Chương 200: 76. Temporary Labor 1

The next morning, the sky was still grey. I woke to a bugle call sharp enough to yank the soul straight out of your spine. Not a gentle wake-up chime. Not the kind of dormitory alarm that gives you two seconds of pre-fade so you can at least pretend not to hear it. The Yukikaze's broadcast fired directly at your skull — first a note piercing enough to scrape iron off a hull, then a man's voice, flat and hard, pressing down immediately after.

"All hands, reveille. All cabin personnel: out of your bunks in three minutes, dressed and squared away in ten. First morning muster will not wait. Repeating — three minutes, out of your bunks." My whole body snapped upright. Brain not yet online. Heart already awake, courtesy of the bugle.

"What the fuck —" Jess was first to get a word out, hauling herself upright, hair looking like it had taken a direct lightning strike.

"What is that?! Is that a wake-up call or a psychological attack?!"

"Congratulations. You're still alive." Harvey leaned over the upper bunk rail, voice rough enough to suggest he'd recently climbed out of a coffin.

"For a second I thought I'd already been processed into the military version of the afterlife."

"Not the military version," Lan said from the bunk edge, already working on her uniform buttons, voice cool as if she hadn't slept at all.

"This just is the military." Roy's side provided more visual impact. A man of his build extracting himself from a narrow bunk was essentially a live stress test of the bed frame. The frame voiced a deeply suspicious groan. D immediately laughed so hard she had to grip the rail.

"I'm taking back yesterday's 'at least nobody died.' Two more wake-ups like that and the bed goes first."

"What are you laughing at — didn't you almost fall off the top bunk yourself?" I said, grabbing my jacket.

"That was a tactical descent. Not a fall."

"Both of you, get your brains on before you open your mouths." Akari was already standing, folding her blanket with a precision that bordered on violence. Her bunk surface was flat enough to pass a ruler check.

"One more minute and Takenaka will be at the hatch." That line worked better than the bugle. The eight-person cabin entered a state of total chaos at full speed. Someone hunting for socks. Someone fishing a belt from under the bunk. Someone pulling on their uniform while biting a hair tie. Someone already done, and someone whose soul had not yet been reloaded into their body.

I shoved my foot into a boot, turned, and found Maki already standing beside her bunk, fully dressed, academy uniform straight and crisp, collar impossibly ordered. She'd even had time to smooth her hair back over her shoulder — nothing about her suggested the person who'd traded barbs with Jess the night before, or stood cold-faced in the shower steam and hauled me sideways.... Does this person actually need sleep? She noticed me looking and gave me exactly one glance.

"Your left-side buttons are wrong." I looked down. They were.

"... How do you catch details like that first thing in the morning?"

"Because you're obvious."

"Is that concern?"

"It's embarrassing."

"You are genuinely unpleasant to talk to."

"You can choose not to." Jess, still locked in combat with her own socks, cut in immediately.

"She's not going to choose not to. She's been listening to everything you say with extra attention lately."

"Jess." I turned on her instantly.

"Do you want to be strangled before breakfast today?"

"Only if you can catch me."

"Only after you get both socks on the right feet."

"... Damn it." D laughed hard enough to nearly drop her comb into Roy's box. We made it out of the cabin in a state that was genuinely embarrassing but technically functional, and merged into the morning corridor flow. The Yukikaze at dawn was nothing like it had been at night. At night it had been a steel creature resting with one eye half-closed.

At dawn the whole skeleton seemed to have been wound back up — corridor lights a notch brighter, ventilation more present, boot soles striking the deck in rows, the whole ship using its own rules to wake each person up, section by section. After washing up, forming ranks, and a brief muster, we were released to the mess hall. And the moment I saw breakfast, I nearly saluted the kitchen. It was a very, very traditional meal.

Traditional enough that I spent one full second wondering whether I'd accidentally stepped out of a high-G warship and back into the old Earth era. White rice, hot. Miso soup, steaming. The main was grilled fish — actual grilled fish — with pickled radish, a plum, and small side dishes. Simple to the point of ancient. Ancient enough to command a kind of respect.

In an era when even school cafeterias routinely offered nutrition supplement drinks and high-calorie bars as a main course, a real bowl of rice in the morning was practically evidence that civilization hadn't finished collapsing yet. I sat down with my tray. The first mouthful of rice nearly made me serene.

