead Sea Scrolls?
"As long as you're not smuggling a bomb or guns," quipped
Kyouko.
"Give me some credit. What kind of idiot brings weapons to
school?"
There was a great commotion from the front of the line, where
the teacher, Kagurazaka Eri, grilled one of the students.
"Do you really think you can get away with something like this
on your first day here?"
No, ma'am. I don't mean to cause trouble."
"Until you show me the contents of your bag, you may not enter
the building."
"But…"
Although the boy seemed unnaturally calm, he also emitted
an air of immense confusion and a desire not to be the center of
attention.
"Who's that? I've never seen him around before."
Although he had the same stand-up collar as everyone else, he
maintained a real sense of mystery about him.
It was safe to call the boy handsome, but his tight-lipped mouth
and alert eyes indicated an extreme sternness slightly undermined by
his messy black hair. Although he was thin, he looked pretty athletic, as
if he partic.i.p.ated in an active sport, like judo.
"Just open the bag, bub!"
Fed up, Kagurazaka Eri slapped the bag out of his hands. "Wait."
"What do you have in here, anyway? I'll bet there's cigarettes!"
She thrust open the bag, pushing aside notebooks, textbooks, and a
smattering of writing utensils—and uncovering an Austrian-made
automatic handgun with three ammo magazines. There also was
a tube of explosives, several detonators, some stun grenades, a tiny
camera, and a length of piano wire.
"Young man!"
"Yes ma'am."
"I don't know what school you came from; but around here, we
confiscate toys like these."
"Excuse me?"
"Please wait in the staff room. It's almost time for cla.s.s!"
Al l the onlooke r s laughed and moved on the i r way.
"Gross—he's a military nut," opined Kaname. "That gives me
geek chills.
"He looks like he might be interesting," declared Kyouko
smartly.
Poor Sagara Sousuke. Though he was at home on any battlefield
and had been raised in international conflict zones, on a high school
campus, he was a clueless moron.
Perhaps the security is tighter here than I had guessed, thought Sousuke as he and
Miss Kagurazaka walked through an empty corridor.
At first, when she asked to search his bag, Sousuke thought
he might have failed the mission already. After his weapons were
confiscated, he resigned himself to following the teacher to the
bas.e.m.e.nt, where he a.s.sumed they would interrogate and beat him.
But then, as all the students submitted to the search, he realized
that it was routine.
Wait a minute. Does that mean that a lot of students bring small arms and
explosives to cla.s.s?
Sousuke quickly looked around, but he didn't see anything to
support or negate the idea.
If all the students were armed, it would make the bodyguard
mission a bit more complicated. That meant it was conceivable that
anyone, even the volleyball team walking down the hall, could be
carrying submachine guns.
Sousuke was not overly concerned, however, because Kurz
Weber was in an M9 Gernsback, camouflaged in a grove of trees
behind the school. If Sousuke called him on his miniature wrist.w.a.tch
radio, the M9 could be there in about ten seconds.
"Urzu Six, what's your status?" whispered Sousuke into his watch.
Tired and hungry," Kurz replied into Sousuke's hidden
earpiece. "Need beer."
Kagurazaka Eri continued to lead Sousuke briskly down the
hallway. She was a proper-looking woman in her mid-twenties. She
wore a short bob haircut and a tight-skirted gray suit.
"Ma'am," began Sousuke, "about that gun.
"It will be returned to you at the end of the school term," she
interrupted.
"That's not the issue. The problem is that there's already a
round in the chamber. It's extremely dangerous, so please don't touch
the trigger under any circ.u.mstances."
"Huh? Oh, okay."
"It's loaded with splat rounds that have an extremely high kill rate.
So, even an accidental firing will cause fatalities. Handle it with
caution, please."
"I understand. Don't worry."
She clearly did not understand. Against her instructions,
Sousuke worried.
From their desks in the clamorous cla.s.sroom, Kaname and
Kyouko watched Eri lead Sagara Sousuke into the room. Kaname and
Kyouko conducted a brief, wordless conversation through facial
expressions and gestures.
Look, there be is!
The gun nut!
"Quiet down, everyone!" shouted the teacher, rapping the
attendance book against the blackboard. "Take your seats and pipe
down. It's time to meet your new cla.s.smate."
