Chương 96: 38.Solidarity 38-2

The moment the bus doors opened, the port hit us full in the face—metal, fuel, and coolant mist all mixed together like someone had slapped me with a wet steel plate. Perfect. Welcome to the Federation's final packing station before export. Up ahead, instructors were already shouting numbers.

Other squads squeezed down from the buses—one guy got his pack strap caught on the handrail and nearly hung himself in the doorway; another stepped off and immediately craned his neck to stare at the transport ship, wearing the expression of someone who'd just discovered the universe came in that size. I didn't stop. I'd seen big hardware before. I'd seen broken systems too. The more immediate problem: when you put enough people in one place, stupidity multiplies.

I stepped down the bus stairs—first step checking the ground guide lines, second step the slope entrance, third step which nearby squads were already coming apart. Not heroic instinct. Basic manners if you want to live longer. In a port like this, if you stand there going wow, so impressive, you'll get run over by a cargo cart, an instructor, or some other squad's idiot in under ten seconds.

"Frost-01, on point," I said quietly, raising my hand to the left.

"Frost-02, stick right, no drifting. Frost-03, eyes on gear. Frost-04, headcount." The single-ear comm crackled to life immediately.

"Frost-02, copy. Very well-behaved today, but I make no long-term guarantees." Jess's voice came through, annoying on contact.

"Frost-03, copy." Harvey, minimal as always.

"Frost-04, copy. Four personnel, four packs, all present." Maki's voice had that same uncharming steadiness—the kind you really wanted on days like this. I led us along the embarkation line, pace controlled. I had no intention of shuffling along with the fresh meat. Port staff, General Affairs, and instructors lined both sides like evenly spaced stakes. Anyone slowing down, drifting off, or stopping to gawk got barked at instantly.

"Don't stop!"

"Move with your squad!"

"Clear the cargo route!" So welcoming. We passed another first-year squad just in time to hear one boy whisper to his friend, "Hey, is that really the ship we're taking?" The kid next to him, somehow greener, actually answered, "Maybe it's just for transfer?" I almost laughed. Transfer. Sure. Transfer to the part of your life where everything gets uglier. Jess had obviously heard it too; the corner of her mouth twitched up.

"Frost-02 recommends packing those two in the same crate. Easier recovery."

"Don't waste the crate," I said.

"They'll fall into a pile on their own." Before the ramp entrance, the school had set up a short holding zone. Every squad had to form up one last time—ID tags checked, comm channels verified, boarding sector confirmed. It looked like a ceremonial pre-departure moment. In practice, it was a final inventory check before loading cargo. I stopped and glanced back at Group 144. Jess had one strap off by half a centimeter; before I could speak, Harvey tugged it back into line.

Maki had the folded boarding slip in hand, naturally half a step behind—not crowding the front, but her eyes were tracking everything. Good. No one looked ready to spiral into self-dramatization or complete shutdown.

"Last run," I said.

"Frost-01 through 04, short-command test." Jess raised her chin, clearly ready to perform. I ignored that completely.

"Frost-03, check Frost-02's external attachments." Harvey barely glanced.

"Secure."

"Frost-04, boarding sector."

"B-17, port side mid-level personnel bay."

"Frost-02, repeat evac sequence." Jess picked it up fast.

"Firestorm countdown keyed to Frost-01 HUD. Shelter entry priority: wounded first, then supplies. If I'm last through the door, please write something flattering on my memorial."

"First half correct. Second half, go die on your own time," I said. She grinned at me without conscience.

"At least you're listening." I shifted my gaze to Maki.

"Frost-04. Field scenario: two water sources—one looks clean, one looks disgusting. Which do you evaluate first?"

"The one that looks less like it's trying to be innocent," she said. I gave her a look. Good. She was starting to speak human. Still heavily processed by a measuring rule, but it counted. The NCO on checkpoint duty watched us for a moment—apparently satisfied we didn't look like newly-hatched pets—and flicked his hand.

"Group 144. Board." The ramp was wide. Wide enough to make you very aware that you were just one batch among many. Walking up, I could feel the port's vibrations running straight through the metal into my legs—heavy, hard, rhythmic. The ship hadn't even moved yet, and the system was already feeding its weight up from the floor. The instant we crossed the hatch, the air changed completely. Outside: damp, cold iron and harbor stink.

Inside: drier, sharper recirculated air cut with disinfectant, machine oil, synthetic fibers, and the advance warning of too many bodies about to share this sealed volume for hours. The white lights overhead were merciless, bleaching every face into something salvaged from a scrap bin. The passageways were technically wide enough, but the pressure was still there. Fold-down seats and mounting racks lined both sides; further back, closed cargo partitions. This space screamed usually used to move other things.