"... Good god," I said, sincerely. D pulled her soup bowl close, eyes lit.

"This isn't rice. This is faith."

"I think I can forgive the bugle now," Roy said.

"I can't yet —" Jess hit the soup hard, then froze. The next second she raised the bowl over her head like a trophy.

"Oh my god, look — there's meat in this soup!"

"What?!" Every set of eyes at the table went bright at roughly the same moment. Actually bright. If I'd had slightly less self-respect as a human being, I think I would have stood on the table to confirm. D lifted her miso bowl, looked in, and shouted:"There's a whole block of tofu in here!" The volume suggested a new continent had been discovered.

"The school cafeteria's standard soup is nothing like this!" Harvey, expressionless: "That's because the school's is dishwater."

"Don't insult dishwater," Jess said, with great solemnity.

"Dishwater at least tastes like a pot. The school's just tastes like despair."

"I support this ruling," I said, taking another mouthful of rice, fighting the urge to get emotional.

"This fish actually got grilled. It's not the nutrition-block simulated-fish-flavor version. What kind of sacred unit is the Yukikaze's kitchen?"

"Logistics is the true ruling class of civilization," Akari concluded, calmly. Maki said nothing, just ate quietly. But she clearly had no complaints about the breakfast either. The line of her mouth, usually held tight, had loosened — just slightly, just a little — and I caught it.... Damn it, even the way she eats looks like a model student from some old-era military academy recruitment poster.

Just as our table was approaching something like a religious relationship with miso soup, the mess hall door opened and a man walked in. The moment he entered, the air seemed to get pressed flat. He wasn't especially tall, but his shoulders were wide, his posture looked like it had been set in rebar, and his expression was the kind that said if I speak, you will stop whatever you're doing immediately.

He wasn't wearing dress uniform — he had on the more practical, less forgiving duty gear, and the whole of him looked like the word trouble had been assembled into a person. Stolen novel; please report. Then he actually spoke.

"Class 144, attention!" That shout came down from the mess hall ceiling like something physical, and all eleven of us stood up almost simultaneously, chairs scraping across the deck. The man swept us with a look, counting — but counting specifically for which ones were most likely to break containment.

"Finish breakfast quickly. In ten minutes, report to the upper deck immediately. Assembly coordinates have been sent to your terminals. No late arrivals, no wrong turns, no one disappears en route." His gaze paused on Jess for half a second longer than anyone else — like a sensor that had already located the probable fault source.

"And since we're here — I'm Takenaka. Sergeant Major. Chief of Security aboard the Yukikaze. Ship order, safety, missing persons, misconduct, violations, and conflicts — all of it falls under me." I held a moment of internal silence for the specific words missing persons and misconduct. Jess, naturally, didn't let the opening pass. She set her soup bowl down and said, quietly but loudly enough for everyone nearby:"Wow. Sounds like a nightmare to deal with. Sounds like the type who goes looking for problems."

Sergeant Major Takenaka's hearing was clearly above average. He didn't turn his head. He just said, level:"I don't look for problems. Problems grow their own legs and walk to me." The table went quiet. D made a sound that was trying very hard to be a cough and not succeeding. Harvey said, under his breath: "I'm revising my earlier statement. The most literary unit on this ship might not be logistics. It might be Security." Jess said back, darkly: "Just watch. I'm going to have terrible chemistry with that man."

"No," Lan said, with a precise cut.

"He's going to have terrible chemistry with you." Takenaka added:"Also — the middle school observation group boards today. Anyone who finds themselves with nothing to do and decides to help me manage children will be remembered by name."

"Is it too late to play dead?" Roy murmured.

"With your build, playing reef would be more convincing," I said. After Takenaka left, the mess hall air started moving again. We cleared our trays at something approaching sprint pace, then followed the terminal directions up to the upper deck. Along the way you could feel the whole ship shifting into pre-departure mode — duty personnel had more than doubled since the night before, carts and toolboxes and supply cases moving, deck work orders being called out, cable runs being checked.

The Yukikaze was no longer the steel creature that had breathed quietly by its own rules through the night. It was spending the whole morning waking itself up, one inch at a time. By the time we reached the upper deck, the harbor sky was still grey, wind carrying cold damp. Cranes, supply vehicles, and gangways were still wrapped in thin morning mist. The Yukikaze's massive hull sat at the edge of the view, silent with a pressure that had no business being this heavy.

