Chương 13: 07.Earned Your Stripes 07-2

When I got back to Warehouse 6A, the residents were, unusually, not fighting. That was wrong. Normal Warehouse 6A meant Reis complaining about the smoking ban, Alvin talking nonsense, Lin Wei objecting to the air quality, Han Xi expressing maximum contempt with minimum syllables, and Yurik sitting there like a breathing wall—silent enough to make you wonder if the Federation had installed him as secret structural support. Instead, they were all there. And all looking at me. Fuck. I hated this atmosphere.

It felt too much like a send-off. I stood in the doorway, holding my pathetically small bag of personal effects, scanned the room, and spoke first.

"What's with the silence. You're all making me nervous." Alvin was draped over his bunk rail, for once not immediately launching a bad joke. He looked at the bag in my hand.

"Oh," he said.

"You're actually leaving." I swung the bag onto my shoulder. My shoulder immediately filed a complaint. Right—still technically a casualty.

"Obviously." I snorted.

"Joint Operations Command. Sounds exactly like the kind of place that hands you a stack of forms and then a bigger pile of problems." Reis sat on his bunk, turning his finally-lit cigarette between his fingers, exhaling slowly.

"Not necessarily." He looked at me with that lazy half-smile.

"Maybe it's just a bigger office."

"Right," I said.

"With bigger bastards inside." Lin Wei laughed.

"That tracks." She stood up from her bunk, walked over, and looked me up and down like she was checking whether I still qualified as human. Then she very naturally pressed a small bottle into my hand. I looked down. Perfume. I looked back up.

"Seriously?"

"Obviously." She raised an eyebrow.

"A place like Dunan Station sounds like exactly the kind of environment where well-dressed people say horrible things to each other. You should at least smell like someone who's winning." I stared at the bottle for two seconds.

"Is this a blessing or a curse on everyone there?"

"Both."

"Fine." I pocketed it.

"If I actually spray this on a Joint Operations Command senior officer, you're testifying it was your idea."

"I'll deny everything." Good. Very Warehouse 6A of her. Han Xi came over from her side, holding something thin. No preamble—she just handed it over.

"Earplugs." I paused. Then understood immediately. Last night I'd promised myself I'd get earplugs, and now this woman was handing them to me directly. Strange feeling—like you'd been complaining about people being annoying, and they turned around and understood you in the most practical way possible.

"Where'd you get these?"

"Supply depot."

"Borrowed?"

"Borrowed." I nodded.

"Understood." Federation-style borrowing. Borrowed items rarely returned, and when returned, rarely in original condition. I pocketed the earplugs, keeping my voice even.

"Thanks." Han Xi made a sound of acknowledgment. That was it. No take care. No stay in touch. But I understood—this was already the highest tier she offered. Yurik hadn't moved. When I finally looked toward him, he stood up from the bunk's edge. The moment he was upright, Warehouse 6A immediately felt narrower—like someone had pulled an entire wall up from the floor and set it in front of you. He looked at me for half a second. Then said one thing: "Don't stand at the front." I almost laughed.

"A little late for that advice, isn't it?"

"Not late." Same flat tone.

"Remember it next time."... Right. Coming from him, that level of concern was roughly equivalent to a handwritten letter. I raised a hand in his direction.

"Noted, Wall." Alvin immediately jumped down from the top bunk.

"Wait, why does he get a cool line and I don't?" I looked at him without expression.

"Because even when you try for something meaningful, it comes out as garbage." The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"That's brutal."

"You've earned worse." Alvin came to stand in front of me, hands in pockets, hair still chaotic, expression still obnoxious—but something in his eyes had settled slightly.

"Okay," he said, clearing his throat.

"Real talk." I raised an eyebrow.

"You're capable of that?"

"Occasionally." He scratched his face.

"Warehouse 6A is going to be a bit boring after you leave." I looked at him.

"Missing me, or missing the bathhouse sign?"

"Both."

"Honest and awful."

"Thanks." He paused, then added: "Don't let anyone over there treat you like you're stupid." I looked at him, and suddenly felt like smiling.

"That advice coming from you has complicated credibility."

"Hey."

"Fine." I reached out and knocked his shoulder once.

"You too. Dial back the mouth, or one day someone's actually going to string you up."

"I'll use your name."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I absolutely would." Good. That was right. Everyone wrapping what they actually meant inside something not quite serious—that was Warehouse 6A. If they'd all suddenly gone solemn on me, I'd have suspected Imperial psychological contamination. Last was Reis. He sat there, finished his cigarette, pressed the stub against the tin's edge, and looked up.

"When you get there—if things go well—" I cut him off immediately.

"I'm not putting in a request for a private smoking room." Reis snorted.

"That's not what I was going to say." He stood and walked over, a head taller than me, looking down with that particular weight that came from years of front-line service. But what he said wasn't heavy.

"If things go well—remember not to become the kind of person you hate most." Warehouse 6A went quiet for a moment. That landed harder than I'd expected. Hard enough that I didn't respond immediately. Because I understood. I understood completely. Joint Operations Command. Commendations. Transfer orders. Command is pleased. All of it together didn't add up to some fairy-tale promotion. It meant the system had noticed me and was ready to move me higher—and further inside.

