Chương 304: 128.Third Planet 2

Another day passed before I was cleared to walk. Honestly, that "clearance" was, on its own, grounds for a formally worded, elegantly structured, seventeen-appendix complaint to the Federation government. Strictly speaking, I had no serious external injuries. At worst: some bruising, mild facial swelling, and — fine, more than a little — psychological trauma. The Yukikaze has a medical officer. It does not have a counselor. Damn it. I really should file that complaint. I'd even drafted the title in my head.

Regarding This Vessel's Failure to Provision a Psychological Support System Following Its Encounter with an Imperial Underground Bio-Weapons Facility, Violent Storms, Extreme Heat, Kidnapping, and Near-Lethal Levels of Nausea Long title. Good. Makes it look like an official document. Maximizes the number of people it'll annoy. I wandered slowly down to the mess, expecting at least one or two familiar faces. The place had people in it, but none of them were ours.

A few soldiers on rotation saw me walk in, paused, and very naturally made room — like I wasn't there to eat, but was some volatile artifact recovered from a disaster zone, best not touched.... Being treated like fragile cargo is, genuinely, exhausting. I didn't linger. Turned and headed straight for the bridge. Sure enough. All of them were there. All of them. Ash stood at the main display, face still perfectly suited for intimidating overdue supply creditors.

Aida leaned against the side rail, arms crossed, radiating the universe's stupidity has nothing to do with me, but if it wanders into range I won't mind dealing with it. Harvey wore the classic haunted look of an all-nighter engineer, shadows under his eyes dark enough to suggest he'd eaten reactor data for dinner. Lan sorted projection logs nearby. Roy looked down at a datapad. D stood like an iron post driven into the deck.

Even Jess was propped there on crutches, foot not yet healed, mouth already back to its optimal trash-talking curve. I stood in the doorway. Everyone glanced over, once. Brief. But dense with meaning. Confirmation. Relief. Good, she can walk and talk, she's not about to collapse. And something nobody was going to say out loud — you're back. Good. That's what makes this ship feel whole. Hard to describe exactly.

Closer to: you always assumed you were just a bolt, and then one day you nearly rattled loose, only to find out the whole machine remembered exactly where you were slotted in. I muttered under my breath, walked in, and found a chair.

"You're all very ungenerous," I said, pulling the chair out, hissing quietly as a residual ache in my side caught me — while keeping my face locked in whatever was left of normal human dignity.

"So? Fill me in." Jess took the bait first.

"Shouldn't you still be playing fragile casualty back in the medical station?"

"You're a crutch-propped speed bump on the bridge," I shot back.

"Why can't I audit?"

"Because I'm more pitiable."

"You're louder."

"I'll accept that as a compliment." Aida let out a short laugh.

"Excellent. Both patients recovered enough to generate mutual noise pollution. Captain, please begin, or they'll turn the bridge into a breakfast counter." Ash gave me a cold look.

"Can you hold up?"

"If I can't, I'll lie down on your desk."

"Then I'll drag you to the cargo bay."

"That attitude is genuinely bad for crew retention."

"If you've got the energy to complain, you're functional." Good. This man's way of showing concern was, as ever, sandpaper applied directly to a wound. But I also knew the translation: the fact that you walked in here on your own is today's first piece of good news. Ash didn't waste more time. He swiped a hand, and the main display shifted. A holographic planet rose in the center of the bridge.

First impression: someone had taken rot, toxic gas, acid rain, and biological disgust, mashed all four disciplines into a single sphere, then responsibly dusted the surface with a layer of sickly yellow fluorescence, just to remind everyone: welcome — no lungs allowed. The whole planet sat wrapped in a heavy layer of yellow-green toxic haze, the cloud deck hanging low and viscous, like corrosive fluid churning slowly through the atmosphere.

Zoomed in, huge patches of glowing fungus and yellow-lit sodium crystals covered the surface — the crystals jutting out like teeth growing from a wound, wet, sharp, carrying an unnaturally alive quality. Further out, columns of toxic gas periodically erupted from below, dragging long tails of mist through the low gravity, like the whole planet sneezing death at irregular intervals.

"Second target world," Ash said.

"Toxic/Corrosive Planet." The bridge lights ran low, the projection washing every face cold green, making the room look like a panel of professionals gathered to discuss how to die elegantly.

"Primary resources: sodium, radon gas, ammonia, plus unstable sodium salts." Ash continued.

"Unique harvestable material: Fungal Mold. Atmosphere is lethal. Acid rain and toxic fog density are both high. The suits' toxicity-mesh drain rate—" Harvey cut in, his tone that of someone reading a death warrant for a piece of equipment.

"—is extreme. Not 'a bit fast.' The kind of fast where if you space out for a second out there, by the time you come back to yourself, regret is the only thing you'll have left intact." I stared at the projection.

"Tch."

"Last one wanted to roast us. This one wants to pickle us."

"The universe has always lacked respect for carbon-based life," Aida said.