Obediently, the majority of the students quieted.
"Okay. Sagara-kun, please introduce yourself."
Yes, ma'am." Sousuke took a step forward. "My name is Sergeant
Sagara Sousuke," he boomed.
Almost immediately, he paled at his own idiocy.
"Surgeon Soggy Log So Gay?" called one of the jokers from the
back of the room.
"Sir John Saw Gulag Soaks a?"
"Sergeant? Like an army sergeant?"
"Quiet everyone! Give the new student a chance to speak,"
the teacher ordered sternly, again tapping against the
blackboard with her book to quiet the cla.s.s down. "As for you,
Sagara-kun, this is no time for jokes."
"I apologize."
Previously, Sousuke never had felt so nervous on a
mission. The pressure was intense. Letting that one word slip
could cause the failure of the entire mission.
Sweating profusely, he snapped to attention and started over.
"I am Sagara Sousuke. Ignore the 'sergeant.' That is all."
"That's it?"
"Yes, ma'am. That is all."
Eri turned to her cla.s.s. "Any questions?"
"Where are you from, Sagara?"
"I have lived many places—Afghanistan, Lebanon, Cambodia,
Iraq—but I haven't stayed in any one place for very long." The
cla.s.s fell silent.
"Wow. Sounds like Sagara-kun moved around quite a bit,"
concluded Eri. "If I'm not mistaken, you transferred here from
America, right?"
"That's correct," said Sousuke, acknowledging his fake transfer
papers, which showed a previous address in Fayetteville, North
Carolina. Although Sousuke never actually had been there, he knew
some people who had.
One of the students raised his hand, but he didn't wait for the
teacher to call on him. "Got any hobbies?"
"Model guns!" offered someone from the back of the room, and
the cla.s.s erupted in laughter.
“I enjoy fishing and reading,” Sousuke said truthfully.
Whenever Sousuke had time to spare at Mithril's West Pacific
base, he dropped a line in the water and picked up a good weapons
manual. Even when it rained, he sat out there under an umbrella,
immersed in his own little world.
"What do you read?" inquired one of the students.
Sousuke's eyes lit up. "Primarily technical writings and
specialized magazines, such as Jane's Fighting Ships, Soldier of Fortune, and
Arm Slave Monthly. I also have read the j.a.panese AS Fan, which contains
surprisingly high-level information. Lately, I've been completely
captivated by a series from the Naval Inst.i.tute Press ..."
Sousuke realized he had lost a hundred percent of his audience
already. He hung his head. "Never mind. Please, forget that."
No need to ask: No one remembered, because no one was
listening. One of the girls near the front raised her hand.
"Um, who are your favorite musicians?"
This could be difficult—Sousuke rarely listened to music.
He grunted as he recalled the CDs Master Sergeant Mao had
given him before he left on his mission.
"Oh, yes—Itsuki Hiroshi and SMAP."
"What a weirdo," exclaimed Kaname as she undid the ribbon on
the chest of her uniform. "I mean, nothing he says makes any sense at
all. I don't think he's trying to be funny, either—I think he's legitimately
messed up in the head, a psycho."
As Kaname removed her blouse and put it on a hanger, she
knocked over the baseball bat that had been leaning against her
locker.
"Darn it! I mean, did you see him during cla.s.s? He just kept
looking around. And in between cla.s.ses, he paced around in the
hallway. So weird."
"Really?" asked Kyouko, who was in the process of removing her
skirt. "I didn't notice."
"So weird. Seriously, it annoys me just to look at him."
"Then don't look at him."
"I-I wasn't," protested Kaname as she readjusted her bra. "Why
would I look at a maniac like that? But this is the worst—the worst! A
couple of times, I caught him looking at me. He played it like it was an
accident and just looked away, but it was creepy. Creepy!"
"A lot of guys look at you, Kana-chan. You're really pretty,
you know," commented Kyouko with a tinge of envy. She pulled up
her socks and reached for her orange softball pants.
"Thanks, but it's not like that. It's like he's up to something." "You
know, Kana-chan, you've been ragging on Sagara-kun nonstop."
"I have?"
With long strides, Sousuke crossed the school grounds, stopping in
front of the athletic club wing. Surveying the building, he saw there
were six windows in a row on the second floor. He located the stairs.
