“Why did I need to know about hull summoning, you ask?” Ulyanovsk repeated, tasting the words on his tongue.
“Tell me, did Formidable show any…
side effects from that rapid healing?” What a Kanmusu could do while chemically intoxicated was something he didn’t even want to think about.
Hearing the actual real-world stories about his classmate’s adventures, however, was highly appealing.
“Nothing, aside from excessive…
arousal,” Belfast admitted.
“The Manjuu crew’s inspection of her hull revealed zero structural anomalies.
Perseus officially cleared Lady Formidable for active duty.” “No tentacles?
No pale, dead skin?” the aviation cruiser pressed.
“No sudden urge to bring ‘peace and love’ to everyone around her?” “No,” the maid tensed visibly.
“Should there have been?” “Concentrated repair compound acts very weirdly on the psyche of Shipgirls who haven’t built up a tolerance,” the guy explained.
Seeing the utter confusion in her eyes, he elaborated: “The effect is essentially identical to heavy alcohol intoxication.
Over time, you build up a resistance, but the first exposure can lead to some…
excesses.” “Repair compound?” Belfast repeated.
“Our Kanmusu don’t have the luxury of summoning their hulls for drydock repairs, so we have to improvise.
Like taking baths in a cocktail of liquid polymers and dissolved alloys.
Or using highly concentrated derivatives for extreme emergencies.
Which is exactly what I used on Formidable, because she looked incredibly pathetic.
I honestly didn’t expect her actual hull to regenerate too.” “The hull and the body are two halves of the same whole.
What happens to one reflects on the other.
However,” a sly smirk crept onto the girl’s face, “it turns out you are quite the pervert.” “Excuse me?” “You broke into the room of a sleeping, wounded lady who was entirely incapable of resisting.
And you used an unknown substance on her!” Belfast theatrically gasped in mock horror.
“What else did you do to Her Ladyship that made her refuse to leave her room until the evening?” Looking at the Kansen sitting next to him, Ulyanovsk couldn’t decide if she was actively playing him to trigger a specific reaction, or just fooling around.
Given the Head Maid’s actual job description, he highly doubted it was the latter.
And since her insinuations provoked nothing but mild irritation, the guy decided to play along.
Besides, the Royal Navy light cruiser was currently sitting with her starboard side facing the ocean, perfectly shielding her passenger from any shore observers.
‘I dread to think what kind of circus will happen back home if they ever decide to declassify me,’ Ulyanovsk thought with a shudder, leaning closer to the girl.
“Quick question: where exactly are we sitting right now?” “On a crate of anti-aircraft ammo.
Why?” the maid answered without blinking.
“That’s not what I mean,” Ulyanovsk leaned in even closer.
“If the hull is your body, then what exactly are we sitting on?” he hinted, gently stroking the armor plating of the superstructure.
For a brief second, the aviation cruiser wished this conversation was happening right after a long, three-month deployment.
That was when his ‘sixth sense’ usually kicked in—the weird instinct that let him pinpoint Abyssal locations and threat levels without radar.
Enduring the maddening Abyssal whispers would have been a fair trade to actually feel the connection between the Kansen and her hull right now.
But lacking that, he had to operate blindly.
Literally.
“What exactly?” he repeated, pressing his fingers into the metal hard enough to visibly dent it.
“On my chest,” Belfast answered, looking at the guy with an aura of absolute, crushing superiority.
“Did you expect me to blush and look away?” “I expected you to blush at least out of common decency,” the aviation cruiser hinted, punching his index finger straight through the superstructure’s armor plating.
He pierced the ten millimeters of steel like it was wet cardboard.
He didn’t need to look at the hull to know the damage.
His target was the seam of the Kansen’s bodice, which popped open under the sudden structural stress.
“I will ask you not to make unnecessary holes in my clothing,” Belfast gasped, immediately covering her chest with her hands.
“If you wanted to look so badly, you only had to ask,” she winked at him.
Ulyanovsk placed his intel folder down on the metal crate that was currently serving as their negotiation table.
“And would you have obliged?” He leaned in until they were practically nose-to-nose.
“Because I really want to inspect you from bow to stern.