"So does the government," I added. Jess, leaning on her crutches against the rail, raised an eyebrow at the planet.

"Looks like some deranged chef boiled mushroom soup and industrial runoff together and ruined both."

"Not a bad analogy," Roy said, looking down at his data.

"And unfortunately close to the truth." The projection magnified again. Massive, glowing yellow-green fungal spore clusters blanketed the surface, some swollen like lungs, others split by luminous fissures periodically venting toxic mist. Between them, fields of yellow-lit sodium crystals grew like flowers gone wrong in the dark. Dangerously beautiful. Beautifully dangerous. Watching the feed, the hair on my neck rose for no clear reason.

The heat planet's horror had been direct — heat, weight, fire, blast wind, like being beaten to death with fists. This one was different. This one was insidious. The kind of place where your gear starts melting before you've even died; your lungs are already regretting something before you've noticed inhaling it at all. It didn't need to chase you, bite you, hold a blade to your throat. Just stand there, and it would patiently, methodically, take you apart. Enjoying the story?

Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"Gravity coefficient, 0. 8G," Ash said.

"Lower than standard. Movement will feel lighter. Don't treat that as an advantage. Low gravity just means you jump further. It doesn't mean the acid rain will be any more polite when it lands." D spoke up, flat.

"Imperial forces won't come here."

"Correct." Ash nodded.

"The Empire hates patrolling places like this. Good news, and bad news." I looked up at him.

"Good news is we're less likely to be spotted. Bad news is even the enemy thinks this place is too garbage to bother with?"

"More or less," Ash said. Harvey threw another string of data onto the side display.

"There's a more practical issue." He pushed at the bridge of his nose, though he doesn't wear glasses — exhausted engineers just do that automatically, it looks more professional.

"We don't need sightseeing right now. Don't need a geography report. Definitely don't need anyone standing in the toxic fog reciting poetry. We need sodium, and we need the gas components to refine sub-engine fuel."

"You can cross poetry off the list," I said.

"This ship's overall literary competence is a hazard on its own."

"You were literally in the medical station last night nearly turning the mood into a late-night confession booth," Jess sniped instantly.

"Shut up."

"Just respecting the historical record." Aida slid in seamlessly.

"If the two of you intend to continue your nighttime literary activities, please wait until the briefing's over. I'd like to know whether we're dying of poison, corrosion, or plain overwork today." Ash ignored us and drove the point home.

"We can't take our time on this one." His voice ran a shade colder, a shade more clipped. The bridge went quiet, because everyone understood he wasn't complaining about hassle. He was drawing a line.

"Atmospheric corrosion here is too high," he said.

"The suits can't handle prolonged exposure. Surface time doesn't drag. Every movement has to be fast, precise, short. No slow searches. No hesitation on-site. No one 'taking an extra look while we're here.' Touch down, grab the objective, back to the lander. The whole operation runs as clean as a robbery."

"You've got a real talent for criminal metaphors," I said.

"Thank you. Since you just got back from an Imperial crime scene yesterday, I assume you've got an eye for it." I glared at him. Jess laughed hard enough to nearly slip off her crutches. Ash tapped the console. Two collection zones lit up — one where massive sodium beds intersected with the glowing surface flora; the other a high-activity toxic venting zone, looking ready to sneeze skyward at any moment.

"Two lines, simultaneous," he said.

"First objective: sodium." Several markers lit near the yellow-glowing crystal clusters.

"Harvest this flora and the sodium beds. Enough sodium recharges the ship's life support and the suits' shielding mesh back to safe levels. What we've got plenty of right now is risk. What we're short on is anything that lets us keep standing inside that risk without dying immediately."

"That's a real comfort," Lan said softly.

"Second objective: gas collection," Ash went on.

"The lander's intakes draw directly from the toxic venting layer mid-air. Chemical filtration separates out usable radon and sub-engine fuel components." Harvey picked it up, tracing an airflow diagram with a fingertip.

"Simply put: we're going to a planet where even the air is cursing at us, and we're force-feeding fuel out of its mouth." He paused.

"Technically feasible. Experientially not recommended." I rubbed my temples.

"So this isn't exploration."

"No."

"Not a search."

"No."

"Not a casual stroll to see if there's treasure."

"No."

"It's a smash-and-grab."

"Yes."

"And a minute ago you were sitting there straight-faced pretending this wasn't a robbery."

"I've been completely serious the entire time."

"Which makes it sound even more like a robbery." Aida finally chimed in, unhurried.

"And the high-difficulty version, where you have to run the second you've got the goods, or the acid rain melts the getaway vehicle." Maki, who hadn't said much since I walked in, finally spoke.

"The biggest problem isn't the collection itself." Her eyes stayed on the projection, voice steady.

"It's margin for error." Every gaze on the bridge shifted to her.

"On the heat planet," she said, "we had room to make mistakes. Storms, collapses, accidents — but at least part of that risk was visible, and could be corrected in the moment. This one's different. The environment itself is constant attrition. Every extra second the gear holds costs a person a fraction of their margin." She paused, eyes sweeping the toxic venting belts.