He went up.
"Yes, you have!" said Kyouko.
Kyouko knew Kaname very well—including that Kana was quite
popular despite having a dangerous mouth and a very candid demeanor.
She was generally very good-natured, so much so that she practically
had been forced into the position of student council vice president.
For Kaname to criticize someone she didn't really even
know—and to do it behind his back—well, that was a very rare
thing, indeed.
"For someone you're not interested in, you sure seem to talk
about him an awful lot."
"Don't be ridiculous! It's not like that. Ha ha. Ha ha ha!"
As a longtime friend, Kyouko also understood that Kaname's laugh
roughly translated to: "I don't know, but I don't want to talk about it."
"Come on. Let's go."
Having finished changing into their uniforms, Kaname and
Kyouko started to leave the changing room, where there were still
many girls in various stages of undress.
But just as they were about to reach the door, it crashed open
violently.
Eighteen changing girls looked into the eyes of the student in the
doorway: Sousuke.
There were eighteen simultaneous gasps.
"Eeeeeeeeeeee!” Shrieks rattled the windows.
Sousuke stood there dumbly, wearing a look of profound surprise.
Completely wasting a golden opportunity, he barely glanced at
all the girls in their underwear. (Scantily clad women were only a
distraction from the mission at hand, he knew.)
Springing forward, he grabbed Kaname and threw her to the
ground. Somehow, by the time they hit the floor, he had drawn a
pistol out of an ankle holster.
"Everybody, get down. Get down" he yelled as he made a
lightning-quick turn toward the open door.
He waited, gun trained on the doorway.
Nothing happened, of course.
Keeping Kaname pinned to the ground, he kept the gun pointed
at the door. He surveyed the room and did not see anyone who
appeared threatening.
Actually, upon second a.s.sessment, there were eighteen girls
crowding around him with murder in their eyes.
Ten minutes later, the mayhem was over.
"I never suspected you to have something like this," said
Kagurazaka Eri, inspecting the .38 caliber revolver.
"I apologize for the trouble, ma'am," Sousuke said meekly.
He looked worn out; his uniform was torn, his face was scratched,
his wrists were chained behind his back to a chair (with his own
handcuffs, which the girls had found clipped to his belt).
He never liked interrogations.
"I'm confiscating this."
"Please—"
"Sorry, no exceptions!"
"Please unload it. Those are hollow point rounds—very
dangerous."
"Oh, for the love of ..." Eri trailed off. Then, she stood up.
"Chidori-san, I'm leaving him in your custody."
"I have a staff meeting. We're planning the cla.s.s trip, you know.
He definitely is to blame for all this chaos, so talk it over with the
other girls and decide how to deal with him, okay?"
It was unclear whether the teacher trusted Kaname or simply
was irresponsible. Either way, she was gone already. Sousuke, who
regarded Eri the same way Cambodians viewed U.N. peacekeepers,
was extremely disheartened to see her go.
Under the intense glowering of so many p.i.s.sed-off young
women, Sousuke had a good idea what was in store for him.
"The Geneva Accords state—"
"The what?"
"Never mind."
Kaname had no reason to know anything about those;
she probably thought Geneva was the capital of Brazil.
"So, Sagara-kun, what's the big idea? I mean, being a perv is one
thing. But you'd have to be r.e.t.a.r.ded to jump in here like a freaking
commando! Are you mental or what?"
"Mental'? You mean, 'smart'?" How can I be r.e.t.a.r.ded and
mental at the same time? What is the meaning of this contradiction?
Sousuke realized it didn't matter. Each second felt like eternity.
"You psycho! Look at this!" Kaname rolled up her sleeve. "See
that? My elbow's all skinned up because of you. What are you gonna do
about it?"
Sousuke a.s.sessed the damage. The skin was not broken, but it
was a little bit red. The injuries Sousuke had sustained during the
fray were far worse, but no one seemed to care about that.
Finally, he spoke. "It should heal very quickly."
"That's mean!"
"You creep!"
"A girl's injuries last a lifetime!"
"So, what do you have to say for yourself?"
"Apologize to Kana-chan."