Run my hands over every single frame, evaluate the sleekness of your curves,” he leaned in, whispering directly into the maid’s ear.
“Strictly for science, of course…” “Not every Kansen can summon her hull,” the girl whispered back, slowly lowering her hands from her chest.
“Experimental ships whose keels never left the drawing board lack that ability.
As do guests from another world who simply assumed the form of a Kansen here…” “Hmm, is that right…” the aviation cruiser drawled, discreetly pulling a small, dark-green tube from his pocket.
“However, no interdimensional guest before you was ever the manifestation of a warship,” Belfast pulled back slightly.
“You won’t know until you try.” “I am forced to decline your generous offer,” Ulyanovsk straightened up.
“It’s an interesting trick, but in my standard combat environments, it’s a completely useless skill.” Sliding the cap off the tube, he squeezed a dab of thick, transparent green gel onto his palm.
Without giving the maid a second to ask what it was, he pressed his hand directly against her chest—right onto the exact spot where her dress had ripped.
“Sorry about the hull plating,” the guy apologized, completely ignoring Belfast’s muffled gasp.
“I think we both need time to process this new intel, so we’ll continue this conversation later.” “Are you just going to leave?” the girl asked, her eyes darting from the instantly vanished hole in her superstructure to the bodice of her uniform.
It was shining with pristine whiteness, perfectly intact.
The mysterious ointment hadn’t left a single trace.
“After everything we’ve been through?” she continued, shooting a reproachful look at the aviation cruiser, who had already hopped off the ammo crate.
“In order to use phrases like that, something vastly more significant than a couple of touches and a few seconds of partial nudity needs to happen between us.” Ulyanovsk picked up the folder Belfast had prepared for him, gave her a final once-over, and added: “Which wasn’t even my fault!” Vaulting effortlessly over the guardrail, he landed directly on the water’s surface.
The excited squeaking of his fairy-scout over the comms—reporting from the squad left behind in his house—was starting to get slightly annoying.
“I propose we continue this later,” the guy blew the girl a theatrical kiss.
“See you around!
Sirius can show me out!” Without even summoning his full combat rigging, he kicked his steam turbines into high gear and glided toward the shore.
Left alone on her deck, Belfast watched her departing guest with a dark frown.
She needed to severely revise her strategy for their next meeting.
Furthermore, her feminine pride demanded a rematch.
No admiral who had ever dared to take liberties with her or the other Royal Navy maids had ever walked away unpunished.
“Hmm?” she suddenly felt a foreign object nestled between her breasts.
“When did he…?” Belfast blinked in surprise, pulling out the exact same tube of gel the guy had just used to repair her superstructure.
“Don’t think you can buy me off this easily,” the girl chuckled softly, tucking the gift safely away.
*** Ulyanovsk managed to return home mere seconds before a courier from HQ knocked on his door.
The trip back through the portal was entirely uneventful, save for bumping into a girl in a white outfit.
He probably wouldn’t have even been noticed, considering the girl was intensely arguing with Sirius with a completely vacant, detached look on her face.
“Captain 1st Rank, sir,” the young sailor snapped a crisp salute.
“You are summoned to HQ!” “How urgent?” the aviation cruiser asked.
He wasn’t scheduled to be hauled onto the local Brass’s carpet for another two days.
By then, the fallout from the visit of the silent men in suits with massive authority was supposed to have blown over.
Usually, they tried not to bother the guy during his shore leave, so the sudden summons filled his head with incredibly bleak scenarios.
“Orders are to bring you in ASAP, sir,” the sailor barked.
“Give me five minutes,” Ulyanovsk said, closing the door.
Throwing on his uniform, he grabbed as many aircraft and anti-ship missile summoning cards from his workshop as he could, leaving only a small reserve behind.
Then, after a moment’s thought, he slightly opened the doors of every single wardrobe and cabinet in the house, double-checking that none contained portals to other dimensions.
On his way out, the aviation cruiser paused near his safe of Abyssal trophies.
He ultimately decided not to bring the “currency of the open ocean” with him.
Worst-case scenario, he could always invent an excuse to drop by his house to “replenish his ammo” before setting sail.
