Chương 99: 39.Orbital Drop 39-2

The drop pod bay was colder than the personnel section. Not temperature-cold. The kind of cold that came from what you were seeing and hearing together. Rows of metal pods hung along the deployment deck—deep grey shells, white serial numbers sharp enough to hurt, every one of them looking like it had been purpose-built to transport a specific category of dangerous cargo that happened to be able to talk.

Hatches half-open, interior just wide enough for one person: restraint frame, impact harness, descent control interface, all of it stripped down to the point of being clean and merciless. This wasn't transportation. This was premium canning. From below the deck came the low, rhythmic pulse of hydraulics—something large settling into position in the lower level. The warning lights shifted from white to red, then to a steady strobe.

Every flash made the entire drop zone look like it was being photographed for a death certificate. The squads ahead of us were already filtering into their pods. One cadet stood too long in front of his assigned pod and got barked at by the NCO behind him—get in—startling badly enough that he nearly cracked his head on the hatch frame. Another, a girl, had legs that were visibly shaking, but had her face locked into I'm fine. I looked at it and felt tired. Performing steady and being steady were different things.

Our squad's serial numbers ran in sequence—four pods in a row. FROST-01 FROST-02 FROST-03 FROST-04 White text on grey hull, official in a way that was specifically irritating. Jess spotted her pod first, mouth curving upward.

"How thoughtful. The school made us personalized coffin numbers."

"If yours gets too loud in there, I'll personally add a soil layer after we land," I said.

"Thank you, Frost-01. Such touching squad solidarity." Harvey had already stopped participating in this exchange and walked straight to Pod 03 for his final inspection—even tapping the handrail bolts with the back of his hand, like he suspected the Federation might have cut corners at the last minute. Maki stood in front of Pod 04, scanned the hull number, then looked over at me once. She didn't say anything. But the look was obvious. Not the clinging kind. Confirmation.

Confirming I was still here, still standing, still ready to start giving orders. I really didn't want to admit it, but that one look made me put away the eye-roll I'd been preparing.

"Final confirmation." I stood between the four pods, keeping my voice low.

"Post-landing call sequence—whoever touches down first, whoever hears it, picks it up. Three minutes to link up, five minutes to establish first perimeter. No visual, listen first. No audio, run the lost-contact protocol. Everyone clear?"

"Frost-02 clear, and starting to feel slightly nauseous," Jess said.

"You throw up in the pod, you clean it yourself," Harvey said.

"Frost-03, you have no soul."

"Which makes me more durable." Maki spoke last.

"Frost-04 clear." She paused, looking at me.

"Frost-01 shouldn't forget either." I glanced at her.

"If I forget, who reminds me?" Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"I do."

"Right. So you actually did write that into your job description." She didn't deny it. The red lights cycled again. From across the deck: "One minute to pod entry!" The sound in the entire bay suddenly thinned. Still crowded, machinery still running, hydraulics still cycling, urgent footsteps somewhere behind us—but something heavier pressed down over all of it, muffling everything like sound through cloth. I knew what that was. Not fear.

The quiet before something starts, when nobody wants to admit they're counting seconds.

"Alright," I said. Not loud, but clear enough.

"Frost, get in. See you on the ground." Jess threw me a two-finger salute, turned, and ducked into Pod 02, managing one final line.

"If I land brain-damaged, please remember I was once a person with ideals."

"You currently look more like a person with a condition," I said. Harvey was already in Pod 03—efficient as returning to his own toolbox, harness pulled and locked in one motion, no words wasted. Before Maki stepped into Pod 04, she turned back once more. Brief. Brief enough that it didn't read as goodbye. More like a silent reconfirmation. And I found myself thinking, without permission, about what she'd said in the corridor last night— At least I can stand in front of you. Shit.

That was not a useful thing to remember right now. I frowned and spoke first to shut down whatever that feeling was.

"Frost-04."

