Chương 318: 135.Test Success 2

FTL. The thing we'd been saying, repairing toward, scraping our lives together for, all the way to now — the thing we were finally, actually about to touch the edge of. Ash didn't hesitate.

"Approved," he said. The main display switched again. This time, it wasn't just the Kamikaze. The entire propulsion architecture of the ship opened up layer by layer — the Kamikaze, the warp-side reaction loop, the Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant bypass interface, the FTL engine primary sequence, the inertial stabilization rings, the navigation sync array, the hull stress distribution map. If before had been reading a heart monitor, this was the whole skeleton and every organ hauled up on stage at once.

"Full systems simulation — no live jump," Akari said quietly, as if reminding our brains not to frighten themselves to death in advance.

"It'll run through the full ignition, sync, warp-prep, simulated load stress, and FTL engine closed-loop response."

"Translate," I said. Roy translated for her.

"Translated: we're about to watch whether this ship is capable of simulating if we actually jumped, would we hold together — without actually jumping."

"Thank you, that translation is extremely reassuring."

"You're welcome." Engineering began reporting the sequence. This time, Harvey was quiet. Not because he'd suddenly matured. Because even he understood that this part wasn't for noise. Borodin worked down the list, one item at a time.

"Kamikaze preheat holding."

"Warp-side conditioning output connected to simulation loop."

"Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant bypass auxiliary, ready to absorb peak load."

"FTL engine primary sequence standing by."

"All-ship inertial stabilization rings, raise to Level Two." The Yukikaze shivered again — very slightly. Different from before. Before had been a heartbeat. This felt more like a spine slowly straightening. On the main display, the FTL engine's primary line — which had been dark until now — began lighting up, section by section. Like a skeleton that had been sleeping for a very long time, being woken one inch at a time. I stared at it and found I didn't dare blink.

Because everything we'd done to get here — every repair, every resource run, every time we'd scraped enough life together to take the next step — had been for this moment. Not for the mining. Not for the fights. Not to prove how long we could stay alive. But to get this ship moving again. Farther. Faster. Out of the kind of existence where every step felt like begging the universe for one more.

"Simulation load at ten percent," Borodin said. The curve rose. Steady.

"Thirty percent." Still steady.

"Fifty percent." The whole Yukikaze let out a low sound. Not a cry of pain. The sound of an old ship's bones testing themselves at the edge of their limit. Like she was asking: Can I still do this? My palms were sweating. Beside me, Jess, who had barely stopped talking all day, was silent, eyes fixed on the data. Lan's hand rested motionless on a calibration key. Roy was biting his lower lip. Akari hadn't moved, watching every feedback ring. Even I had stopped the internal commentary. Fuck.

This was what real tension felt like.

"Seventy percent." One instant — a secondary loop in the lower right of the main display jumped. My heart nearly jumped with it. Harvey's voice came immediately: "Sub-loop three, brief deviation — within tolerance!" Borodin answered with one line: "Watch the primary." I locked my eyes on the primary. It held. Sub-loop three, like a child who knew exactly how far to push before pulling back, jumped once and then slid obediently back into normal range.

"Eighty percent."

"Navigation sync normal," Akari said.

"Inertial stabilization rings holding," Roy said.

"Hull stress within limits," Lan said.

"Ninety percent." Borodin pressed it down. The whole ship went very quiet. Quiet enough that I could almost hear my own blood moving past my eardrums. On the main display, the line representing the FTL engine's primary sequence steadily climbed to the position we'd been working toward this entire journey. No collapse. No chaos. No secondary pathway suddenly spraying fire sideways like it had lost its mind. No part of the system screaming sorry, I'm still broken. It just — held steady. Glowing. Like an answer.

Like a long-overdue yes, we're ready. Borodin stared at the data for a full three seconds. Three seconds is short. But in that kind of moment, three seconds is long enough to drag an entire stretch of someone's life through it. Then he said:"Full systems simulation: passed." My mind went blank. Just for a second.

Because I realized I genuinely didn't know which to reach for first — happiness, laughter, the urge to swear, or the urge to stand up and give the entire universe the middle finger, because look, all of us broken, patched-together idiots actually brought her back. The next second, Harvey detonated in the engine room with a shout that was barely in control.