The duty UAZ quickly delivered Ulyanovsk to HQ.
The building was still a chaotic mess, though the intensity had visibly dropped, judging by the less panicked faces of the junior officers.
The weirdness started right at the threshold.
The duty officer was genuinely shocked to see the aviation cruiser, spending a solid minute trying to figure out who could have possibly summoned him.
Eventually, he just ordered a free lieutenant to escort the visitor to Admiral Volkov.
Ulyanovsk was even more surprised when the lieutenant led him not to the Base Commander’s office, but to the den of the former Head of Logistics.
The previous owner of this office had mysteriously vanished along with the severe men in suits.
“Admiral, sir?” Ulyanovsk called out to the officer, who completely ignored his salute.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the admiral looked up.
He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
The massive, dark bags under his eyes practically screamed exhaustion.
The man was slouched, visibly thinner, and bore only a passing resemblance to the arrogant, untouchable base commander he used to be.
“Didn’t you summon me to HQ, sir?” “Ah,” the admiral smirked bitterly.
“So you haven’t heard…
How strange.
What an oversight,” he sneered, grabbing a few sheets of paper from the desk and shoving them toward the guy.
“Here.
Read.” The first sheet was an official order appointing a new base commander, citing Volkov’s transfer to a ‘new duty station’.
The next were orders forming the First Special Missile Ship Division, officially assigning Ulyanovsk to its roster both as a combat vessel and as a staff officer.
The ink on the final order was dated yesterday.
“How could Admiral Gusoyedov fail to brief you on the chain of command changes?” Volkov feigned sympathy.
“But that’s not my problem anymore.
I didn’t summon you.
You’ve got the wrong door.” “Permission to be dismissed?” Despite his personal disdain for the officer, the cruiser preferred to stick to protocol.
“Dismissed,” Volkov grunted, returning to hypnotizing the paperwork on his desk.
Dropping the orders back onto the table, the guy headed for the new commander’s office.
The name was familiar—his new boss had commanded the Pacific Fleet Kanmusu for a long time and held massive respect among both the Shipgirls and the Ministry of Defense.
The appointment of someone of his caliber gave Ulyanovsk mixed feelings.
On the one hand, the officer already knew the specifics of working with Kanmusu, meaning synergy with Command should improve drastically.
On the other hand, it heavily implied preparations for something massive.
The creation of a dedicated division basically confirmed it.
No one in their right mind created an entire division for a single ship, leading the aviation cruiser to suspect that another classified contemporary of his had been successfully summoned.
Stopping in front of the target door, he shook his head.
There was no point cooking up theories when the answers were waiting right behind the wood.
Knocking and receiving permission, the aviation cruiser stepped into the office.
He nearly forgot why he was there when his radar suddenly pinged a massive target.
She was sitting on a chair near the entrance, staring at him with keen interest the moment he opened the door.
“Admiral, sir.
Captain 1st Rank Krechetov reporting as ordered,” Ulyanovsk saluted, mentally adding: ‘Looks like this is the reason they formed the missile division.’ “We’re short on time,” the commander gestured for the aviation cruiser to take a seat at the desk.
“So let’s drop the formalities.
Komi, you too,” he addressed the girl.
Wearing a female uniform with a short pleated skirt and the epaulets of a Captain 2nd Rank, the girl stood up and took the seat opposite Ulyanovsk.
The aviation cruiser’s trained eye immediately picked up the first anomalies in her appearance.
To an outsider, she looked like a standard female officer appointed as an adjutant purely for her looks.
Tall, generously built, with wheat-blonde hair braided into a neat plait, the blue-eyed blonde could easily pass for a standard secretary.
However, the way she moved screamed that the Kanmusu sitting before Ulyanovsk was built to kill.
And to do it as fast as possible, preferably with a single, devastating strike.
Yet, there was an underlying insecurity in her posture, as if she was entirely unaware of her own capabilities.
For a split second, the aviation cruiser actually imagined Sirius, finding a distinct similarity to the maid right when she had impaled the robot vacuum cleaner with a broadsword.