Designated assembly markers had already been chalked on the deck. When our eleven lined up, I noticed two people already standing at the front. One of them I recognized. Shun Tobita. The man I'd seen at the harbor the night before. In daylight he looked more like a captain, and more like someone who'd been pushed from a high-G cockpit all the way to the command chair by the war itself. Black hair, close-cropped. That faint old scar above his right eyebrow more visible in the grey morning light.

He was wearing the fitted custom anti-G flight jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbow as before, forearms showing the kind of build that came from actual use. The metal flight ID tag on his chest swayed slightly in the wind, and his fingers turned it once, absently, as if organizing a thought. The person beside him — I'll just say: one look was enough to know she wasn't going to be easy. Silver-white short hair. Grey eyes. Skin pale enough to read as cold.

A pair of rimless tactical data glasses on the bridge of her nose, throwing a faint blue light. She stood perfectly straight — straight enough that even her disposition seemed to have been cut to an angle. Her uniform was immaculate in a way that made you wonder if she'd simply refused to allow wrinkles to form. She radiated an aura of if you waste ten seconds of my time, you will regret it for twenty minutes.

I suddenly realized that Captain Tobita's particular brand of difficult-to-read pressure — which I'd found considerable — actually seemed almost approachable standing next to her. Tobita looked us over, and spoke.

"I'm Shun Tobita. Captain of the Yukikaze." His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady, and there were no spare pleasantries in it.

"I'll cover the key points of this practicum quickly. First: after departure today, the Yukikaze will rendezvous with a supply convoy on our standard route. We expect to make contact within three to five days. Your onboard practicum will proceed as scheduled during this period." He paused there, glanced down at his terminal, and the corner of his mouth moved — briefly, with a faint edge of amusement.

"... I received the plan submitted by Cadet Ash. It was thorough. The appendices were extensive. The ambition was notable. Provided there are no operational conflicts, we'll follow it." In the lineup, Ash's neck visibly stiffened. Jess leaned sideways and said, quietly: "He's done for. That's the tone of a teacher who's read the report but hasn't decided whether to execute you for it in public yet." I nearly laughed. Ash himself had the expression of a man calculating whether it was too late to jump overboard.

Tobita continued as if he hadn't heard any of it.

"Second: if you have questions, go through the proper channel. If you can't reach me — I'm on the bridge, in the hangar, or in a meeting — start with the officer beside me." He turned slightly and gestured.

"Major Elena Kirishima." Only then did I feel it — she hadn't been standing beside him. She'd been placed there, like a blade inserted at an angle. She stepped forward half a pace. Her voice was clean and cold, clipped like a line being cut.

"I'm Major Elena Kirishima. I hold responsibility for advanced tactics and engagement command — what you would understand as CIC. Shipboard access, observation, entry restrictions, and any tactically relevant questions in your practicum rotation come through me first. No unauthorized entry. No independent action. No assuming that just looking is fine. That's all." Confirmed. This person didn't merely find it difficult to be easy to talk to. She appeared to be maintaining that quality as a personal discipline.

And — it might have been my imagination — but I had the distinct impression that Captain Tobita's relationship with her wasn't ordinary trust. It was more like the careful awareness of a man who really preferred not to give her additional work. In other words: he seemed genuinely a little afraid of her. That realization produced a very specific internal equilibrium. So even the top of the power structure wasn't actually invincible. Tobita cleared his throat and continued.

"Third — I'm sure you've heard. In addition to supervising your end-of-term assessment, this vessel has also taken on the middle school observation tour." He said that, and then actually produced a brief, conspiratorial smile.

"So starting today, the Yukikaze will be livelier than usual. Sergeant Major Takenaka is going to be very busy over the next few days. Unless it's necessary, don't add to his workload." Behind me, D said, very quietly: "Does that translate to 'don't be creative about how you exist'?"

"More or less," I said, equally quiet. Tobita spread both hands, with the air of a man getting the record straight in advance.

"If you're willing to help keep an eye on those kids, I have no objection. You're closer in age — you might actually be more effective than the officers." Jess raised her hand immediately, with the speed of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this.

"I have a question." Tobita looked at her.