"We passed—!"

"Lower your voice. My ears," D said.

"Let him," Ash said — and, improbably, didn't stop it. Just those two words, mild as anything. That was already generous. Roy leaned back and let out a long breath. Lan took his hands off the console; that permanent keep the world at arm's length look on his face finally loosened a fraction. Jess tapped her earpiece, like she was double-checking that passed hadn't been a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. And me— I laughed first. Not the elegant kind.

More like the sound you get from someone who's just crawled out of final exams, make-up exams, physical therapy, survival training, and a social disaster all stacked together, and then, at the end, sees a barely passing score on the sheet and can't help it.

"Shimo." Someone called me. I turned — and Maki was in the bridge doorway. I had no idea when she'd gotten there. She still carried a faint trace of decon antiseptic, the brace on her left leg downgraded to a simpler support. Her face was paler than usual, but she was standing. And for a second, I honestly couldn't tell whether it was the FTL sim passing or the fact that she was there that had made me laugh. … Wonderful. Very good. Extremely bad for my dignity.

Ash glanced back at her, confirmed she wasn't about to collapse on the spot, and waved her in without a word — not even a token medical clearance? Apparently this was good-news day, and even the captain's tolerance threshold had been forcibly bumped up half a notch. Maki came to stand beside me, looking up at the main display, where the primary sequence curve still burned steadily.

"It passed," she said.

"Yeah," I answered. Then I thought about it and added:"This time it really passed." Maki gave me a quiet look.

"I know."

"No, I mean—" I stalled, hearing myself sound stupid and being unable to stop it.

"Not the 'theoretically possible' kind of pass. The 'we can actually start prepping real point-to-point jumps' kind of pass."

"I know," she said again. Her voice dropped the second time — soft enough that it sounded like she wasn't just saying it to me, but to herself. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"We're almost going home, Shimo." Something tightened in my chest. Not heavy. Just deep. I stared at the engine curve climbing smooth and sure across the display and realized I'd been bracing all day. From Planet Three, to the first wave's recovery, to the Kamikaze test, to Evelyn's discharge, to Borodin running the full systems sim — I'd been holding on. Not letting myself get happy too fast. Not letting myself believe too early. Not letting myself say we're really almost home and relax into it.

Maki had just taken that sentence, said it once, flat — and hit it dead on. I turned my head away, not eager to let her see whatever was on my face.

"…Don't say it like you've already plotted the whole return route," I muttered.

"I haven't," she said.

"Then why say it."

"Because you were laughing." …Fantastic. Caught. Her observational skills really were a problem. I was about to fire back when Jess, with her usual sense of timing, cut in from the side:"Wow. FTL just came back online and the mood between certain people on this bridge has also recovered at faster-than-light speed." A vein jumped at my temple. I lifted the nearest data slate in her direction.

"You've had a good day. Don't burn through your credit in the last five minutes." Jess gave me a wounded-innocent look.

"I'm just expressing my deep emotional response to system restoration."

"You can keep that emotion restricted to hardware."

"Hard to say. There's a lot worth being emotional about today." Maki ignored her, just stood beside me and watched the main display. I didn't answer Jess either. Because, for some reason, that moment felt like enough. The Yukikaze's core was lit. The FTL sim had passed. Evelyn was out of the bed. The first wave had come home alive. For at least today, none of us were being shoved face-first into the mud by fate. That was enough. Enough to believe there really was a next stretch of road ahead.

I looked at the forward screen and couldn't stop a small, ridiculous smile.

"All right," I said.

"Let's believe it. Just this once." The Yukikaze didn't turn into a festival ship just because the FTL system sim passed. She didn't know how. The closest description would be this: the whole ship felt like someone with a long-running fever who'd insisted on working anyway, finally being forced to sit down long enough to get a normal temperature reading. And then everyone froze for two seconds, only to remember, half a beat late— Oh. We're allowed to be glad. The first to lose control was Harvey.

The engineering channel was still open. He was yelling himself hoarse down there, loud enough that if the new Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant started exhibiting odd vibrations, I'd suspect half of them were his fault.

"It passed! It really passed! Chief, did you hear that curve? That curve was like God signing off in person—""I'm more worried God will regret it if He has to listen to you," Borodin cut in, dry as rust.

