Chương 75: 30.Rigged under Name of Fairness 30-2

"Through proper channels first." When I said it out loud, my tone sounded calm enough that I almost convinced myself. In reality, my mental state more closely resembled a carbonated drink that had been shaken for three solid minutes, forced into a uniform, and was now maintaining a completely normal exterior while the inside prepared to detonate at any moment. Group 144. Hoshino Shimo. Jess McCallow. Tarag. Cyrus. The problem with this roster wasn't unfamiliarity. It was that the unfamiliarity felt deliberate.

If the Academy had actually run a genuine lottery, you'd expect at least some normal statistical variance. But this list didn't feel like "bad luck." It felt like someone had swept the leftover inconvenient parts into one box and slapped fair systemic lottery on the label. Jess walked beside me toward the academic affairs section, still glancing back at the electronic board.

"Say Tarag and Cyrus really are maintenance staff," she said.

"Does the school owe us overtime pay?"

"If they actually are maintenance staff, I'd be relieved," I said.

"At least maintenance people understand tools, structures, and which walls leak."

"Fair point." Jess nodded.

"What I'm afraid of is that they're not maintenance staff. They're some kind of ambulatory administrative error." We took the covered walkway beside the academic blocks toward the appeals window. Pre-noon Academy was particularly loud, especially after the boards went up — every corner felt like an anthill someone had just stabbed.

People arguing on the spot, negotiating in real time, frantically trying to identify strangers, and some who'd simply sat down on the pavement after reading their assignments to reconsider their existence. All perfectly normal. Forest School wasn't a field trip. It was the Academy politely gift-wrapping you and dropping you somewhere designed to roast, waterlog, and psychologically dismantle you, then saying: Survive and you pass.

Given that premise, looking at your roster and finding what appeared to be a mixed-waste recycling bin in human form — not fainting on the spot already counted as successful conditioning. The Academic Affairs appeals window was tucked behind the second teaching block, in a location that specialized in buck-passing just from the architecture. Two signs at the entrance: Cadet Affairs and Grouping Consultation. The moment I saw "consultation" I wanted to laugh.

Every room in this Academy labeled "consultation" existed not to give you options, but to help you "align with reality." The queue was substantial. Ahead of us stood a male cadet who looked close to tears, repeatedly checking his grouping on his terminal. Further ahead was an Upper House girl, spine immaculate, standing like she intended to stare the system into voluntary rearrangement through sheer posture. Jess leaned close and murmured:"How long before they dismiss the one in front?"

"Three minutes."

"Too generous. I bet we hear 'comprehensive systemic assessment' within two." I looked at her.

"Your command of bureaucratic dialect is getting disturbingly fluent."

"Occupational hazard. Spend enough time here and even idiots self-teach survival vocabulary." By the time the Upper House girl reached the window, we knew Jess had won. The academic affairs officer behind the counter was young, soft-voiced, with the professionally trained calm of someone who'd stopped being surprised by human misery. He reviewed her student number and group assignment without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"Forest School groupings this cycle were determined by comprehensive systemic assessment, incorporating academic performance, functional complementarity, physical fitness aptitude, disciplinary observation, and curriculum configuration requirements. Individual placement requests are not accommodated." The Upper House girl was visibly unconvinced.

"But the person in Group Seven and I—""Absent documented medical contraindications, disciplinary restrictions, or mission compatibility conflicts, reassignments are not approved as a general principle."

"That's unreasonable." The officer nodded with the attentiveness of someone being told the dormitory pillows were too firm.

"Your feedback has been noted." Jess murmured beside me: "Noted, then launched with precision into the deep void of space." I nearly laughed. The Upper House girl left with a face so polished it was one wrong word from cracking. The moment she was gone, Jess tilted her head toward me.

"See that? That's the beauty of proper channels. They decline you with such perfect courtesy that flipping the table would only make you look uncivilized." Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"Hold on," I said.

"It's not our turn yet." When it was, the officer behind the window looked up at me. Then paused. Just barely. But I caught it. Perfect. The aftershock from Leo and the doctor had spread faster than I'd hoped. Even this entry-level bureaucrat — whose job description was to label, file, and bounce people back for corrections — already knew I was the grey-uniform new intake who'd been personally escorted back to the Lower House by two institutional landmarks. I gave him my student number and showed him Group 144.

"I'm filing an appeal."

"Please state your grounds." His tone was perfectly standardized. Training recording quality. I matched it as best I could.

"I'm requesting clarification on the composition basis for Group 144," I said.

"I can only identify one member of this team. The functional classification, compatibility rationale, and grouping considerations for the other two members — Tarag and Cyrus — are not available to me. As a special recruit under observation, I should theoretically be entitled to a clearer grouping explanation." Half of that was my own reasoning. The other half was assembled on the walk over, stitched together from the annoying but useful language I'd heard from Leo, Harvey, and Jess.

It landed well enough — at least the officer didn't immediately flag me as someone there to cause trouble. He looked down and queried the system.

"Group 144 is a first-year mixed survival unit, four-person configuration, allocated according to curriculum requirements."

"What are those requirements?"

"Comprehensive aptitude."

"Comprehensive how?" He looked up, apparently realizing I wasn't the type to accept one sentence and back away quietly.