He still had no idea where the Kansen had pulled it from…
“By order of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, I have been appointed Commander of the First Special Missile Ship Division and this base.
My name is Ivan Sergeyevich Gusoyedov,” the new admiral introduced himself.
“Komi,” he addressed the girl, “meet your flagship.
Nuclear Heavy Aircraft-Carrying Cruiser Ulyanovsk, Project 1143.7 Krechet.” “A pleasure to meet you,” the blonde replied timidly.
“Likewise,” the guy nodded to her and the commander.
“Ulyanovsk, meet your subordinate.
Missile Cruiser Komsomolets, Project 1164 Atlant.” Gusoyedov paused, letting the ships exchange nods, before continuing: “Now to the main issue.
Orders just came down from the top.
You are deploying.
Details on the combat objective will follow, but first, we need to solve a major problem.
Komsomolets has only completed a basic navigation course under Kommuna’s supervision.
Your task for the next five days is to prep her for a long-range deployment, including mandatory drills on receiving emergency underway replenishment.” The admiral delivered the words like he was hammering nails into a coffin.
“Questions?” “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Ulyanovsk addressed him.
Receiving a nod, he was blunt: “Five days is way too short to master the full weapon nomenclature of the Atlant class.
Wouldn’t it be better if I executed the combat mission alone?” “Komsomolets’s participation is non-negotiable,” the admiral grimaced.
“Command believes your firepower alone will be insufficient.” “Even factoring in the recent deliveries?” the guy clarified.
“Especially factoring them in,” the commander nodded.
“I don’t like this order any more than you do, but we cannot disobey.
Besides you, there is absolutely no one else who can teach her how to use her weapon systems and targeting suites.
How far along are you in ballistics?” he turned to the girl.
“Passed the theoretical exam, cleared for live-fire drills,” Komsomolets answered.
“That’s something.
The Brass understands the situation; they aren’t expecting you to turn Komi into her older sister, the one who sent that English carrier group to the bottom.” Catching a surprised, slightly awe-struck look from the girl, Gusoyedov quickly grounded her: “That is highly classified information, so you’ll have to wait fifty years, or until Varyag tells you herself if they ever manage to summon her.” “Not if—when,” the girl stated confidently.
“When,” Gusoyedov smiled warmly, nodding in agreement.
“So the Ilan Incident didn’t happen during the first Abyssal attacks?” Ulyanovsk dug through his memory, piecing together public records with the commander’s slip-up.
“The photographs of Izumo suggest otherwise,” the officer didn’t take the bait.
“Alright,” the guy dropped it.
“Since she’s the Kanmusu of cruiser U…” A fist slamming onto the table silenced him.
“Komsomolets,” the girl spat angrily, drilling him with a heavy glare.
“Whatever you say,” Ulyanovsk shrugged.
“Anyway, she didn’t have any armament installed, including the electronic warfare suites.
In five days…
At best, we can master unguided launches of the anti-ship missiles.
Anti-air and ASW—that depends entirely on the generosity of the firing range logistics.” “You’ll be provided with as many drones as you need.
All departments have received strict orders from Command.
I want Komsomolets’s combat training program on my desk tomorrow morning.
She’ll be living with you, I trust that won’t be a problem?” The older officer’s gaze grew heavy.
“Not at all,” the aviation cruiser replied.
“What’s her cover story for the uninitiated?” “Captain 2nd Rank Ksenia Semyonovna Lobova, your step-sister.
Questions?” Hearing the assigned degree of kinship, Ulyanovsk couldn’t help but snort.
Command clearly hadn’t bothered to invent a complex legend for ships built in the exact same city for the exact same fleet.
“No questions,” the guy replied.
The Admiral turned to the girl.
“No questions for now,” she answered.
“Then you are dismissed,” the commander waved them toward the door.
Standing up, the two missile cruisers headed for the exit.
Along the way, the girl grabbed a rolling suitcase sitting near the door and followed her flagship out.
“Did Kommuna brief you on your new appearance?” Ulyanovsk asked.
The prospect of having to teach his untimely partner how to exist as a human did not thrill him, and he sincerely hoped the slightly insane salvage ship had already handled that.