And Reis was reminding me: don't let it swallow you completely. I looked at him. Took two seconds before answering.

"Don't worry." I pulled one corner of my mouth up.

"My greatest quality has always been being very difficult to train." Reis laughed.

"That I believe." Good. That was enough. I wasn't suited for anything more. Another two sentences and I might start looking like I actually valued these weirdos, which was disgusting, and I refused. I adjusted my bag, stood at the Warehouse 6A doorway, and took one last look around the room. Cigarette smoke. Sweat. Cheap perfume. Bunk frames. The sink wars. Industrial hot drink rations. And that bathhouse ceasefire agreement I'd strong-armed into existence. A few days. And somehow a strange familiarity.

Like what, exactly? Like a terrible pair of boots that happened to have broken in to your feet. Not comfortable. Just—you already knew where they'd rub, so they didn't hurt as much anymore. I paused at the door for half a second, then dropped the only line that felt right.

"Right." I raised my chin.

"I'm leaving. Anyone who touches that cherry cola under my bunk—I'll come back as a ghost and strangle you." Alvin's hand shot up immediately.

"Clarify first—are you strangling before or after we drink it?"

"I'll use you to demonstrate."

"Shit." Laughter erupted in Warehouse 6A. Good. That was exactly right. I turned and walked out. Didn't look back. Because some places, once you looked back, started to resemble goodbyes. And I hated things that looked too much like goodbyes. The transit port was larger than I'd expected. Larger than I liked. The place was like a beast bloated on steel, rail lines, and logistics—the entire port section vibrating at low frequency. Up high: crossing crane arms, transport rails, and docking bay doors.

Down low: human traffic moving like ant colonies, supply crates, medical stretchers, and tow vehicles. Broadcast layers stacked on broadcast layers, people of different vessel types, different units, different destinations being sorted into their respective channels. Everyone moving. Everyone looking busy. Everyone looking like they could be repacked and shipped somewhere else on thirty seconds' notice. Very Federation. I followed the signs toward the transfer area and passed a long row of observation windows.

Looking out, I could see the docked fleet. Some were front-line vessels just returned, hulls still carrying burn marks. Others were logistics ships, clean as fresh from the shipyard. More were transport shuttles, escort craft, maintenance modules—cold fish drifting in port light. Genuinely impressive. Also genuinely irritating. Because scenes like this only ever meant one thing: The war had a long way left to run. I looked down at the transfer order in my hand.

PRIS STATION → DUNAN STATION JOINT OPERATIONS COMMAND Not many words. Substantial weight. Like a brick with your name already written on it, aimed at your future. The transfer area had fewer people than I'd expected. Made sense—people going to Joint Operations Command weren't exactly common. Either selected or sent. As for which category I fell into— Honestly, I hadn't decided yet. The transfer process was considerably more organized than Warehouse 6A's sink wars. Identity verification.

Casualty status confirmation. Transfer order check. Equipment scan. New unit code assignment. Then a duty officer who couldn't have been much older than me but already carried that particular administrative-death expression, guiding me to a designated waiting area. When he handed me the data pad, he delivered his standard line: "Upon arrival at Dunan Station, please complete check-in, identity re-registration, and tactical assessment in sequence." I looked at him.

"Is there any part of that process that isn't tedious?" He didn't blink.

"No."

"Refreshingly honest."

"It's policy." Right. Even the answers here were very Joint Operations Command. The waiting area chairs were hard. The lights were white. The air was cold. Everyone looked like they'd slept in an actual bed last night rather than a six-person bay that smelled like a biological experiment. Deeply irritating, but entirely logical. I sat down, dropped my bag by my feet, and reached into my pocket. Han Xi's earplugs. Lin Wei's small perfume bottle.

In the other pocket: the two coffee packets I'd appropriated from the documentation section. I looked at the coffee packets for a while. Then let out a quiet breath. Alright. At least I wasn't leaving empty-handed. Warehouse 6A hadn't said anything sentimental. Neither had I. David hadn't come to see me off. I hadn't gone back to find him. That was how it was. A lot of front-line relationships weren't maintained through let's keep in touch. You were just on the same ship for a while.

Survived some bad nights together. Came close to dying in a few moments, and close to something else in others. Then the transit opened. The bay doors closed. FTL jumped. People went their separate ways. Simple. Blunt. Very Federation. I tore open one of the coffee packets, brought it to my nose. Still more recognizably human than the hot drink rations. Then I leaned back against the hard chair and watched the boarding gate ahead slowly light up green. Another ship was waiting. Dunan Station was waiting.

Joint Operations Command was waiting. Fuck. Just imagining it, I could tell the next phase of my life was going to be considerably more complicated. Unfortunately, I'd always been good at surviving complicated. The broadcast came on.

"Boarding now open for Dunan Station Joint Transit Vessel." I stood, picked up my bag, and took one last look at the transit port's vast, cold steel interior. From this moment, everything before this was behind me. I turned and walked toward the boarding gate. Didn't look back.