Today: students as a side job. Efficient. The Federation always understood resource sharing. We found B-17 mid-level without trouble. Decent position—at least the four of us could cluster without tangling knees with strangers. The instructor ran us through the usual: secure gear, answer roll call, then wait. I shoved my pack into the locking bracket and sat down. First thing I did was pull out the squad leader packet they'd handed me.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Not because I'd suddenly fallen in love with paperwork. Because anything Aki Kushima had handed over with a smile would keep me awake if I didn't read it; and reading it would keep me even more awake. Very on brand for her. I flipped to the back. The handwritten note was still there. The handwriting was annoyingly perfect. To Cadet Hoshino: Here's a secret.

Every time an official rest station is used, the school dispatches resupply within 12 hours. This is a little secret, so don't tell anyone ♡ Love, Aki The back of my neck went cold. Not hot. Cold. Fuck. What the hell was this woman. The official briefing had been brutal, but at least it was written for living people: high temperatures, firestorms, giant mosquitoes, carnivorous plants, total squad failure. Fine. I could curse it, and I could use it.

But the moment Aki's note slid into the middle of all that, the whole thing twisted. Every time an official rest station is used, the school dispatches resupply within 12 hours. If that was true, the shelters weren't just safe rooms and supply points. They were fixed refresh nodes. If it was false, that was worse—she'd deliberately dropped a live information grenade into my pocket to see when I'd blow myself up with it. The worst part was that whether it was true or false, I couldn't ignore it.

I stared at the closing Love, Aki and that perfectly civilized heart, and something crawled from my fingers to my spine. Not ordinary discomfort. More like someone dragging a chilled wire slowly down your backbone, smiling the whole time. Fuck. The entire Kushima household had to be clinically unwell. I folded the note small and didn't put it back where it'd been. Instead I slid it into the innermost transparent pocket of the squad leader manual, closed the file, and stuffed it into my jacket.

Not because I was hoarding some explosive secret. Because if Jess saw it now, she'd laugh first; if Harvey saw it, he'd frown first; and if Maki saw it— Right now, I wasn't ready to find out what her face would do. So I hid it. Once that was done, I did something entirely normal, distinctly unromantic, and exactly what a squad leader should be doing. I looked up at the other three.

"Frost, gather. First intel brief, now." Jess was fiddling with the safety strap like it was a toy. At my words she tilted her head.

"Wow. So formal. Did that death tourism manual finally enlighten you?"

"Shut up and get over here."

"Yes, ma'am. Frost-02 obeys." Harvey was already nearby, sorting gear; he closed the gap immediately. Maki tucked the confirmation slip away and sat across from me. Other squads in the bay had huddled into their own clusters, but we were close enough to the bulkhead that, keeping our voices down, the row next door wouldn't catch much. I spread the manual open and started on the official pages.

"Bottom line first," I said quietly.

"We're not being sent out there just to survive three weeks. We're being sent to survive, evaluate each other, and see who's worth keeping around for finals." Jess nodded.

"Excellent translation."

"There's a new rule too." I tapped the page.

"Drop pod touchdown starts the clock. Full three weeks. The instant we trigger a distress beacon, the entire squad fails. Automatic makeup. No individual withdrawal—everyone goes down together." That dropped a chill through the air that the ship's ventilation couldn't touch. Harvey didn't look surprised. Just nodded once.

"Makes sense."

"You make makes sense sound like an insult," I said.

"Because it is," Harvey replied. Maki reached over and pulled the manual closer, eyes moving fast. None of this was brand new to her, but the squad leader version laid it out more completely—especially the parts about shelters and firestorms. I flipped to the relevant section.

"The monsters aren't even the point," I said.

"The point is all the worst things are clustered right where the resources are best. Jungle has the densest shelters, most water, and also the most carnivorous plants and giant insects. Deserts and canyons are safer, but fewer shelters, fewer supplies. Which means when the school says we can choose our route, they're funneling everyone toward the rainforest." Jess clicked her tongue.

"Very Federation."

"The shelters are even more Federation." I tapped the section.

"Blast doors. Once sealed, they don't open for seventy-two hours. That means before you go in, you'd better have thought it through—because you're not ducking out of the way, you're committing to the entire next firestorm cycle." Even Jess didn't fire off anything right away. Because that part was filthy. Seventy-two hours. Door closed. Doesn't open. People outside can't enter. People inside can't leave. That wasn't a safe house. That was a moral trap built by the system. Harvey cut straight to the critical piece.

"Coordinates only show on the squad leader HUD?"

"Yeah." I nodded.

"So where the shelters are, when we go, whether we fight for them, whether the door closes—it all ends up on my plate first." Jess looked at me, tone for once without an edge.

"Regretting Frost-01 yet?" I snorted.

"I was regretting it yesterday. Now I just know I was being wisely pessimistic." Her mouth twitched—caught between laughing and feeling like it would be bad taste—ending in a short exhale. Maki spoke then, voice flat as ever, but with that quality that hammered things into place.