"Bring me the Number Three monitor. This is not the time for you to share your feelings with the engine."

"This isn't sharing feelings, this is professional enthusiasm."

"Get any more enthusiastic and I'll stuff you into a cooling duct." The background noise from engineering was exactly what you'd expect from a Yukikaze-class miracle: cranes moving, confinement rings calibrating, Harvey yelling "Don't touch that interface, I just aligned it," and Borodin's voice — the kind that could scare a robotic arm back into warranty compliance in one sentence. … Weirdly enough, that noise was comforting. Because it meant everything really was moving. Not "we're almost there" on paper.

Not projected recovery in a report. Real people in the aft guts of the ship, using wrenches and formulas and sleep deprivation and whatever remained of their lifespan to shove the Yukikaze back toward able to jump again. Ash stood at the main console like he'd finally allowed himself to step half a pace back from whatever state he'd been holding all day. Half a pace. Any more and it wouldn't be him.

"Bridge maintains Level One readiness," he said.

"Engineering has full authority on subsequent thermal stabilization and interface tuning. Everyone else—" He paused and looked around the bridge. The pause was short. But here, today, it landed heavier than it had any right to. Then he finished.

"…Go eat something that counts as food." The bridge went still for a second. Then Roy asked, very seriously:"When you say 'counts as food,' sir, do you mean 'one extra nutrition bar,' or actual food?" Jess laughed at her console.

"Serious question. The Yukikaze's definition of 'celebration' has historically hovered around 'five extra minutes of hot water in the showers.'""Five extra minutes is already touching," I said.

"Did you forget we were washing our faces with lukewarm recirc five days ago?"

"That wasn't washing," Jess said.

"That was making peace with reality." Lan closed his slate and added, mild:"Given shipboard resources, if the mess adds one egg to dinner, I'd classify that as a national holiday."

"You all have very little faith in the Federal catering system," Aida's voice came from medbay.

"I took a look already. Tonight is, in fact, upgraded." Every eye in the room shifted to the screen. Aida still had her corpse-still medical-officer face on, tone as dry as ever.

"Not nutrition bricks. Not semi-liquid invalid rations. And not the canned 'creative stew' Harvey proposed yesterday, which I rejected under the category 'suspected industrial incident.'" Harvey, in engineering, sounded personally wounded.

"That pot had a lot of potential."

"Yes. Enough potential that the analyzer refused to categorize it as food," Aida said. I nearly laughed outright. The happiness running through the room was a strange one. It wasn't the dramatic, group-hug, tearful kind. No theme song swelled. It felt more like a bunch of people who'd spent a long time with their teeth clenched, backs braced, and we can celebrate if we survive as a daily mantra, suddenly realizing that tonight they might not have to think about dying tomorrow first.

And then discovering they weren't completely sure how to be happy without a threat bouncing around in the background. I was still a little dazed on the way to the mess. The corridor lights were set to night mode. The harsh daytime white had been pushed down, replaced by softer strips along the bulkheads. Still the Yukikaze, not a cruise ship — but it no longer felt like the lighting was ready to drag you back into your duty roster and bury you there. Maki walked beside me. Not too close. Not far, either.

That actively annoying distance — Close enough that I couldn't pretend I didn't notice she was there. Not close enough to let me pretend this was just two crewmates grabbing food. Her left leg was still braced, so her pace was a little slower than usual, but her gait was steady. Steady enough that you'd never guess she'd been driven into the ground by four-plus G earlier today. Thinking about that made something in my chest climb up again. Not anger. Not only fear.

Some knotted mess that had been jammed in place since Planet Three and had chosen now — engines passed, Evelyn out, extra food tonight — to try clawing its way up. Maki must have felt me staring, because she turned her head.

"What?"

"… Nothing." I answered too fast. Fast enough that even I wanted to applaud myself. Outstanding. That level of evasion would get me called out in any normal human relationship. Unfortunately the person next to me was Maki Kushima, and her ability to spot bullshit was worse than some military sensors. She watched me for two seconds and then, instead of dismantling the lie on the spot, just said, very quietly:"If you're going to yell at me, you can wait until after we eat." I choked. …

Did this woman really remember that? It took me a second to realize she was referring to the line from this morning. What did she do, log every cabin interaction verbatim? I opened my mouth and complete sentences actually failed to appear. Because I had meant to yell at her. I'd meant to yell about that extra second on Planet Three. About not dropping the crystal the instant gravity pinned her.

