Chương 350: 151.Politics Is Just Like Cheap Condom 1

The three minutes Aki Kushima had bought us were almost gone. That was fine. Three minutes were never meant for anyone to be moved to tears for eternity. Three minutes were for stealing procedure, tightening talking points, slotting people into place, hauling equipment, re-blocking the formation — and for making sure the upper ranks of the Federation didn't get a spare second to file us, a group of people freshly crawled off a death list, back into their folders first.

So when Ash's voice came through my earpiece — "Prepare for the next phase" — I knew. Right. The real bones were coming down now. I looked up at the Yukikaze, still hanging in the sky above the site. The ship had been parked over the memorial since the start, like an open palm held in front of the Federation's face: not withdrawn, not swung. It just floated there, quietly enough that everyone understood. This wasn't a hallucination. Not an accident. Not a broadcast error.

Not some defense-system engineer who'd had too much to drink last night and hit the wrong button. It was real. And now the man who'd dragged the whole thing home was finally coming off it.

"They're here," Maki said quietly, standing beside me. I followed her line of sight. The fifth shuttle detached from the Yukikaze's underside. Unlike the earlier batches, it came down steady — and slow. That slowness wasn't a malfunction. Wasn't hesitation. It was deliberate. As if it wasn't carrying a crew, but the last weight the Yukikaze had pressed down onto the whole event. The noise in the venue shifted too. A minute ago the mood had been mass hysteria of the "the dead are alive" variety.

Now it was sharpening into something thinner and more pointed. People in the know were already guessing who was in the shuttle. People who didn't know could read it off the faces of the officers and Academy staff suddenly going quiet around them: whoever came out of this one wasn't ordinary. Jess leaned in close, voice low.

"That's a heavy entrance."

"That's because what it's carrying isn't an entrance. It's trouble, in person."

"You mean Ash, or the whole ship?"

"Is there a difference?" Jess thought about it.

"… No." The shuttle began its final braking. The landing-zone warning lamps lit up one by one, and the ground guidance strip ran out ahead of it — like even the Capital Ring itself understood that once this one touched down, the center of gravity of the whole event was going to shift to the other side. Admiral Bayer Vander stood not far off.

The whole time he'd been handling the families, the security perimeter, and the Capital Ring Defense Command people, he'd stayed in that mode of "soldier first, everything else later." But the moment the shuttle began its descent, his gaze locked on and didn't move. Not obviously. But enough. Fathers can be such a problem.

You can pin your insignia high, give your orders steady, carry the defense of an entire system on your back — but the second your son walks off a warship he's been missing on for a year, your eyes do something that really shouldn't be in any tactical manual. I saw it. I pretended I didn't. Sometimes playing blind is basic courtesy to people who matter. The hatch opened. First out was Lan Weiss.

She had one hand on the hatch frame and the other pressed to a comms terminal, like the shuttle landing wasn't going to interrupt the business of chewing out whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of that line. Her face was the same as always: precise, clean, devoid of emotion — like the end product of human evolution deleting every expression that wasn't strictly necessary. But when she stepped off, I could still see it. She was tired. Not the stumbling kind of tired.

The kind where her eyes are too clear — clear the way they get when you haven't really slept in a long, long time. Lan hit the deck first, swept the area left and right like she was confirming the ground was orderly for whoever came after, then stepped aside. Second was Akari Flak. Same clean economy of movement, clean enough that you'd think she'd just come back from a quick round at the next-door firing range instead of stepping off a warship that had wandered off its chart for a year.

Except her right-hand guard had fresh wear, her uniform carried a fresh patch at the flank, and the way she walked — weight shifting microscopically left, then pulling itself back to center — was more pronounced than before. That kind of person is annoying. Because the less they complain about pain, the more obvious it is that they're not having an easy time of it. Third was Evelyn Sado. Or, more precisely — Evelyn Sado, limping, but insisting she didn't need help. I almost rolled my eyes on the spot.

Her left leg was clearly still a problem. Every step of the way down was defiance. And her face stayed cold, as if she wasn't injured but simply mildly offended by gravity. Akari reached out to steady her. Evelyn didn't even look at her.

"I'm not crippled."

"I didn't say you were," Akari said flatly.

"Your hand did."

"That's because right now you're walking like you're about to kill yourself on the floor." I almost laughed. Good. If the wounded still had the strength to trade insults, the situation probably wasn't as bad as it could get. Fourth out — sure enough — was Dwight "D" Barkley. My first thought when I saw him wasn't "oh, D." It was: how does this man always manage to look like a wall someone just pushed into frame, in every possible setting? He'd probably been picked up for this group on the way.

The first three read as the surviving bridge watch. D had that energy of "I wasn't assigned to this, but someone needed something heavy moved, so here I am." Which made sense. And was extremely useful. Because what came rolling out behind him wasn't a person. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. It was a medical pod. The entire venue dropped to half volume in an instant.