“Yes, sir,” the girl nodded.
“Excellent,” the aviation cruiser perked up.
After a short, bumpy ride back in the HQ minivan, Ulyanovsk assigned his partner one of the second-floor bedrooms.
He specifically chose the one furthest from his own, just in case uninvited guests decided to play ‘Narnia’ again.
Komsomolets—or ‘Komi’, as she asked him to call her—spent about an hour unpacking her things before coming down to the kitchen, where her flagship was meticulously writing in a notebook.
“Everything okay?” the guy asked, looking up.
His gaze involuntarily swept over the girl, searching for the spot where the Moskva’s strike had hit.
Ulyanovsk knew it was stupid to look for residual battle damage on a Kanmusu from their past lives in steel.
If that were the case, Yamato or Musashi would be horrifying to look at.
Sure enough, his partner—who had changed out of her uniform into baggy dark-blue shorts and a white t-shirt—looked like she had stepped right out of a Soviet propaganda poster promoting a healthy lifestyle.
Not a single trace of the hole left by a twelve-meter steel rod, nor the hull plating that had rotted away over three decades.
Just a healthy flush and flawless skin.
“Yes,” the last of the ‘Carrier Killers’ nodded.
“Just…” “Weird getting used to it?” “No.
It’s just…
tomorrow is my first live-fire drill at sea…” “The main thing is don’t panic and listen closely to my commands.
For now,” Ulyanovsk pushed the notebook aside, “we need to discuss a few details.
Take a seat, no truth in standing.
And don’t be shy; everything in this house belongs to you just as much as it does to me.
Except for whatever is inside my bedroom and my workshop.” Brewing himself a cup of coffee so thick it resembled naval fuel oil, he waited as Komsomolets sat across from him, looking at him expectantly.
“Pardon my bluntness, but I have to ask.
How do you feel about the fleet you ended up in?” “Why would I have a problem with it?” Komsomolets didn’t understand the underlying implication.
“I was built for the Soviet Union, and its successor state gave me a second life.
If fate had been a bit kinder, I might have even shared a pier with Ustinov.
After all, I perfectly remember all the negotiations about buying me out, even if I don’t know the exact reasons why.” “Wait, so you gained consciousness back then?” Ulyanovsk asked, surprised.
“Does Command know?” “Yes,” the cruiser nodded.
“Only I didn’t gain consciousness back then.
It was right before I sank.” “I’m sorry you had to remember that.
To be honest, investigators still haven’t figured out what caused the targeting system glitch that launched the missile at you.
Nobody gave that order, you can be sure of that.” “I know,” the girl took a large gulp of coffee.
“It’s just…
Can I trust you, as my flagship?” “Of course.” “I didn’t tell the Admiral…” Komsomolets began slowly.
“Actually, I was the one who asked Moskva to take that shot.
Thirty-three years of rotting at the pier in absolute despair…
Everyone has a breaking point…” “And Moskva heard you?” Ulyanovsk asked, processing the new intel.
“Yes,” the cruiser nodded.
“Barely managed to convince her…
My only grievance with my sister is that her little ‘toys’ were way too loud.
She could have—and should have—done the job quieter.” “I guess one babysitter isn’t enough for those frigates,” the guy couldn’t hold back a smile.
“Speaking of quiet work, it looks like that’s exactly what we’re going to be doing.” The aviation cruiser pulled his notebook closer and drew a small grid.
“Can you tell me exactly what you managed to learn under Kommuna’s supervision?” “Summoning my rigging,” Komsomolets started listing.
“Deploying to sea, mooring, navigating in closed bodies of water.
I only had three sorties into open water, and those were strictly to calibrate my positioning systems.” “Did she manage to hook you up to the satellite grid too?” the guy jotted it down.
“Granny works fast.” “She cursed up a storm doing it.
The orders came down two days before my transfer here.” “I bet,” the aviation cruiser smirked.
“She absolutely hates being forced to work, especially under a crunch.
Nighttime deployments?” “Two,” the girl admitted.
“Not enough,” Ulyanovsk grimaced.
“But that’s not your fault.
Did you hear any weird whispers?