"Then we set usage rules now." I looked at her.

"Go." She flipped to the shelter section and stopped at the line about cannot be reopened for 72 hours.

"First: we don't enter an official shelter unless it's within twenty minutes of a firestorm," she said.

"Exception only if someone is injured badly enough to require immediate isolation." Harvey nodded.

"Avoid entrapment."

"Second," Maki continued, "if other squads are already nearby, we evaluate headcount, equipment, and exit routes first. No direct approach. There will be conflict around resupply." Jess finally cut in.

"Great. We haven't even landed and we're already forecasting live human combat. Very educational." I added the next one.

"Third: we agree on door-closing conditions in advance. No conditions, no door." I looked at all three of them.

"I am not standing at the entrance doing a drama about waiting for the one who's not back yet." That froze the air in a different way. Because we all knew that wasn't a joke. At the start of something like this, the most dangerous part isn't the things that want to eat you. It's the decisions that will tear the group apart if you haven't talked them through while you're still clean. Harvey folded his arms, voice cold.

"Then we talk now. Who sets the door standard?" I took a slow breath.

"I do," I said.

"But I'm not rolling dice alone. Frost-03 reports gear and mobility. Frost-04 reports water and casualties. Frost-02 reports exterior headcount and approach risk. I make the final call." Jess looked at me, eyebrow going up.

"You actually sound like you know what you're doing."

"You sound like you want to die."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive." I flipped to the water section.

"There's also this." I tapped the paragraph.

"Salt water's viable—treatment with purifier or tablets. Tastes like shit, but it's usable. So if anyone decides to ration themselves into dehydration because they don't like the flavor—""I'll dunk their head in it until they reconsider," Harvey said.

"See? You always know how to add visual clarity." Jess raised a hand.

"I'd like it noted that tastes like shit should be recognized as psychological damage."

"Your psyche was broken before we got here. Don't file new claims," I said. Maki closed the manual halfway and looked up at me.

"You left one thing out." Something jolted lightly in my chest. Shit. Had she noticed I'd hidden something? She was only pointing to the distress beacon section.

"In cases of major difficulty, discussion with the squad leader is required first." She looked at me.

"Which means when someone can't hold on anymore, you'll be the one they end up hating." …Right. Very Maki, the way she put it. Not comfort, not pleasantries—just flipping over the ugliest piece and putting it on the table. I pulled my mouth sideways.

"Thanks for the reminder. I thought this position came with meal allowances." Jess actually laughed this time, low and quiet.

"It comes with pots, not meals."

"And it's a shared pot for the whole group," I said. Harvey watched us like he was checking whether this meeting had developed any backbone.

"Bottom lines, one more time," he said. I nodded, pressed the manual against my leg, and read them off quietly.

"One: no unauthorized movement. Two: report anomalies immediately, no pushing through. Three: firestorm countdown runs off my HUD. Four: all shared supply adjustments get discussed out loud. Five: shelter entry and door decisions are Frost-01's call, but I need full intel first. Six—" I paused and looked at all three of them.

"If anyone feels like they're breaking down, say so first. Don't hold until the last second and force the whole group to decide for you." Nobody jumped in with commentary. The transport bay was still loud around us—other squads talking, metal buckles clinking, the dull mechanical thud of a distant hatch being dragged open. But our small circle went quiet for half a beat. Because everyone knew that rule wasn't just text on some Academic Affairs document.

Sooner or later, it would become a specific day, a specific person, a specific breath that wouldn't come. Jess broke the silence first.

"Good news: I'm still fully functional," she said.

"Bad news: I'm starting to understand why this counts as a midterm. This doesn't feel like an exam. It feels like a personality dismantling exercise."

"The Federation values comprehensive development," I said.

"Including developing people in the wrong direction?"

"Especially that." Maki had her pen out, scribbling quickly on her clipboard. I didn't bother asking what—almost certainly not poetry. Harvey wrapped it up.

"That's enough for now. Before we drop, we run the first thirty minutes post-landing one more time." I nodded and put the manual away. The inner pocket where Aki's note was hidden pressed against my chest, faintly warm—not from the bay temperature, but because I knew it was still there, and I'd already started thinking about it without meaning to. Within 12 hours of each use, the school dispatches resupply. Was that good news, or a trap written with a smile? Shit.

I genuinely hated intelligence that grew its own thorns inside your head. Worse: these thorns had been personally planted by Aki Kushima. I leaned back and listened to the ship's low, steady hum. The deployment hadn't even started yet, and something had already crept in through the seams of my uniform. Not insects. Rules. Expectations. The kind of pressure that smiles at you, says love you, and then gives you one more push toward somewhere deeper. Great. The live-deployment drill hadn't landed yet.

And I was already crawling with dread.