About coming off that hellscape and still having the nerve to drop bombs in my ear over a private line until I nearly overheated on the bridge. Except now that she was standing in front of me, I couldn't find a clean starting point. It felt bad. And very not Hoshino Shimo. I defaulted to the safest line. The one that sounded most like me.

"You shouldn't have ridden it out that extra second today," I said. Maki looked at me and didn't argue.

"I know."

"You know, and you still—""Because that second was worth it," she said. I stalled. Of course. She would answer like that. It wasn't bravado. It wasn't stylish recklessness. She meant it. Which made it worse. I glared at her for several seconds and came up with nothing. She took a step forward instead. Not much. Exactly enough. Bringing that safe two-pace distance down to one — just close enough that I couldn't keep hiding behind normal teammate anymore.

"But you pulled me back," she said quietly.

"…That was my job."

"I know." There it was again. I was starting to suspect Maki Kushima understood exactly how to push someone to the edge of speechlessness — and chose to deploy that talent exclusively on me. She watched me, too quiet.

"So I remember." My chest clenched. This woman really was impossible. Because she wasn't saying anything sugary. She wasn't touching me. She wasn't pinning me into a corner like last night. But I remember still hit harder than anything else could have. Light. And it sank straight in. I dragged my eyes off her and fixed them on the patch of metal wall to my right, as if the reflection there were suddenly fascinating, and ground out:"…Don't say things that make it impossible for people to think straight."

"Do I?" she asked, mildly.

"You do," I said.

"And it's a lot." She went quiet for half a beat. Then — She laughed. Not out loud. Just a little. Like one of those rare warm lights the Yukikaze turned on in the middle of the night. It made me want to swear.

"You're laughing."

"Because you're more like yourself now."

"What is 'myself,' exactly?"

"The version that snaps at people first, then admits you were actually worried." My ears went hot.

"…I did not admit anything."

"You just did."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"Maki Kushima."

"Mm."

"You are incredibly annoying."

"You said that yesterday."

"I'm starting to think you log every embarrassing thing I say." She answered, calm as a file entry:"The ones that matter, I remember." … Right. Lieutenant Hoshino, KIA in the corridor, cause of death: one sentence that looked ordinary and really, really wasn't. I stood there, knowing that if I didn't say something now, momentum was going to slide into a place I was absolutely not ready to be responsible for. When I finally opened my mouth, what came out wasn't a clean shot.

It was something soft, completely lacking in punch, and one hundred percent honest.

"Does your leg still hurt?" Maki looked at me. I don't think she'd expected, after all the circling and posturing, that the first thing I'd actually blurt out would be that. Her gaze softened. Just a little.

"A bit," she said.

"…Serves you right."

"Mm."

"You try that stunt again and I really am going to hit you before I haul you back."

"Okay." She said it so fast it stopped me cold.

"Okay what?"

"Because if it's you," she said, "you probably will." I was quiet for two full seconds. Then admitted, with no courage at all: Yeah. I probably would. Which was infuriating. And true. Footsteps echoed faintly from the far end of the corridor — someone heading down from engineering. Maki heard it too. She didn't step in any closer, just looked at me one more time.

"Go back," she said.

"You're tired too." I almost said you have room to say that? and swallowed it at the last second. In the end, all I did was nod, low.

"… Yeah." We walked back along the corridor together. This time she didn't try to close the gap. I didn't try to widen it. The lights fell in a quiet line ahead. From somewhere deep in the hull, a new low-frequency hum had joined the usual ones — not a fault, not the groan of old systems, but the heartbeat the Kamikaze and the new Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant were beginning to share. Steady. And, unexpectedly, pleasant to hear. I had the sudden thought that tonight, I might actually sleep.

(the mess hall) Evelyn was brought to the mess too, but only for twenty minutes, and Aida had restricted her to the medical version of the supplemental meal. That portion looked more refined than ours, but based on Evelyn's expression, it probably tasted like someone had cooked nutritional science and pessimism together into a paste.