"Yes."

"If you land before me, check overhead first." Maki nodded.

"You too." …Right. Even our back-and-forth had gotten efficient. She stepped in. The hatch panel slid halfway, cutting her face into cold light and shadow. In that final visible moment, her expression was perfectly flat—like she'd deliberately left everything unnecessary outside. Just me still standing in the middle. The NCO's voice cracked across the deck.

"FROST-01, into the pod!"

"I heard you. Stop calling spirits," I muttered, turning and stepping into Pod 01. The interior was tighter than expected. Back against the padding, the metal shell closed around me completely. Waist, shoulder, and leg restraints deployed automatically; I buckled them while rapidly scanning the interior interface: seal nominal, impact buffer on standby, personal HUD syncing, surface data feed delayed activation. Good. The machine was currently planning to let me live.

I locked my pack to the knee anchor point, tightened my gloves, and pulled down the final shoulder strap. The hatch slid up from outside—quiet, but definitive. That clean click as it sealed cut the outside world down to almost nothing. What remained was the static baseline in the earpiece and the low vibration of the pod itself. In a single-person space, your own breathing gets loud. I didn't let it become irregular. Not because I wasn't tense.

Because tension here had no audience and wouldn't make the hatch any gentler. The comms channel opened.

"Frost-02, in position. Side note: this is marginally better than my dorm coffin."

"Frost-03, in position."

"Frost-04, in position." I pressed the transmit key.

"Frost-01, in position. Channel stays open, no unnecessary chatter. Final reminder before drop: land, call in, link up, establish perimeter, find water, find cover, don't find ways to die." Jess's laugh came through light over the static.

"Copy. That's starting to sound like our squad motto."

"Then memorize it." From outside the pod: heavy locking rails moving. Not one. A whole row. Like a line of identical cans being fed simultaneously into a much larger metal throat. The display interface flashed red: Drop Sequence Initiated Countdown: 00: 01: 00 Perfect. No music. No motivational speech. No official coming on to say may the Federation's glory go with you. Just a cold countdown, and Aki's note still pressed against my chest in the inner pocket. Fifty-five seconds. Fifty-four.

The pod began moving forward slightly. I knew what that meant. Being fed to the drop position. The earpiece was quiet. Good. Meant nobody was using the last minute to prove they were still alive by talking. Forty-five seconds. I stared at the numbers and felt my head clear. Not because I'd figured anything out. Because once something starts, there's no space left for performance. Midterm scores. Finals implications. Official shelters. Seventy-two-hour lockdown. Distress beacon drops the whole squad.

Rainforest vines, mosquito swarms, false water sources. And Aki Kushima's note that said love you in annoyingly perfect handwriting. All of it present. Fine. Get through it one item at a time. Thirty seconds. From outside the pod: a deeper rumble, like a massive armored door beginning to separate somewhere ahead. The pod's internal temperature didn't change, but I felt it anyway—something colder, emptier, seeping in from the front. Twenty seconds. Harvey's voice came through low.

"Frost-03. Don't rush the landing." I answered fast.

"Worry about yourself."

"I always do." Jess made a quiet sound.

"Is this the closest our group gets to actually caring about each other? Genuinely touching." Maki added one final line.

"It's enough." My mouth twitched.

"Right. It's enough. Everyone shut up and get ready to call in." Ten seconds. The countdown numbers enlarged, the whole interface flipping to harsh red. Nine. Eight. The armored door opened wider ahead—a thin, high whine as air got pulled away fast. Not wind. Too clean for wind. More like space itself peeling open. Five seconds. I gripped both handles, pressed my shoulders into the buffer pad, eyes fixed on the gap that hadn't fully opened yet. Four. Three. Everyone in the earpiece had gone quiet. Two.

The final drop hatch ahead began to rise, cold white warning light cutting through the seam. One— I pulled in one last breath, still carrying the faint antiseptic smell of the transport.