(Boilerplate legalese: Blue Drop is a creation of Yoshitomi Akihito. NG Evangelion is a creation of Anno Hideaki et al. Obviously I am neither.)

The Pilot of Flight 403

Prologue

Layer Wars Soldiers' Memorial

Nagano, Japan, Third Universal Layer

July 6th, 2079

The gravel path made a pleasant crunching noise under the old man's feet as he made his way under the cemetery gate. A springlike sun warmed his back, that fiery orb just beginning its descent, as a gentle breeze stirred his silvery hair. It was, all else considered, a good day for this sort of thing.

It's been too long in any case, he reminded himself. Six... No, seven years?

The sprawling burial ground was largely deserted. He'd expected as much - this was neither a weekend nor a holiday - and so he could have his visit in peace and quiet, just as he liked. The grass had been mowed recently, the alternating stripes of a mechanical cutter's path plain to see. The man stood in contemplation for a few moments, looking over the long rows of white markers. Many were topped by crosses, some by crescents or six-pointed stars. Others ended in diamonds or shapes reminiscent of stylized flowers.

'Beyond the crosses row on row' was it?

Once upon a time it might have been that simple, but such a time had antedated his own. Satisfied by what he saw through the sturdy square frames of his glasses, he turned to the right and began to walk along the outside path.

Yes, far too long. It's good to come back.

The part of the cemetery towards which he now ambled was a corner lot, full to capacity but with a space, almost a mock moat, separating it from the rest. He had hoped, long ago, to see an end to this silent segregation, but to no avail: it seemed a forgone eventuality that the invisible barrier would still be there the day he left this world for good. It was as he approached the quarter of interest that he perceived the presence of another visitor, a young woman in last year's casual clothes kneeling before a grave marker topped by a clenched fist. Her hair, tucked into a loose ponytail, was the color of snow. As the man placidly drew near, she looked up with a start. Her eyes were a clouded blue, a hue the man knew as well as he knew the wary expression on her delicate face.

''Sorry,'' he said softly. ''Didn't mean to surprise you.''

''It's fine,'' came the curt reply. ''I was just leaving.'' The stranger pushed herself onto her feet, seeming to care little about the grass stains on her knees. As she passed him, the man felt a recollection stir in the depths of his ancient memory banks. He glanced at the marker she had been contemplating, as humble up close as it was from afar: HARRINGTON was the name engraved, 2010-2058 the span of the lifetime. There was an epitaph as well: SEMPER ADIVVO, it read.

''Just a minute,'' he called. ''Are you...'' He indicated the marker. ''Are you a relative..?''

The woman's expression turned hostile. ''What?''

''Nothing, sorry.'' He offered a cautious shrug. ''For a moment I thought you looked like her, that's all.''

''You...'' The ice thawed just a little. ''You knew Harrington?''

''Not intimately, but yes.'' The man smiled nostalgically. ''I worked alongside her in California, during the war.. Now that I look back on it, I must have caused her a lot of trouble.''

''And her partner..?'' Suddenly the mood was warmer, less isolating. ''You knew her as well?''

''Of course,'' he chuckled. ''They were inseparable.'' He turned back to the row of graves, pointing out the one at the head of the next row: RICHARDSON, it read, giving the same dates and then, SEMPER AMO. ''Born, lived and died together. I never saw one without the other.''

''How did you come to know them?''

''That's a story in itself... But I should give my name, shouldn't I?'' He made an awkward little bow. ''I am Yanami Shouta. Nice to meet you.''

''Yanami? Wait... Not the Yanami Shouta? Who won the first Pulitzer for Interplanetary Journalism?''

''I'm just a footnote now,'' said Shouta ruefully, ''and it wasn't a very good piece of journalism. I guess you would be the granddaughter of these two?''

''Yeah.'' It was clearly not something she took pride in. ''I'm Valentina Harrington. Sorry if I was, you know...''

Shouta nodded to himself. ''I knew they had a daughter, but I lost track of what happened to her after they passed away.''

''She married a third-layer Terran,'' said Valentina. ''And so here I am,'' she continued, voice turning bitter, ''just another bastard halfbreed looking for her roots.'' Shouta was trying to think of a sympathetic reply when the woman walked back to the graves, head down. ''Can you tell me anything more about my grandparents? I know they were gosta and that they fought with a PMC during the war, but that's about all. I still don't know where they actually worked, where their names came from or any of their personal details. I didn't even know where they were buried until a week ago.''

The man raised an eyebrow. ''Your parents haven't ever told you what they did, what they fought for?''

Valentina shook her head. ''I think they're ashamed of whatever it was.''

''They shouldn't be,'' Shouta replied firmly, ''but I can see why they would think like that. Old taboos die hard.''

''Especially when your ancestors were mass-produced suicide bombers, huh?''

''Yes.'' Shouta gazed out over the graves. ''I remember there was a lot of opposition to the idea of any being buried here, with other veterans of the war... It sounds as if things haven't changed much since I retired,'' he sighed and turned to the cemetery corner itself, where a cluster of statues were arranged. ''First time here?''