Sousuke felt like a tank caught in crossfire. As far as he could
tell, it appeared they did not appreciate his actions.
"I'm sorry for violently handling you," said Sousuke. "But
please let the record show that it was not my intention to cause you or
your friends any harm."
"Then, what were you doing?"
"I'm afraid that information is cla.s.sified."
"What do you mean, 'cla.s.sified'? Tell me!"
"No, I'm sorry..."
Pushing her bangs off her forehead, Kaname said: "Tell us why
You came here in the first place."
Thinking quickly, Sousuke answered, "I want to join the club."
None of the girls knew how to respond to that.
"I was a member of a similar club at my last school. I'm very
proud of my partic.i.p.ation, and that's why I was hoping to join. I'm
confident in my physical strength and think you will only benefit
from including me. So, what do you think?"
Internally, Sousuke commended himself for the bold delivery of
his impa.s.sioned plea.
"Look, Sagara," began a fl.u.s.tered Kaname, "this is, well, it's the
girls' softball club."
Sousuke processed this information. "So .. boys can't join?"
"Of course not!"
"I think the circ.u.mstances warrant an exception, don't you?"
Fed up, the girls picked up Sousuke, chair and all, and kicked him
down the stairs.
April 20, 18:45 (j.a.pan Standard Time)
Chofu, Tokyo, j.a.pan
Tigers Apartments #505
On a display screen, a black-haired girl opened the door to her
apartment and went inside. After she swung the door shut, there was
the gratifying sound of a lock clicking into place.
"Eighteen-hundred forty-five hours. Angel is safe at home. No
shadows," reported Melissa Mao into a walkie-talkie-like device.
She toggled the display to see what Kurz was up to with the AS.
She couldn't see Kurz, of course, because of the ECS, but she knew that
he would be running along the road and probably would be back in a
couple of minutes.
Mithril's intelligence bureau prepared a base for their mission— a
safe house of sorts. Just across the district line, they had a good view of
Kaname’s apartment.
Their room didn't have any real furniture—just a cheap table
and some folding chairs. Still, the apartment was pretty full, loaded
up with small weapons and surveillance equipment.
"I can't get over how expensive everything is here in Tokyo,"
grumbled Mao to no one in particular. She polished off a hamburger;
then, she pulled out her menthol cigarettes, firing one up.
Shortly after that, Sousuke entered.
Mao laughed out loud when she saw him. His hands were
chained to a strange-looking chair, which he had been dragging behind
him the whole way.
"Oh, Sousuke, you made a friend!"
"It's a chair."
"I can see that. Why are you dragging that old thing around?"
“Because I can't get the handcuffs off. They're a hinge model and
the keyhole's pointed toward my elbow."
"Give me a break," Mao chuckled as she pulled out her own
master key and undid the cuffs.
"Thanks," said Sousuke. Then, he related the details of the day.

“... and that's what happened. Buying a subway ticket at Sengawa
Station was the most difficult part. What's the matter, Mao?"
Pinching the top of her nose between two fingers, she said, "It's
nothing, just a little headache."
"Oh. Perhaps you should rest a little."
Interrupting that thought, a small electronic sound signaled a
transmission from Kurz. "This is Urzu Six, done for the day. Does
one of you want to switch with me?" he pleaded.
The M9 was safely inside a makeshift hangar, an oversizedtrailer
in a nearby parking lot.
"Are you sure no one saw you, Kurz?"
"I almost kicked an old man. Every dog in a two-mile radius
barked its head off. I nearly smashed up a pac.h.i.n.ko parlor. I stopped
to rest against an elementary school and cracked the windows. You
should've seen the little dudes freak out."
At any rate, no one saw the M9. With a less-skilled pilot, the
near misses might have ended in disaster.
"Maybe this isn't the best way to go about this, after all."
suggested Mao.
"If we stick to the plan around the clock . . . then, yes, it may be
impossible," agreed Sousuke. "I think it would be best to have the AS
on standby here, starting tomorrow."
"It seems like such a waste of its firepower and sensors, though,"
reasoned Mao.
Because the M9 was the absolute latest in AS technology, it was
fully equipped with electronics that cost tens of millions of dollars. Its
audio-detection system operated a "smart filter" that alerted the pilot to
potentially dangerous phrases, such as "take captives" or "weapon
discharge permitted.” On top of that, the M9 had two machine guns that
easily could take out twenty to thirty armed vehicles.