"Put simply — this isn't a contest of endurance. It's a contest of who makes the fewest mistakes." No one on the bridge answered. Because she was exactly right. And that particular kind of right carried the weight of someone who'd just come back yesterday from the very edge of what a mistake actually costs. I looked at her profile and finally understood why everyone on this ship had been talking with an extra half-step of caution these last two days. Not because everyone had suddenly turned gentle.

Because everyone knew, with total clarity, how close this ship had come to crossing a line we couldn't afford to cross. So now, even facing the next planet on the route, no one was treating it as pure data and mission parameters anymore. Harvey tapped his tablet twice.

"One more thing. This planet's toxic fog corrodes mechanical lenses fast, and it's heavy strain on our gear and the collectors' outer membranes. Which means the collection motion can't drag. Lock on, extract, recover — one continuous motion." D said, flat: "Slow down and you die."

"Yes," Harvey nodded.

"Thank you for condensing my technical analysis into something suitable for engraving on a headstone." Jess, propped on her crutches, stared at the massive glowing fungi in the projection for a moment, then spoke up.

"One more question."

"Go ahead," Ash said.

"Those big mushrooms venting poison gas." She tilted her chin at the screen.

"They look like they're asking for it. Things that look like that usually prove they were asking for it, in some deeply disgusting way, the second you get too close." I looked at her.

"The fact that you can still smell danger in your current state is genuinely impressive."

"Professional instinct," Jess said.

"And a highly refined sensitivity to things I hate." Aida nodded.

"I'll vouch for that. Her experience with things she hates runs deep." Ash considered for two seconds.

"Which is why I'll say it again. This is not an expedition. Not a completeness exercise. Not a chance for anyone to play hero for an extra haul. One operating principle: fast, ruthless, precise. Grab it and go. Anyone too slow drags the whole team down with them." I leaned back, looking at that sickly yellow-green Toxic/Corrosive Planet, and found it strangely similar, in one specific way, to the Scorching Cadmium Planet. Not the look. The malice. The last one's malice was open flame. This one's was slow poison.

But the universe's sincerity about wanting to kill you has always been remarkably consistent.

"Anyway," I let out a breath, "this time we can't drag our feet like last time, and nobody gets to suddenly sprint ahead of the group into some building screaming do not enter." The moment I said it, a few people on the bridge went very carefully quiet. Jess's expression didn't shift.

"That feels targeted."

"That's a reasonable correction based on historical precedent."

"I'd like to file an appeal."

"You filing an appeal on crutches looks more like a comedy sketch." Maki didn't look at me, just added, mild: "She won't be able to run that fast this time anyway." Jess turned to her.

"Kushima, you're getting sharper by the day."

"Thank you."

"She's not thanking you," I said.

"She's stating a fact." Ash finally collapsed the projection back to the full view.

"Personnel assignments in a minute," he said.

"First, know this planet cold. If anyone goes down there thinking we'll figure it out on-site, I'll consider tying them to the outer hull and letting them negotiate with the toxic fog directly."

"Your management style," I said, "is still very reportable."

"Feel free to file. Submit it together with the counselor letter." I turned to stare at him.

"How did you know about that?" Ash remained completely expressionless.

"Because from the moment you stepped onto this bridge, you've had I'm filing a formal complaint against the government written all over your face." A few people nearby laughed, not even bothering to be polite about it. Even Maki's mouth twitched. Barely. The kind of barely you'd need a ruler to measure. I snorted and leaned back in my chair.

"Fine. Carry on, then. At least I'm actually here this time — you don't get to fob me off later with a get some rest."

"No one's trying to fob you off," Aida said, flipping through her data without looking up. Jess chimed in, lazy as ever.

"Right. We just didn't want you rolling straight out of bed and charging in here to hijack the meeting."

"Bullshit."

"Strong vitals on that one." Harvey didn't lift his head from his log.

"Logging it: Hoshino Shimo has returned to a safely deployable level of trash talk."

"You people are insufferable." That's what I said out loud. But the sticky, cloying weight that had been lodged in my chest for the past two days actually loosened, just a little, somewhere in all that noise. Because they hadn't put me on a pedestal. They hadn't gone out of their way to avoid me, either. They didn't treat me like glass — like I'd shatter if anyone touched me wrong — and they didn't pretend nothing had happened.

They just did it the Yukikaze way: meetings, toxic planets, mutual sniping, wisecracking, sour faces, and raw data, hauling me straight back into the ship's ordinary rhythm. Crude method. Effective one, too. And I knew exactly why they did it that way. Not because they didn't care — precisely because they did, and they weren't about to let me stay stuck back there alone. At the front of the bridge, the projection of the toxic planet kept turning, slow and steady.

Yellow-green poison fog, bioluminescent fungi, veins of sodium ore lit up like lesions, and columns of corrosive gas punching up from the surface at intervals — all of it quietly reminding us: The next stop wouldn't be any kinder than the last.