Chương 50: 22.Academy Days 22-1

The gates of the United Interstellar Military Academy were bigger than I'd imagined. Not the kind of big that inspires awe—the kind of big that tells you, at a single glance, that if you die here, the administration has a very elegant paperwork format ready to wrap things up for you. Standing outside the gates, I felt the wind come funneling through from between the central campus towers, carrying metal, disinfectant, fuel residue, and something else—a cleanliness that was hard to name. Not actual cleanliness.

The kind left behind when someone has worked very hard to wipe away the blood. The academy crest above the gate was bright enough to hurt your eyes. United Interstellar Military Academy. Long name. In my experience, the longer the name, the more dead people they're hiding inside it. I shoved my registration documents deeper into my jacket pocket and looked up at the campus. White towers stood in rows behind the upper skybridge levels, like a set of aristocratic teeth raised on nutritional supplements from birth.

Below them, the training zones and dormitory blocks were compressed into wide gray structures—walls, railings, connecting passages, all of it carrying a quality that said you may use this, but you are not entitled to like it. The Upper House was up high. The NCO Division was down below. A very refined design. They'd even made the class hierarchy three-dimensional. I dragged my assigned luggage toward the registration line. Two queues.

The left one was white as funeral flowers; the right one was gray as a construction site. The white-uniform people stood perfectly straight—even their luggage looked better-mannered than ours. The gray-uniform side looked like a collection of unfinished products that fate had kicked through the door before they'd learned how to stand properly. I took my place in the gray queue. Somewhere nearby, a voice said quietly:"That's the special-transfer intake?" I didn't turn around.

In a place like this, turning around means admitting you care. Once you've admitted you care, the next step is getting turned into gossip garnish and served alongside the cafeteria's concentrated protein paste. The queue moved forward one space. The overhead broadcast came on—a woman's voice, cold as a metal plate.

"Attention all incoming students. Upon completing registration, proceed to collect your identification ring, training uniform, bunk assignment code, and campus access credentials. Entry is prohibited without authorization into the Upper House academic zone, equipment adjustment area, Observation Towers, sealed storage facilities, and all access corridors associated with Warehouse 6A. Violations will result in a formal demerit and placement on the observation list." Warehouse 6A. I blinked.

That name was a small thorn, going in through the ear and straight into the back of the neck. Persistent little thing. Back then it meant certain people standing behind glass, watching whether I could hold my footing in 180 km/h winds. Now it had been repainted into a campus facility with a students keep out sign. The Federation is very good at this—takes a trauma, gives it a fresh coat, hangs a new nameplate on the door, and reminds you to smile. The queue moved forward another space.

The gray-uniform boy next to me drew a quiet breath, like livestock entering a city for the first time. I looked ahead. Two rows of people were standing at the registration table. One row was ordinary administration. The other wasn't. The other row wore black armbands. The Disciplinary Committee. They didn't stand like students. More like the campus's officially sanctioned human barricades.

Each of them had a dark identification badge on their arm; their uniforms were sharper than standard issue, their boots polished to the point where you could probably see every poor decision you'd ever made reflected back at you. The woman at the front of the row was tall, her hair a silver-white that looked almost blade-like under the cold light. She wasn't making any effort to be intimidating—no raised voice, no deliberate scowl, her expression perfectly composed.

But the way she stood made something in you instinctively conclude that no creative behavior should occur within three meters of her. Standing beside her was a tall man, dark-haired, shoulders very straight, wearing the professional expression of someone who had pre-emptively decided to dislike all inconveniences scheduled for today. Wonderful. I hadn't even made it through the door and I was already missing getting dressed down by Master Tam. At least that old bastard didn't fillet you with politeness first.

When my turn came, the man reached out first.

"Registration documents." I handed them over. He flipped through two pages. His eyes stopped on a line. The outer corner of one eyebrow moved, very slightly. Not surprise. Confirmation. The way someone looks when they spot a special-priced item on a menu.

"Hoshino Shimo."

"For now," I said. He looked up at me. I looked back at him. One second of quiet in the air between us, like two small knives testing each other for rust. The woman beside him spoke. Her voice was level—level like the white wall of a hospital room.

"New student. During registration, please use complete responses. Do not use wit to test the boundaries of procedure." Oh. I see. This one files sense of humor under behavioral risk indicators. I shifted my gaze to her chest. Read the identification plate. Freya Nikaido. Chair of the Disciplinary Committee. Excellent. First day, and I'd already drawn the top card in the deck. I gave a small nod and answered properly.