The pod had a military-grade transparent hardened shell, pale-blue life-support lamps glowing on the base stabilizers, monitoring lines running along both flanks of the tank, oxygenation and vitals holding steady on the side screen. In plain terms, it looked exactly like the kind of object that makes everyone around it automatically start imagining the worst. Lying inside was—the former captain. Shun Tobita. The moment the pod appeared, the family section at the front went off.

Not the crying-with-relief sort of off from before. This was a year's worth of fear — held together until now by "at least he's shown up" — collapsing all at once at the sight of the capsule.

"Shun——!" Someone was sobbing his name. Then a whole jumble of voices after it — a mother's, siblings', the rest of the family's. Several of them surged forward at once, wailing as if the man in the pod was about to be carried off for a death announcement at any second. I stood there watching them cry themselves into a knot, then glanced at the vitals screen on the pod's side. Numbers still running. Man still alive.

And the thought — very unhealthy, very disrespectful, very much the kind that gets you sent to stand in the corner — surfaced on the spot: For fuck's sake, you're going to cry the man into the ground while he's still alive. I kept my face steady. Which, of course, meant Jess read me like a billboard and jabbed me in the ribs with an elbow.

"You're thinking something profoundly unkind, aren't you."

"No."

"That 'no' sounds very much like yes."

"I was only thinking that Federation citizens express emotion very intensely."

"Translate."

"I was thinking the vitals are steadier than some of the officials on the floor, and everyone could stand to wait before crying him off the network." Jess turned her face away. Her shoulders started shaking.

"You're terrible."

"Thank you. I rely on it for my mental health." And then, from behind the pod, the final figure finally walked fully into the light. Ash Vander. He was last off the shuttle. Not for the drama of it — because he'd stayed behind, one hand on the pod's stabilizing grip the whole way down, and didn't let go until the front wheels were fully grounded, locked, and the ground crew had taken over. It was a strange image.

Because Ash didn't read like the kind of person who belonged in a scene of pushing a medical pod — like he was escorting an entire ship's last breath. He was too steady for that. He should be at the center of a bridge, deciding through a screen which positions got to live and which got to die, not personally handling cargo. But there he was. Acting captain's uniform not fully straightened. Creases at the sleeves. Faint marks from the shoulder straps.

Skin paler than usual from long months of pressure and no sleep, jawline a shade colder than normal. But his hands were steady, and his step was steady. Steady like nothing had managed to break him. Steady like the only reason the Yukikaze made it home at all was this exact refusal to wobble. The air in the venue changed. It really did. When Lan, Akari, Evelyn, D, and the pod came down, what everyone felt was: the Yukikaze's bridge crew has arrived. When Ash stepped out, it was different.

It wasn't about whose insignia was higher, who spoke better, whose father had more weight behind his name. It was — ah. This man stands here, and you just know the Yukikaze wasn't brought home by luck. It had bones. And this man was one of the hardest bones in it. Admiral Bayer Vander took a step forward. Just one. But that one step made several officers who'd been jockeying for position quietly back off. I stood there watching, with exactly one thought. Federal father-son dynamics are fascinating.

In other families, a father and son reuniting after a year might say each other's names first. Hug. Check whether the other lost weight. Not the Vanders. The Vanders compete over who can stand straighter, who can bury their private feelings in front of a crowd more convincingly, like it's official business. Deeply unhealthy. Very Vander. Ash didn't walk toward his father right away. He checked the pod handover first. Swept the security posture, the personnel spread, the media distance.

Only then did he turn his gaze to Admiral Vander. Then he stopped. And saluted. Clean. Precise. Textbook — as if the gunfire, the zero-g, the exhaustion, the drifting, and the death list of the past year had nothing to do with him.

"Reporting, Admiral." Ash's voice was a little rougher, but steady.

"The Yukikaze has returned to Federation-controlled space. First-phase recovery of shipboard survivors is complete. Former Captain Shun Tobita remains under critical medical monitoring. Requesting priority medical transfer." The venue went dead quiet. Fuck. The first thing this man says after getting off the ship isn't "I'm back." It's a report. So textbook I want to frame his academy drill card inside his skull. Admiral Vander looked at him and didn't answer right away. Two seconds. Not long.

But long enough to hang both his identities — father and admiral — in the air and make him choose which one to use first. Finally, he returned the salute.

"Granted," said Admiral Vander. One word. The instant it landed, I could practically feel the row of medical personnel behind him finally allowed to breathe as they took the pod. Tobita's family cried harder. I really wanted to tell them: he's not dead. Really. At least wait until the medical team has wheeled the capsule clear before you mourn at this volume.

