32 Harold Byron

Shirley's speculation.

"Considering the possibility of the humanoid ASID as a gift left behind was plausible. But then the sequence doesn't add up."

"The sequence?"

"From first contact with the humanoid to the Second Fleet's reinforcement and acquisition of the cocoon took less than half a year. Even we, who engaged them directly, still don't know their origin."

"I see. It's hard to believe the Second Fleet, arriving later, would know more about the humanoid ASID."

"Exactly."

Alternatively. There's another possibility.

"If the Second Fleet only learned about the humanoid ASID from the Third Fleet's report."

"…Lieutenant, are you suggesting the Second Fleet is concealing information?"

"Regardless of the weight of that, they're concealing it regarding the cocoon even now. If they concealed it earlier, it wouldn't be surprising."

"Indeed, that's true…"

It's a plausible scenario.

Yet simultaneously, it was implausible.

“That violates the Fleet Charter. Is the information so vital to the Second Fleet?”

The Fleet Charter.

Put simply, it is the minimal agreement binding immigrant fleets—and humanity itself—by necessity.

One clause forbids personal combat equipment.

Another forbids acts of collusion with enemies.

Others mandate sharing intelligence upon discovery of intelligent life, and pursuing friendly communication.

If that cocoon originated from ASID, it would constitute collusion.

“Can’t say… even the Second Fleet wouldn’t casually turn against another fleet, but…”

The Fleet Charter is, in effect, the last thread binding distant immigrant fleets into a single human entity—tens, hundreds of light-years apart.

If it becomes hollow, those distant fleets will surely act independently.

Or perhaps, at the end of it, war between the fleets erupts—making the prospect of humanity's extinction a grim reality, not a joke.

To avoid that, unity must be forged.

A shared foundation.

"Can their results really outweigh that risk?"

"No. We still can't grasp their true intent from this alone."

The conversation inevitably returns to that point.

"Did you get anything from Kusano-san?"

"Only evasion. Nothing beyond our conversation that day."

If anything, they were probing how much we've figured out.

"Then there's Harold's line. The connection remains unclear."

"What exactly does Harold-san research? I only know about his military past."

Harold Byron.

A figure of strikingly different background, even to Jin.

Formerly affiliated with the First Fleet Defense Force.

He served in the military for approximately five years. In that time, he developed skills sufficient to be called an ace.

Then, without hesitation, he resigned. Shortly after, he joined BW Corporation—effectively his own family's enterprise.

Whether by connection or coincidence, he rose rapidly to become head of a research team.

"Originally, he was a specialist in assault frames. He claimed that to develop superior units, one must understand piloting firsthand."

"So that's why he enlisted. That's... something."

Jin swallowed the words 'you're crazy.' It would have been too disrespectful.

"Seriously, you're a bit crazy, aren't you?"

But his sister showed no mercy.

One sentence, cut clean.

"Later, he joined BW Corporation. Around the time he was assigned to the Second Fleet's branch, he developed the Gryphon."

"That's your brother's work, isn't it?"

“The Leopard at the time, even the Raven under development, wasn’t well-regarded among the cybernetic squads.”

From the perspective of a cyborg with abilities beyond normal humans, a unit designed for average personnel would have felt lukewarm.

Jin understood that dissatisfaction well.

“By taking that dissatisfaction into account, a dedicated unit designed exclusively for cyborgs was eventually completed.”

“Ah, I see.”

In truth, Jin had once wanted to try it himself.

The ride quality intrigued him.

“Though lately, they seem focused on the control systems.”

“You mean the FBE?”

“Yes. More precisely, the nature of etheric communication.”

“The nature?”

“You know. You’re receiving future information, Lieutenant, aren’t you?”

“Ah.”

“That principle was compiled by Harold-san. He became curious about it after seeing it firsthand.”

“So he was a real ace, huh?”

Aces emerge after defeating many ASIDs.

By definition, yes—but among pilots, it means something different.

Clearly, seeing the future.

A realm no ordinary soldier, no matter how hard they strive, could ever reach.

One cannot be called an ace without this.

Harold seemed to have stood on that line.

Moreover, he was a first-rate researcher.

Jin felt an inexplicable anger rising within him.

"Etheric communication propagating backward through time. Yet the information degrades exponentially, rendering it unreadable under normal conditions. Wasn't that it?"

"Yes. You remember it well, Lieutenant."

He suppresses the retort—of course he remembers, he was bombarded with it from you once.

"According to Harold’s hypothesis, those called aces optimize and receive the degraded information within themselves."

"Stop it. I’m not letting you prove that hypothesis by drilling electrodes into me."

"I'm not doing it. I don't even have electrodes right now."

Jin wanted to retort, that response was what scared him.

He didn’t want to hear words that sounded like he’d do it if he had them. Especially not after what had happened before.

"Ether communication... I've been thinking about this for a while. Isn't this basically a time machine?"

"Fair enough. More precisely, a time-leap machine. You could say consciousness alone rewinds by one second."

"Hey, don't laugh, but if you push it further—could you go back a day, a year, something like that?"

It was pure speculation.

Even the person who came up with it couldn’t help but laugh, so he prefaced it with a warning not to laugh.

To his surprise, Sharon was considering it seriously.

"Theoretically, it might be possible."

"Seriously?"

The precision of Ether communication corresponds directly to the purity and quantity of the Ether itself. An Ace can perceive the future—read information sent from the future to the past—only during combat in an Assault Frame.

That's right. When not descending, nothing is visible.

That's not all. There was an experiment conducted in the past.

Stop it. Don't say things like experiments—scary stuff.

It wasn't anything like the electrodes you're imagining, Lieutenant. Relax. It was apparently a communication between ship formations.

The experiment was simple.

An Ace capable of seeing the future was randomly selected during Assault Frame boarding, and communication was established between ship formations. The question was whether future communications could be read at that time.

No one succeeded in reading them.

Do you know the principle behind the Ether Reactor, Lieutenant?

Just the level found in the training manuals.

The fuel of the Ether Reactor is living ether emitted from human souls—said to be the soul itself.

The Ether Reaction Theory. A demonic device born from a theory capable of measuring even the human soul.

Whether the energy produced by a fragment of soul taken from a single person is worth the cost remains uncertain.

The matter is reportedly a subject of debate among scholars.

Whether due to riding such machines or the relentless workload, military personnel have a slightly shorter average lifespan than civilians.

"Those so-called large reactors used on convoys or warships— they gather a little from everyone aboard to refine ether, don't they?"

"Huh."

"So, to put it simply, the fuel itself is a mixture of various components. The ether produced under those conditions—it's somehow... cloudy."

Clouded...

Jin feels a slight shock. "So, when everyone's power combines, it clouds...?"

"Conversely, the Assault Frame uses only the living ether of a single pilot—clear and transparent. The difference in purity seems to affect ether communication as well."

"I see it now. To view the past, we need ether that isn't clouded."

"That’s correct. And to extend the time we can send messages into the past, we must pour in volume—no matter what."

"I see. Quality and quantity."

Jin nods, accepting it.

"So, it’s impossible, then?"

"Seems so. Current technology limits the amount of ether a single human can generate from an ether reactor. Without overcoming that, extending communication into the past is just a dream."

"You should’ve said that earlier. I was actually hoping, you know."

I apologize. Still, Queen-type units generate vast amounts of ether independently, so there must be some logic behind it...

That sounds nice. Just ask the Queen to share some ether—say, “Please spare a bit.”

"Heh heh heh. Excellent idea, Lieutenant. Since we're at it, let's proceed directly to signing the treaty of amity."

Laughing at trivial jokes together, they sighed at the discussion that made no progress.