In hindsight, the M9 might have been a little too extravagant for
the mission at hand. But Mao came from the most extravagant military
in the world—the U.S. armed forces.
"I want the M9 as close to Kaname as possible. As long as we
avoid rush hour and move along the river, I think we'll be okay."
"I trust your judgment," declared Sousuke.
"Somebody swap with me! I'm exhausted!" lamented Kurz.
"Wait a minute. Kaname's getting a phone call." Mao
twiddled some k.n.o.bs on her equipment and offered Sousuke a spare
headset. "Want to listen?"
"I suppose."
The caller was Kaname's little sister, who lived on the east coast in
America. They had a friendly chat, touching on many subjects,
including the "crazy new transfer student," who she described as
pretty entertaining, at least." When it came time for her to hang up,
Kaname seemed a little bit reluctant to end the call.
"Poor girl, living all alone," said Mao, sympathetically. "I guess
she gets only one dose of family a day, through a long-distance call."
I'm not sure I understand completely," said Sousuke, "but a
scheduled communication is a good idea." He thought about this for a
minute. "It's strange, though. In my dealings with her, she was a lot
sharper, more aggressive."
"Of course, she was different—she was talking to her little sister."
"Is that typical?"
"Yes."
"Noted. I'm also surprised to learn that Kaname doesn't
totally despise me."
"You sound pretty excited about that, Sousuke."
"Do I?"
Sousuke turned to the window and studied his reflection for
any traces of elation.
April 20, 11:30 (Greenwich Mean Time)
Pacific Ocean, Depth: 165 Feet
Amphibious a.s.sault Submarine Tuatha de Danaan
"Sergeant Sagara sure seems to be having a tough time with this
mission," said the girl in the captain's chair, who, according to
appearances, was only in her mid-teens.
The young woman had large gray eyes and braided ash blonde
hair that hung down over her left shoulder. She wore informal
clothes—a stylish brown suit that was two or three sizes too large.
Regardless, a captain's rank insignia sparkled on her collar. And
although the awards and decorations common to most captains were
nowhere to be found on her chest, the girl, Teletha Testarossa (a.k.a.
Tessa) was captain of the Tuatha de Danaan.
Captain.
Only a small group of people knew the reason why.
One of them, Lieutenant Commander Kalinin, stood beside her
in the submersible's command center, which was about the size of a
small theater. It was the Tuatha de Danaan's brain, unifying the ship
and its combat teams.
"It could be a valuable learning experience for him," opined
Kalinin.
The young captain continued to scan the most recent report
from Melissa Mao, which detailed Sousuke's adventures in
a business-like fashion.
"Firearms confiscated. a.s.saulted by a gang of civilians, including
the guarded target. Returned to safe house in exceedingly disabled
state, tied to a chair."
"Nothing he can't handle, Captain."
"True, he is a top-notch sergeant. Even so, I'm glad he has Mao
and Weber with him."
Tessa paused to look at the clocks—one for GMT and one for
JST—on her display screen.
"Lieutenant Commander? How long do you think those three
will have to be in Tokyo?"
"It could be several weeks until we locate and suppress the
source of the threat, Captain." In spite of his physical seniority,
Kalinin responded with immense respect.
"So, it all depends on the progress of our mission," concluded
Tessa as she studied a marine chart on the display screen. "If
everything goes according to plan, we will eliminate the need to
guard Chidori Kaname."
"As well as the rest of the Whispered candidates."
"For the time being, at least."
"-Yes, unfortunately."
Kalinin excused himself; then, he saluted and left.
Meanwhile
Soviet Union
Outskirts of Khabarovsk
Two cars sat parked atop a lonely bridge that straddled a frozen river.
Apparently, all noise in the outlying area also had frozen solid, as it
was dead quiet.
Three men stood in the center of the bridge: one Asian man in a
fancy Italian coat and two Russians, both clad in KGB uniforms.
"Too quiet," grumbled the Asian man, adjusting his slicked
hair. There was a large scar on his forehead—a remarkably straight
line that resembled a knife's slash or a bullet's kiss. It looked almost
like a third eye.