But considering everything I'd already done on live Federation-wide broadcast today that no normal person should ever do, I decided to keep that kindness to myself. Ash lowered his hand. Didn't step back. Admiral Vander didn't move either. Father and son stood looking at each other across the line where the pod had just been taken — like two sister ships passing in a narrow channel: neither colliding, both knowing the other wasn't here to chat. It was the Admiral who spoke first.

"You've done well." Short. Too short to be the first thing a father says to a son he'd gotten back. But I saw something move very slightly in Ash's eyes.

"Duty," Ash said. …Yeah. That's even more him. I nearly wanted to hand the two of them a note reading: Excuse me. If you're both technically still living people, it's permitted to say something that sounds like it comes from one. Beside me, Jess let out a very small "oh." I turned to look at her.

"What?"

"I suddenly have a strong urge to give the Vander men the line you just used."

"Which line?""'Federation citizens express emotion very intensely.'""Theirs isn't intense. Theirs is an emotion compression archive." Jess doubled over laughing on the spot. Meanwhile Evelyn had finally given out, limping over to lean against D, tone as charming as ever.

"If the Vanders are going to stage a father-son discipline demonstration right here, I recommend I be escorted to a seat first. I have no intention of appreciating it standing." D looked down at her.

"You could just say you can't stand."

"I can stand."

"Right now you look like an antenna about to snap."

"A fully functional antenna."

"…" I really wanted to laugh. This crew could squeeze their crooked little measure of Yukikaze spirit into any serious scene that came along. Akari and Lan had already spread to the flanks, taking up positions. Lan took the ground comms terminal and tied straight into Aki's procedural line; Akari stood at one side of the pod's path, carving a corridor between the Tobita family and the medical crews so nobody would crash into each other. Nobody needed to be told where to stand. That's bridge crew for you.

Which is also why the scene was as heavy as it was — when they all came down together, wheeling Shun Tobita's pod with them. Because it wasn't just a few survivors. It was an entire ship's remaining command core, coming down with its original captain. In other words — the Yukikaze had carried its own heart down onto the ground of the Capital Ring. Aki Kushima walked over then.

Her eyes were still red at the corners from earlier, but she'd already snapped back into that clean, obnoxious Student Council President mode. She glanced at Admiral Vander, then at Ash, and picked up the procedure without a hitch.

"Ash Vander. The joint Academy–military reception procedure will begin after medical transfer," she said.

"Until then, the Yukikaze's interim command group retains priority on collective statement." I heard an officer nearby inhale sharply. That line was venomous. Which, translated, means: Don't even think about splitting them up for individual questioning. They stick together first. Very advanced. I liked it. Ash nodded.

"Understood." Admiral Vander raised no objection. That was the interesting part. Because it meant he knew too that splitting the Yukikaze crew apart right now would only make things uglier. Or, more precisely — Ash hadn't come down alone. He'd come down with the entire surviving bridge. Anyone who wanted to move on him had to move on the whole group. And that was expensive. Tobita's family's crying kept drifting over in fits from behind.

I glanced back — the pod being wheeled toward the temporary medical transfer line, the family keeping pace beside it, crying hard enough that I could feel a faint sympathetic vibration building in my eardrums. I couldn't help adding one more line to the inside of my head: Captain. If you can possibly wake up, wake up now. Because if you stay down there much longer, your family is going to cry your soul right out of your body. That thought was so unkind it almost made me laugh at myself. Maki looked at me.

"What were you thinking about."

"Nothing."

"That's not the face of someone thinking about nothing."

"I was conducting a spiritual blessing on behalf of the former captain." Maki was silent for two seconds.

"You'd better be."

"I am deeply devout." From the side, Jess made a snorting sound. And then, at last, Ash turned his gaze toward us. No — toward the whole remaining crew of the Yukikaze. Disembarked. On the ground. Hugged by families. Rescued by the Council President. Filmed by the media. Officially witnessed by the Federation. He said nothing grand. He didn't say "you've worked hard" or "we're back" — the kind of thing engineered to become a slogan. He just swept his gaze over all of us, plainly, and said:"Everyone still standing?"

I almost laughed out loud. What kind of first line was that. But it was exactly that line that was most Ash. Jess answered first:"Barely. Not dead yet, anyway." Evelyn, leaning on D, added coldly:"The leg has objections. Everything else is functional." Lan didn't look up: "Comms chain's alive." Akari, terse as a magazine check: "Mobile." Maki said nothing. She just straightened a little. I looked at all of them and felt something like a sigh coming up. Yeah. This was the Yukikaze. Alive. Banged up.

Still on its feet. So I finally lifted the corner of my mouth and answered:"Standing. Your memorial taste is still terrible, though." This time, even Ash let out a very soft laugh through his nose. Very short. But I heard it. And that one sound was probably the closest thing to proof — in the whole Capital Ring circus — that the Yukikaze was really home.