"Cadet Hoshino," he said, still perfectly even.

"This grouping incorporates functional complementarity, observation convenience, risk balancing, and dynamic combination testing. Full details are not available for public disclosure." Jess stepped in immediately, voice sweet enough to qualify as a delivery mechanism for poison.

"Translation: we have reasons but we're not telling you." The officer glanced at her.

"If you're not the primary appellant—""I'm in the same group." Jess slapped her own terminal on the counter.

"And if I'm being dropped into a firestorm planet, I think I'm entitled to know how the school decided to tie me to two people who materialized from nowhere." That was actually a fair question. I could almost feel the officer wanting to say something before he looked back down at his system, apparently searching for a more courteous way to be unhelpful.

"Tarag and Cyrus have both been assessed by the system as eligible for inclusion in first-year survival groupings," he said. I stared at him.

"That answer contains no information."

"If you wish to contest the eligibility of specific cadets, you may submit a separate inquiry to the joint curriculum and discipline window." Jess turned to me, face reading: Here it is. Buck-passing, first form. I took a slow breath.

"Let me rephrase," I said.

"Both Jess and I have reasonably documented records and identifiable functional types. We've been placed in a four-person unit where two members had zero visible information prior to the public roster. My question is: is this a survival group, or is this the Academy's waste disposal bin?" The queue behind us went noticeably quiet. The officer's expression finally shifted — not to anger, more like he was calculating whether I belonged in difficult but manageable or difficult and best avoided.

He chose the path all bureaucrats know best.

"This window handles formal appeals only and has no authority to modify system-assigned groupings."

"Then who does?"

"If you wish to pursue this further, you may visit the curriculum liaison office to complete a reassignment request form." Jess made a sound.

"That sounds promising."

"Shut up," I muttered. So we were redirected to the curriculum liaison office. The curriculum liaison office felt even more coffin-shaped than the appeals window. Inside sat a middle-aged woman in glasses, wearing the particular exhausted benevolence that develops after years of being fed institutional logic. That benevolence was dangerous because it made her refusals look like she was acting in your best interest. I explained the situation from the beginning. She listened. Nodded. Consulted a form.

Checked her terminal. Nodded again. Then she slid an electronic request across to me.

"Please indicate your grounds for reassignment." I looked at the options: Medical restriction Psychological adjustment concerns Functional conflict Disciplinary observation prohibition Special mission requirements Other I stared at Other for two seconds, strongly tempted to type: This group appears to have been assembled by someone emptying a parts bin. I wanted to survive, so I didn't.

I checked Functional conflict and Insufficient grouping transparency, then added: Recommend providing at minimum functional summary and configuration rationale for all group members to ensure basic mission compatibility. Very clean. Very rational. Very much like something written by someone who still believed the system would respond. The woman scanned it and smiled faintly.

"We'll forward this for review."

"How long?"

"In principle, Forest School groupings are finalized. Reassignment review requires joint input from academic affairs, discipline, and the responsible course instructors." Translation: Not soon. And even if soon, probably useless. Jess stood beside me with her arms crossed, looking increasingly like she was watching a masterclass in institutional waste management.

"What if the preliminary assembly is this afternoon?" she asked. The woman's smile held.

"If the review is not completed before assembly, please report to your assigned group as listed."

"So," I said, "even if we think this group is fundamentally flawed, we still have to show up like good cadets and hope some superior eventually decides to grant us a reassignment miracle?" She actually nodded.

"That's one way to understand it." Jess almost laughed. I didn't. Because right now I wanted to bite someone. Coming out of the curriculum liaison office, we were each holding an appeal receipt. Thin, neatly formatted, officially stamped — it looked like a document full of promise. In practice, it was about as effective as writing a wish on paper and feeding it into a drainage grate. We stood in the corridor for three seconds of silence. Then Jess spoke first.

"I get it now."

"Get what?"

"Proper channels aren't for solving problems." She held the receipt up to the light like she was admiring a piece of premium satire.

"They're so that before you reach despair, you've first walked the entire procedure. That way when you eventually break down, it's in a manner the Academy finds appropriate." I looked at her.

"That line should be printed under the school crest."

"Thank you. I accept the award." I folded the receipt and put it in my pocket. The appeal hadn't failed. More precisely, it hadn't even properly started before it was sentenced to suspended execution in the most civilized, most courteous, most bureaucratic fashion imaginable. Comprehensive systemic assessment. Curriculum requirements. Functional complementarity. Dynamic combination testing. Individual placement not accommodated. Absent medical or disciplinary grounds, reassignments not approved.

Every sentence complete. Every sentence polished. Every sentence combined meaning: Shut up and accept it. I stood in the corridor and let out a slow breath. Right. I had gone through proper channels. I queued. I filled out forms. I made reasoned arguments. I even restrained myself from filling the Other field with profanity. And what the Academy gave me in return was a full set of freshly polished official language and a very attractive receipt. So that was that. I turned to look at Jess.

She'd read something off my face. The smile pulled back a little.

"So?" I put my hand in my pocket. My fingertip found the folded receipt — thin as a piece of cloth that had never intended to cover anything.

"Nothing," I said. Then, very calmly, I added:"Just looks like I need to find someone who doesn't work through proper channels."