"Quit whining; you're the one who designated this meeting
place," said the more corpulent of the two KGB men, a colonel
according to the decorations on his shoulder.
"I was referring to the activity between your ears. I can hear the
moths' wings flapping!"
The colossal captain next to the colonel lunged forward.
"What'd you just say?" The colonel restrained him.
The Asian man laughed. "At least the colonel has decent people
skills."
"It is not our error," protested the irritated colonel. "The
Whispered test subject was stolen, and there's a good chance they got
their hands on the candidate list, too. Without a test subject, we can't
conduct the research; it's as simple as that."
The colonel sounded irritated—and with good reason. The
research he spoke of was being conducted without permission
from the party's central committee. If they detected his unauthorized
activities were a failure, he most certainly would be sent to a
labor camp.
"So Gauron, are you through investigating the enemy's
objective?"
"More or less. Take a look," said the scarred man, handing the
colonel a photograph. "I ran an image enhancer on this photo you
gave me."
In the photo, there was the vague outline of an AS.
"It's using ECS—that's why the outlines are blurred as if they're
melting into the surroundings. It appears to be carrying a backpack,
maybe transporting VIPs up that mountain slope."
The AS looked slick, remarkably similar to a human. Impressed,
the colonel raised an eyebrow. "What is this? I'm not familiar with
this type."
"It's a Mithril AS," Gauron cheerfully responded, "much too
advanced for you to worry about it."
"Mithril?"
"It's a secret organization of mercenaries. Their equipment is a
good ten years ahead of the rest of the world: top guns, elite soldiers.
You haven't heard of them?"
Mithril was an enigmatic force, perpetually present in the
shadows of international conflicts. They attacked armed guerilla bases
and destroyed drug-manufacturing plants. They allegedly annihilated
terrorist camps and prevented nuclear-weapon smuggling.
Mithril's mission was to extinguish the flames of regional
conflicts. Consequently, they weren't on any particular side.
"Why would they interfere with my project?" asked the colonel.
"Probably because it's dangerous. If you were to succeed, it
would upset the world's balance of power."
"So, they're going to make it hard for us to capture a new
Whispered candidate, I suspect."
Having one of the Whispered girls in their custody was
absolutely essential to their project's success. Now that theirs was lost,
they simply would have to find another.
"I can abduct one, but it'll take some time—it's more trouble
than killing one," said Gauron.
"Does that mean an increase in your fee?" growled the colonel.
Smiling, Gauron said, "I'm a businessman, not a communist."
Very funny, you yellow monkey!" shouted the captain. "You're
completely replaceable! How about you show some thanks to the
colonel who keeps hiring you, anyway?"
"I am thankful for your patronage," responded Gauron.
“You Chinamen are all empty promises!" roared the captain.
What an insightful comment. I'm not Chinese, though," corrected
Gauron.
"Either way, you're all the same! Wait until I send you to the
Ural mountain coal mines and turn your grinning yellow face black!
You puny pig!"
"You, sir, are very annoying."
With the skill and speed of a card shark, Gauron pulled a pistol
from under his coat. It was such a smooth and simple action, it looked as
if he were pulling out a cell phone.
The red point of a laser sight dotted the captain's forehead. A
gunshot shattered the nighttime quiet.
Blood, skull fragments, and pieces of brain littered the snow.
The captain's body, with the surviving half of his head, clattered to
the ground with a thud.
"Now, where were We? Oh, yes! Discussing the terms of the
kidnapping," Gauron nonchalantly put away his pistol. He looked at the
case file the colonel had given him earlier.
"Ah, here. This is it," said Gauron. "Is there a problem, Colonel?"
That's one of my men…”
"But really, you just brought him here to intimidate me, da?"
said Gauron, cruelly. "At least you don't have to babysit him anymore.
Now, let's get down to business."
Speechless, the colonel let the madman take the wheel of the
conversation.
Rifling through the doc.u.ments, Gauron counted roughly
fifteen separate files with the personal information of fifteen
Whispered candidates. Judging by the photos alone, the boys and
girls were different nationalities and races but all roughly the same
age-rnid-to late teens.
"Now, which one do you want me to get? I know, I know—it's
already decided. You want," Gauron shuffled throu