Feel an urge to walk up the moonlit path into the sky, if there was one?” “I was warned about that,” the cruiser looked up at the ceiling, recalling her first night sortie past the outer roadstead.
“It was a full moon, but I didn’t notice anything unusual.
Other than that, nothing special.
Just a standard sea trial program that every warship goes through before live-fire drills.” “Got it.
Have you figured out your ammo reserves?” “No,” Komsomolets shook her head.
“I know for a fact that all my launch tubes and magazines are fully loaded, but how exactly that happened…
” She shrugged.
“Right, you’re a cruiser…” the aviation cruiser muttered.
The girl nodded silently and returned to her coffee, deciding not to interrupt her flagship as he withdrew into his own thoughts.
Right now, she was vastly more interested in the treats sitting in the bowl on the table.
Candies, gingerbread, and several jam-filled buns—they were completely different from the ‘treats’ offered on the old salvage ship.
In Arkhangelsk, even the candies had a weird metallic aftertaste, with an oily filling that tasted more like tar than syrup.
But now, she finally had her hands on real chocolate!
And fruit jam!
While the fourth Atlant shoved sweets into both cheeks, Ulyanovsk was running the math on how much time the first member of his strike group would need to reload her missile armament.
He didn’t doubt her unlimited ammo for the 130mm twin gun and her torpedo tubes, but that was more of a nasty surprise for ambushers than a primary strike capability.
Whether Komsomolets would fall victim to the same agonizing six-hour reload cycle as him, or if she’d get lucky—that was the first thing they needed to find out.
Her main battery packed a similar punch, and fired in a salvo, her missiles could independently distribute targets just like his Granits.
If his partner could launch sixteen missiles at AWACS-painted targets even once an hour, the aviation cruiser’s headache would drastically decrease.
And he’d lose fewer planes completing missions.
“We’ll figure that out first thing,” Ulyanovsk said, sketching out the live-fire drill schedule in his notebook.
“Um…
Flagship…” Komsomolets called out timidly.
“What is it?” the guy looked up.
Instead of answering, the girl held out the empty candy bowl, dropping her gaze guiltily.
“We’re out,” the aviation cruiser broke the bad news.
“If you really want, I can gut an MRE, but the sweets in there are pretty awful.
They’re heavily fortified with special supplements that turn the chocolate into something that tastes like a mix of wet rust and sugar.” “I thought Kommuna just had weird tastes,” the cruiser sighed, putting the bowl back.
“There’s some cookies in there.
A bit different,” Ulyanovsk pointed at one of the overhead cabinets.
“Remind me to buy more on our way back tomorrow.” Finishing her coffee and polishing off two packs of cookies, Komsomolets headed off to rest, leaving her flagship to finalize the necessary bureaucracy.
The next morning, armed with all the required clearances, the pair unmoored from the pier and headed out of the harbor.
Contrary to Ulyanovsk’s fears, the girl held her own on the water confidently, making only minor maneuvering errors.
“Vagabond-One, this is Shore, receiving,” his new callsign crackled over the radio.
“Receiving.” “Grid 23-19 is clear, you are cleared to proceed.
Techs will have the flyboys and the fish ready in about fifteen minutes,” HQ reported.
“Hold off on simulating the air targets for now.
Let’s start with acquisition and tracking.
I’ll handle that.
But releasing a couple of fish on command wouldn’t hurt,” Ulyanovsk replied, prepping a scout plane for launch.
“Komi!
The moment my Yak-44 hits 2000 meters, open fire on Target One.” “Understood!” the girl nodded, carving a hard left turn to increase the distance between herself and the flagship.
With a low hum, the twin-engine plane rocketed into the sky, tracked by two pairs of eyes.
“Full salvo,” the guy reminded her.
“I remember,” Komsomolets replied, intently watching the plane turn into a speck in the sky.
“And don’t drill a hole in it with your eyes.
Just track it mentally,” Ulyanovsk advised.
“Otherwise, you’ll lose situational awareness.” “I’m trying,” the Kanmusu replied.
“Patience and practice,” the aviation cruiser smiled.
At that exact moment, the heavy lid of the cruiser’s first launch tube flipped open.