"Go."

"Captain," Jess said, with genuine sincerity, "did you lose a round of rock-paper-scissors with the other captains? Because there's no normal reason to have middle school and prep division on the same ship." I knew the moment she opened her mouth that this was going to land somewhere interesting. Sure enough, Major Kirishima cut in, cold and immediate.

"McCallow. Irrelevant question." Jess's mouth twitched. She clearly wanted to push back. But Tobita raised a hand and actually took it.

"Not rock-paper-scissors," he said, evenly.

"I signed off on it." Silence. Tobita's fingers turned the metal ID tag on his chest once.

"Losing rock-paper-scissors is just embarrassing. Signing your name leaves a record. Between the two, at least the second one comes with a salary." D nearly folded. Even Roy couldn't hold it — he ducked his head with a cough that was doing very little to disguise a laugh. Jess blinked twice, actually stopped for a second, which was rare. Tobita added:"Also — the middle school group isn't here to play. Or rather — it's better if that's not all they leave with.

Ship order will be maintained, the schedule will be followed, but the fact that they're here means they're not just props. Neither are you." When that landed, the wind on the deck seemed to go a degree colder. I understood, suddenly, that this man — who seemed loose, who even made jokes at his own expense — had something very hard underneath every sentence. Not performed authority.

The kind of steadiness that grows in a person after they've spent enough time knowing exactly how many people are on a ship, how many risks are running, and how many things can't be put down. Major Kirishima added, at that point, in a quiet tone that cut anyway:"Since everyone's present — a reminder. The Yukikaze is not a visitor center, and it is not the setting of a coming-of-age story. Do not treat restricted zones, mechanical sections, the munitions deck, or the reactor area as an adventure.

If something happens, Security will not prioritize anyone's dignity."

"Is she looking at you?" Jess said, under her breath.

"Why would she be looking at me?"

"Because you're exactly the type who ends up at the center of things for no reason."

"That's a bias."

"That's a statistic." From the far side of the deck, a sound reached us — distant, unmistakably uneven, unmistakably large. We turned almost simultaneously. At the harbor access corridor, the middle school observation group had arrived. Not a few. Not a dozen. A full living tide of young human beings that generated its own noise.

Uniforms consistent in color, formation technically present but constantly leaking — a few heads already craning upward at the Yukikaze's hull, mouths open like they'd seen a deity; a few already nudging each other with the restless energy of people who'd been fitted with internal springs. The supervising teachers were up front, working hard at order. Sergeant Major Takenaka was already at the corridor mouth, hands on hips, radiating the particular gravity of a man thinking: come on, then.

Show me who goes first today. Tobita watched this for two seconds. Then said, honestly:"... All right, everyone. The actual work is starting." Jess took a slow breath.

"I understand now what you meant by 'help manage them if you're willing.'" D's face went ceremonially solemn.

"We didn't board this ship for a practicum."

"Then what did we board for?" I asked. She looked at the incoming wave of middle schoolers — a hundred-plus young human beings who were about to turn this vessel into a large-scale human observation experiment — and spoke.

"We're here to assist Sergeant Major Takenaka in maintaining order across the galaxy." I couldn't hold it. I laughed out loud. And in that grey morning light, the sounds of the Yukikaze's deck wind, the harbor operations, the distant supply machinery, the nearby middle schoolers' noise, and the officers' commands all came down in layers at once. The ship seemed to wake up, truly, in that moment. Not the quiet waking of the night before, when it had pressed rules into its own body. A louder waking. More crowded.

More like the world as actual living people inhabited it. I stood in formation and looked sideways. Maki was standing straight, eyes already on the incoming students, expression its usual faint, quiet nothing — but she clearly knew: starting now, the Yukikaze would not have any real silence again. She seemed to feel my eyes, and turned her head.

"What's that look for?"

"I'm thinking," I said, honestly, "that if this is what departure morning looks like, what comes next is probably going to make last night look tame by a factor of ten." Maki looked at me for two seconds. Then made a very soft sound.

"You're only figuring that out now?"... Right. Same as always. Ship not yet fully out of port, and Maki had already made her daily dent in my dignity. But somehow, in a morning where the whole ship was starting to get loud, I felt something settle. At least from today, trouble wouldn't only be looking for me. It would be distributed evenly across everyone on board.