''Yes.''

''Well, then.'' Shouta began walking towards the statues. ''Come over here for a minute, would you?'' Valentina followed, and soon the two came to stand before the monuments. ''Now,'' the old man went on, ''take a good look at these.''

Valentina's eyes wandered over the nearest statue. It was life-size bronze on a marble base and depicted a short-haired young woman with her hands bound and a thick noose about her neck. Her face was one of defiance. JIANG XUE, read the plaque mounted at her feet, 1999-2018. Under the numerals was a quotation: ''I'm not afraid to die, not if the one I love is spared betraying her people.''

''Sorry,'' said Valentina. ''I've heard the name, but it doesn't really mean anything to me.''

''How about the next, then?''

The second statue was of another woman, older and taller, with a proud bearing. She wore what appeared to be a boiler suit, and tousled hair poked out from under a flat cap. In her hands was a detailed rendition of an old Terran weapon, a heavy thing with a long proboscis of a barrel. AZANAEL, the cast letters dutifully reported, 1966-2071. Her epitaph read simply, BONA FEMINA.

''We learned about her in school, but why...'' The living woman looked to her companion for enlightenment. ''Why is there a monument to an Arume in this place?''

''The short answer is that it is here for the same reason as all the others, namely because the orthodox telling omits her greatest contributions. A certain person, however, felt her role should be acknowledged and had enough money and influence to put this up. The long answer is... Well, it's enough to make a big book out of. The story of your grandmothers, and indeed of this whole edifice, is the story of the war's third-layer Pacific front itself.''

''I've got time,'' Valentina answered promptly. ''I mean, if you don't mind talking about it.''

''You're sure? We could be here well into the night if we're not careful.''

''I'm not in a rush to go back.''

''Very well.'' Shouta sat on the grass before the statues. ''What you must understand - or perhaps you do already - is that the popular narrative of what we call the Second Layer War is, to put it politely, a politically correct one.'' He looked up at a passing cloud for a second or two. ''I can tell you the story as I witnessed it and as I learned it from those who experienced it firsthand, but I must warn you that it is not a happy story, a nice story or a satisfying story. It is definitely not a story that I think those who write the textbooks now would want you to hear... But beyond all that, it is a true story, a story I've wanted to tell for many years. There was a time when I'd gladly have given up a thousand medals to see it published, but... Well, never mind that.''

''All right,'' Valentina answered. ''Uh, one question first.''

''Yes?''

''Who paid for these? Who was it who wanted them remembered?''

''For all his efforts, his name appears on only the oldest of them.'' Shouta pointed to the largest of the works of bronze, set a little ways apart from the rest. ''Forgive me if a tired soul waits here.''

The big statue showed three men in battle gear, two carrying the third between them. Instead of a plaque, this one's text was inscribed directly on the base: Dedicated to the members of B Company, Hong Kong Provisional Port Authority, for their selfless stand at Avondale, Arizona on the 28th of February, 2019. In fighting to the last and giving up their own lives to block an enemy force pursuing evacuating casualties, they went above and beyond the expectations of their employer, let alone the call of duty. Below was a signature and date, ten years to the day after the event commemorated.

''No way...'' Valentina turned to Shouta for confirmation. ''Why would he of all people sponsor this?''

''There was a time when I would have asked the same,'' said the ex-journalist quietly.

''And the statue itself... It's based on that famous photo, isn't it? The one they call this century's Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima?''

''Yes... A photo taken by my partner at the time, Ikari Shinji. That figures into the story as well, so come and get comfortable.''

''Okay.'' The woman sat cross-legged and waited expectantly.

Shouta took a minute to order his thoughts. ''It's hard to pick a good point to begin,'' said he at last. ''How well do you know your second and third-layer histories of the twentieth century?''

''Well enough, I guess... They're generally the same, unless the higher-ed flavors are also 'politically correct'.''

''Luckily for my throat, the Arume don't much care what's taught about the prewar period. If you at least payed attention in class, that should save me some hours of talking... As I was saying, even though the Arume started the conflict - as they did the First Layer War, when I was a child - the Second had roots deeper than just an alien invasion, so digressions are probably inevitable. I'll try to keep them relevant, I promise.''

''Go for it.''

''Let me see... I think the best place to start is with the incident which first brought the existence of the third universal layer to the attention of the Arume, the affair of the frigate Narwhal...''

As he spoke, long-dormant gears began to turn, shedding the rust of decades. Old skills sparked and sputtered to life, processing a lifetime of comedy and tragedy in equal measure. One subject was tabulated and compiled for smooth presentation, then another. Patterns were recognized, familiar faces appeared again and again. The past replayed itself: the coming of the Arume, the rise and fall of the Unified States, the birth of New Communism, the overthrow and resurrection of the Ibuki shogunate and - always somewhere in the background - the comings and goings of an arms dealer whose name graced but one pedestal amidst the whole compacted legacy of an era defined by his customers.

The old Shouta, that intrepid spirit displaced by the inexorable march of time, had resumed operation.