"Congratulations on the discharge," I said, sitting down beside her with my soup. Evelyn looked up, the particular fragile curve of a recovering patient still at the corner of her mouth, but her voice had none of that fragility.

"Congratulations on making the ship slightly more like a ship," she said.

"When I heard the simulation passed, I almost thought I was still unconscious and having an extremely expensive dream."

"If it was a dream, your taste is strange," I said.

"Who dreams about Federal shipboard food." She looked down at her rehabilitation meal, expression complicated.

"Fair point," she said.

"No dream deserves to be insulted by something like this." Aida passed by and delivered a precise cut.

"The medical orders say restore you. Not rebuild your relationship with food."

"Your medical system really doesn't know how to have a conversation."

"Your patient system really doesn't know how to be grateful." Good. The medbay was back to normal operation. The engineering team came up to eat eventually too — on the condition that Harvey first removed the layer of machine oil and dust that suggested he'd personally wrestled the ship's entire skeleton.

Chief Engineer Borodin refused to leave the engine room until Harvey half-dragged, half-coaxed him up, with some argument along the lines of: Chief, this is the first night the core you worked so hard to save actually deserves a bowl of hot soup. I'd expected Borodin to kick him back into the piping. He didn't. That alone was proof today was genuinely a good day. Harvey sat down still in the particular afterglow that belongs to engineers — outwardly eating, soul still half-stuck to the engine parameters.

"You all know," he said, chewing a piece of meat, eyes lit up, "that response curve earlier was genuinely beautiful. Not regular beautiful. The kind where you look at it and think — oh, this thing is alive, and it's alive with a future—""Why don't you just go live with it," Jess said.

"If the chief lets me set up a cot next to the core, I'd consider it." Borodin sipped his soup slowly, not even looking at him.

"Permission granted," he said.

"But if you snore and it interferes with the magnetic confinement, I'm throwing you out first." The whole table laughed. Even Maki's mouth moved. Not obviously. Not the kind that made a sound. But I saw it. And then, without knowing why, something in my chest went soft. Genuinely annoying.

The mess warmed up in a way it rarely did — not rowdy, but the particular Yukikaze temperature that sat between tonight's extra food deserves to be remembered and tomorrow we might have to go fight the universe again, so let's get the happiness in now. Ash didn't make a formal toast. Which made sense. If Ash had stood up and delivered three minutes of remarks, I'd have suspected the FTL simulation hadn't been a test — it had accidentally reformatted the captain's brain along with the engine.

He just picked up his cup and tapped the table once, lightly. Not loud. Just loud enough that everyone at the table stopped.

"That's it for today. Good work, everyone," he said. That was it. Short. Because for the people on the Yukikaze, that level of acknowledgment had always carried more weight than any elaborate speech. D said nothing — just tapped his cup against the table, once, quietly. Roy and Lan followed naturally. Harvey nearly spilled his soup in his excitement and was flattened by a single look from Borodin.

Evelyn, in her medical chair, slowly raised her frankly uninspiring rehabilitation drink, rolled her eyes, and joined in. Jess lifted her cup toward me with a look that suggested she was specifically watching to see if I'd blush. I tapped it, expression blank.

"If you say anything strange as a toast tonight, I'm putting you on medical nutritional supplements starting tomorrow."

"Wow, fierce," Jess said.

"Don't worry. I have restraint today." She actually just tapped it and didn't say anything. Which surprised me. And left me with a feeling I couldn't quite name. Not disappointment. Absolutely not. More like something had quietly returned to where it was supposed to be. After dinner, the mess emptied out gradually.

Aida herded Evelyn back into rehab; Borodin dragged Harvey back to engineering; Roy and Lan went to work on return-navigation simulations; D had already disappeared, probably back to inspect the vehicle the third planet had abused. I wanted to slip away too. Unfortunately, reality had always known exactly how to stamp out Hoshino Shimo's small wishes. Because I'd barely stepped out of the mess when Maki followed. (and from here, the walk continues directly into the corridor scene translated above.) Assuming, of course, that once I closed my eyes, my brain didn't automatically start replaying Maki being driven to her knees on the third planet, her voice on the private channel saying beautiful, and that line just now — the ones that matter, I remember. … Fine. That level of trouble probably counts as part of being alive.