"Yes. Hoshino Shimo." She looked at me for two seconds. No expression. Like she was checking a utility knife for hidden chips in the blade. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The man beside her passed me a data board.

"Identification ring. Dormitory block D-7, bunk assignment NCO Division Women's Building Three, Floor Four, Unit Sixteen. Basic campus access credentials are now active. Upper House academic zone, upper levels of the Tactical Simulation Tower, sealed equipment storage, inner ring of the Observation Room, and all access corridors associated with Warehouse 6A are restricted areas. Lights-out curfew at 2200. Non-medical, non-duty movement after lights-out requires prior notification.

Tomorrow morning, 0500 sharp: morning formation for all new students." The corner of my mouth almost moved. The Federation has a sentimental streak. Even the wake-up time it uses to torture people is a beloved classic.

"Do you have that?" he asked. I took the identification ring and bunk card.

"Yes."

"Repeat it back." I looked at him. He looked at me. Ah. There's an oral examination component. I had no choice but to recite the whole list back. Upper House, NCO Division, access levels, curfew, restricted zones, 0500 formation—all of it, like swallowing a flavorless catalog of structural steel. When I got to Warehouse 6A, I heard the breathing change in a few people behind me. Maybe someone was hearing that name for the first time.

Or maybe only I was paying attention and everyone else was just running low on oxygen. When I finished reciting, Leon Jumonji—I'd stolen a glance at his badge earlier—slapped the last supply checklist into my hand.

"Open the luggage." I looked down at the list, then back up at him.

"Right now?"

"Right now," he said.

"Random inspection." I gave a short laugh.

"Very efficient."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"And I'm not making conversation." Huh. Fast on the uptake. If he weren't standing here blocking my way, I might have considered putting him on the mouth works observation list. Too bad he was Disciplinary Committee. The Disciplinary Committee is like walking caution tape—their entire existence is designed to subtract creativity from your life. I set my luggage on the inspection table. Opened it. Not much inside.

Uniform, underlayers, toiletry kit, medical patches, the standard-issue basics from the academy, and my own old gloves. The edges of those gloves were badly worn, the knuckles stitched over in places, like they'd been through a lot of the same beatings I had. Jumonji picked up the gloves.

"Personal item?"

"Yeah."

"Purpose." I looked at those worn-out gloves in his hands and suddenly felt like laughing. Purpose? The purpose was probably to make me look like I hadn't been fished out of a trash bin. The purpose was to remind me that some things are too worn-out to throw away, because once you do, you realize you didn't have much left to begin with. None of that was appropriate for an academy intake form. So I said: "Warmth." Jumonji looked at me. The expression was unmistakable: you think I'm stupid?

I returned a very sincere look: No. I just think you're annoying. He turned the glove over and ran his thumb along the inner edge. Stopped. Shit. I let out a quiet internal sigh. There was a thin strip of metal tucked in there. Not a weapon, not technically prohibited—just an old habit I'd kept. Sometimes a thing isn't for killing. Sometimes it's for prying open locks, cutting zip ties, peeling back seals, or giving yourself a small option when you really don't want to be locked in somewhere.

Jumonji pulled out the strip and set it on the table. Thin. Bright. Inconveniently honest. The people behind me went quiet for a moment. I looked at that thing, and the only thought that surfaced in my head was a very mature and rational one. Right. First day at school, caught before I'd even made it to the dormitory. What a magnificent start to life at the United Interstellar Military Academy. Jumonji held the strip between two fingers, his voice flat.

"Warmth?"

"…Premium warmth." Somewhere nearby, someone drew a very careful breath—hard to tell if they were suppressing a laugh or holding a quiet funeral for my prospects. Freya Nikaido finally turned her gaze to the table.

"Explain." Just one word. But that word was complete. Not asking me what it was. Asking me: which version of yourself are you going to answer with. I looked at the thin strip of metal. Then at her. Then at Jumonji's face, which had apparently pre-decided this morning that I was going to be a problem. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. I wanted to say something clean. Something like it's a keepsake, or I forgot to take it out, or my last unit didn't do a thorough sweep.

People can always produce a passable piece of garbage when they need to. But I'd just walked through the door today. If I dumped my first passable piece of garbage right here, it was going to be hell to clean up later. So in the end I said:"Habit." Jumonji's brow tightened slightly. Nikaido's gaze stayed longer.

"Prying doors, picking locks, cutting restraints, keeping an exit open," I added, my voice level.

