Chương 69: 28.Guardian Field Cannot Be Blank 28-2

Standing there in the faculty office, hugging my board, I felt like a piece of scrap just pulled off a conveyor belt for reclassification. The Tactical Theory instructor's face was as readable as a grade report that had already decided you didn't need a second chance. Linde sat beside him, glasses on, uniform perfect, clean enough that you could almost believe last night in the greenhouse hadn't happened at all. I was on my feet. He was seated. He had the paperwork.

Plenty to make your stomach hurt before anyone said a word. The instructor flipped a page, voice as even as a weather bulletin.

"Hoshino. Do you know why you were called in today?" That's the worst kind of question. No matter how you answer, you're digging. Say you don't, you're too clean. Say you might, you're volunteering. Answer too fast, you look guilty. Too slow, it sounds like you're sorting which ghost to invite out first. I was about to take the safest line when the door opened again. Freya Nikaido walked in.

That platinum hair flared in the morning light like someone had taken last night's greenhouse glow, refracted it, and clipped it to her head. She was back to her usual mode: cap, uniform, collar, insignia — all of it so correct it made you want to stand up and clap for the regulations manual. She looked at me first, then at Linde. Just one look. My brain dropped to two words. I'm fucked. Those photos from last night were still sitting quietly inside my light novel.

This morning I was standing in the middle of a faculty office under a three-way review: instructor, General Affairs, Disciplinary Chair. Configurations like that usually don't result in awards. And if they did, the certificate would be stapled to three days in detention. I surveyed my options for dying. Before I could pick the one with the best aesthetics, Nikaido spoke.

"Hoshino," she said, "do you know why we called you in today?" Her voice was flat, exactly like when she caught people breaking curfew in the corridor. None of last night's softened undertones, none of the least flicker that might have told me she recognized me. That was worse. The first answer that jumped into my head was: Ma'am, I accidentally saw you and Linde kissing enthusiastically in the greenhouse last night, deeply sorry about that. Good news: I wasn't quite stupid enough to say it out loud.

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"Ma'am," I said instead, straightening, forcing my voice into the register of an innocent, sleep-deprived Lower House cadet, "I don't know." Nikaido didn't respond right away. She picked up a sheet from the desk, skimmed it like she was confirming the ridiculousness level of this particular mess.

"There's a problem with your admission file." For a second I thought I'd misheard. Not the photos. Not the greenhouse. Not high-level misconduct between Disciplinary and General Affairs. My… admission file? I blinked and, half a beat later, really wanted to swear. Motherfucker, don't scare people like that. You put three people like this in a room with me, any normal person is going to go straight to worst-case scenarios. And in the end, it's an admin issue.

The Federation Academy really is best-in-class at inducing hypertension using the cheapest possible methods. I cleared my throat.

"What kind of problem?" Nikaido flipped the sheet over and this time read it.

"Your family section is blank. Emergency contact, blank. Permanent address, blank. Previous guardian information incomplete. Remarks field contains only a special-entry code and a military referral number." She looked up at me.

"In other words, someone removed half your basic data on purpose." My brain translated that into something more practical: If you die, the school currently has no registered next of kin to call to collect the body. Viewed that way, the whole thing suddenly had that special Federation warmth.

"Uh…" I thought about lying, decided it was more work than it was worth.

"I'm an orphan." Saying it out loud felt odd. Not sad. Not angling for pity. Just the particular shift that happens when you state something other people like to pretend doesn't exist, in the same tone you'd use to report a serial number. The room always catches. It did. The instructor's expression didn't move. Linde stayed dead-faced. Nikaido just watched me, not putting on anything unnecessary. That helped. At least she wasn't about to offer uniformed sympathy. Pity is irritating.

Pity from someone in uniform is worse.

"And address?" she asked.

"Address…" That one was trickier. I thought about it seriously for two seconds and realized there weren't many places in my life that qualified as "fixed residence." The ones that did were either too embarrassing or too criminal. One address did come to mind clear as day, mostly because the walls were thick, the doors were heavy, the oversight was strict, and residents didn't have many graceful exit options.

"Last permanent address work?" I asked.

"Yes," Nikaido said. I nodded and started reciting.

"Tallander, Federal High Security Correctional Facility, Sector Fourteen, maximum security wing, inmate block one-one-five-four-seven—""Hoshino." Nikaido cut me off. For the first time, her tone shifted by a fraction. Not anger — more like she was trying to decide whether I was screwing around or reporting facts, and the latter was clearly the more annoying option.

"Don't joke." I gave her the most sincerely blank look I had.

"I'm not." Then, very seriously, I added:"Or you can put Tallander Administrative Sector, Cooling Duct Seventeen. I lived there over half a year. It was warm. Summers were more low-temperature oven, but still." Even the Tactical Theory instructor looked up at that. Something flickered behind Linde's lenses — like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.

Even the General Affairs Officer probably didn't have a standard operating procedure ready for cadets listing prisons and cooling ducts as home addresses. Nikaido studied the document in her hand for two seconds and appeared to decide the address question could wait.

"No parents," she said.

"Any contact person at all? Someone we can call if necessary?" That one, at least, had an answer. I just wasn't sure who in the room would take it worst. I tipped my head.

"Sort of." The instructor finally spoke.

"What does 'sort of' mean?"

"It means there is someone you can call," I said.

"I'm just not sure you'll believe me." Nikaido set the paper down.

"You can call now." I nodded. Oddly, that loosened something. Not safety — something more like curiosity. I'd gone into this expecting the faculty office to pin me down. Now I was genuinely interested in which way the faces in this room would go when the person on the other end actually picked up.

"May I use a phone?"