"Old habit. Not aimed at academy regulations specifically. It's just my own bad wiring." This time someone behind me actually drew a breath. Probably hadn't expected anyone to stand at an intake inspection table and this openly admit they'd shown up with a small, uncivilized survival instinct in their luggage. Nikaido looked at me for a long moment before she spoke.

"Hoshino Shimo."

"Present."

"This is not a border waste zone, and it is not a place where no one has taught you the rules. The United Interstellar Military Academy does not permit students to maintain unauthorized means of self-extraction on campus." She paused.

"But I expect you'll discover soon enough that what actually makes this place difficult isn't that the doors won't open." I looked up at her. Her voice stayed level.

"It's that even when they do, you may not be able to leave." …Wonderful. First day in and I'd already met someone who could deliver a threat with genuine literary quality. Worthy of the Chair of the Disciplinary Committee. Even the warnings came as premium-grade nooses. Jumonji confiscated the strip and ran a scan over my identification ring.

"Prohibited item confiscated. Verbal warning, first offense. Behavioral note appended to intake file."

"Appended with what?" I asked. He glanced at me.

"Exhibits pre-emptive escape tendency." I almost laughed out loud. The Federation is something else. Somewhere there's a data field where someone writes: subject maintains habit of keeping exits available while alive. I took back my identification ring and put it on. The cold metal circle bit into my skin—light, almost nothing, but it brought to mind a certain kind of restraint that doesn't require drawing blood. This thing didn't feel like a bracelet.

It felt more like a leash the academy had put on me very politely.

"Next," Jumonji said. That should have been the end of it. I should have dragged my luggage away, gone to D-7, Floor Four, Bunk Sixteen, and filed myself quietly into place like a new component that had just learned to comply. But life has a way of doing this—the harder you try to cooperate, the more it wants to get one more kick in while it's at it. I'd barely pulled my luggage off the inspection table when a voice came from the white-uniform queue behind me. Unhurried. Mild.

"The intake inspection standards for special-transfer students don't appear to be any lower." Not loud. Just loud enough for me to hear. Not rude. Just precisely calibrated to make you want to turn around. I turned around. The one who'd spoken was a girl in white uniform, shoulders beautifully straight, chin at a regulation angle. She wasn't picking a fight. She was making a very well-mannered observation.

The way an aristocrat, upon noticing mud on a carpet, might first express sympathy, and then inquire whether the carpet could still be cleaned. Our eyes met. She even gave me a polite nod. Very refined. I looked at her, and what I really wanted to say was: don't worry—the standards aren't lower, and your lives aren't worth more. I held it. I'd already donated one strip of metal today. I wasn't ready to donate my mouth to the academy as a disciplinary case study as well.

So I just nodded back, matching her courtesy exactly.

"Right. It's just that if I bite someone, the scene might be a little harder to manage." The politeness on her face paused. Someone behind her choked on a laugh. Jumonji closed his eyes briefly, like he was adding an invisible line to a running tab he was keeping on me. Nikaido spoke directly.

"Hoshino Shimo."

"Present."

"First day. Don't make me say the same thing twice." I lifted my luggage handle and nodded to her.

"I'll do my best to keep it fresh for you, Chair." This time Jumonji actually drew a breath. Short. Controlled. Exactly like a man who had just understood that the next several months were probably not going to be easy. And as I dragged my luggage into the gray corridor of the central campus, I finally looked up at the guidance lights on the ceiling. White panels extending forward one by one, like pre-assigned fates. Dormitory. Training ground. Cafeteria. Simulation Tower. Observation Room. Medical bay.

Sealed storage. Restricted zones. Every route clearly marked. How considerate. Considerate enough to remind you: Where you're allowed to go, where you're not, what you're allowed to become—best not to decide that yourself either. I hauled my luggage toward the NCO Division dormitory blocks. My soles hit the metal floor with hollow, even sounds—one after another, like someone nailing shut the lid on my new life. United Interstellar Military Academy. Officially enrolled.

Current record, as follows: One: flagged by the Disciplinary Committee before reaching the dormitory. Two: escape-use metal strip, deceased. Three: confirmed that even the air here has been queued and processed. Four: deeply unfortunate possibility that a certain Committee Chair has already memorized my face. Given that it's only day one, honestly not a bad showing. I was even starting to look forward to 0500 tomorrow morning.

Because if a place is this thorough about enrollment, what comes after is probably going to be even more interesting. And the Federation was never best at educating people properly. What it was best at was teaching people this: Even standing inside the rules, you can still be picked up and used at any time.