Endless Paperwork and the Bidding Gambit
“Well done. Thanks to you, we saved on lodging.”
“Not at all, sir. You shouldn’t be wasting time on miscellaneous tasks, right?”
Every word out of his mouth was practically art.
“Sir.”
Just when I was starting to think the team might actually enjoy this more than expected.
Master Sergeant Kaillan approached with dozens of documents in hand.
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t the embezzlement scandal punch holes in our winter gloves supply?”
“Yeah.”
Winter gloves.
One of the prime examples exposed in the embezzlement mess. Word was, they’d skimped on the filling—cotton stuffing that didn’t meet specs.
The real kicker is they made the officers’ gloves properly but screwed with the troops’ ones.
For the record, officers got cowhide; enlisted got sheepskin.
“So I’ve shortlisted some new contractors worth considering. Could you review them?”
Kaillan said as he set down the stack he’d been carrying.
“This… all of it?”
“Yes, sir. We can’t afford any slip-ups this time, so I did a thorough investigation. That’s why the volume’s up.”
“Sigh.”
I couldn’t complain—he’d clearly put in the work.
But damn, it was a mountain.
Easily over a hundred pages.
Staring at this all day meant I wouldn’t finish before quitting time.
“We need to get production rolling fast, so even though you just arrived… could you expedite this a bit?”
“O… okay. I’ll check and get back to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kaillan bowed his head in thanks and returned to his seat.
“Haa.”
I let out a deep sigh and picked up the top document.
Saeroom Factory
• Factory staff: 50
• Glove unit price: 27 silver (enlisted)
• Production: 5,000 pairs/month
(Deadman, reserve colonel, is factory owner with extensive military knowledge.)
Oberman Trading Company
• Glove unit price: 30 silver (officer), 26 silver (enlisted)
• Production: 6,000 pairs/month
(Oberman runs three small factories for delivery.)
(Low prices, but no military knowledge raises quality concerns.)
Surprisingly detailed info.
One thought hit me while scanning it.
Do we really need to know all this?
This was contractor selection. Staff counts, reserve officers as owners or not.
Honestly, by my standards, it was all useless noise.
Just give it to whoever bids cheapest.
That’s what we call a bidding system—a fine societal pact.
“Master Sergeant Kaillan.”
I skimmed a bit more, then called the guy who’d just dumped this bomb on me.
“Yes, sir? Already done reviewing them all?”
“Not quite, but let’s pivot our approach.”
“Approach, sir?”
“No need to nitpick specs the hard way. Pit them against each other and funnel the business to the cheapest bidder.”
Not the absolute best or perfect method.
But in my book, it was the optimal play right now.
“You mean… foster competition?”
“Spot on. Let the market decide, not us.”
“That could lead to lowball bids to win, then quality issues down the line.”
“At a time like this? That’d be perfect. We punish one as an example.”
The idea was kinda fun—my lips curled into a grin.
“Y… yes, that makes sense.”
Kaillan’s voice trembled like he’d seen a ghost, stepping back a pace.
“I’ll send detailed guidelines soon. In the meantime, just tell these companies competition’s coming.”
“Understood. I’ll relay it right away.”
Kaillan headed back, and I finished glancing at the handover docs before leaning into my chair.
Just created more work for myself.
But it had to be done.
Dozens of supply holes from the scandal—I couldn’t vet every factory personally.
Fuck it. Today, just handover docs, then home.
Pushing work to tomorrow might seem lazy or dumb.
But that’s the army for you.
“Factory head! Call from the Support Unit just came in!”
“Oh, finally. Contract time?”
Factory head Deadman set aside his leisurely newspaper at the awaited news.
“Well… I don’t fully get it either. Sounds like they want to negotiate? But maybe not.”
“What the hell.”
Deadman sounded exasperated; his employee matched the vibe.
“See for yourself.”
The employee handed over the fresh letter.
Dear Sir,
I am Major Palan Oclo, Planning Officer of the Western Support Unit.
Your company’s production capacity and extensive experience… are impressive,
but due to limited resources, we will proceed via bidding. The scale of this contract is…
The letter detailed bidding process and contract size.
Deadman finished reading, set it down with a dumbfounded look.
“So… they want us competing on price with others?”
He’d leveraged his reserve colonel status for contracts before—this was new.
“Isn’t it because of the winter glove quality issues?”
“Hey! That was those idiots over there squeezing extra cash. We delivered to spec. Shouldn’t they reward us? Not this shit?!”
When the neighbor skimped cotton for profit, Deadman’s Saeroom Factory stuck to the contract.
Tempting, sure, but army life taught him scandals catch up.
He’d expected to sweep the glove contracts post-busts. Not this.
“No letter from Master Sergeant Kaillan?”
“No, sir.”
“Hoo, headache. Damn it.”
Deadman eyed the attached bid forms.
Cowhide Winter Gloves
Company:
Bid Price:
Delivery Quantity:
Delivery Plan:
Sheepskin Winter Gloves
Company:
Bid Price:
Delivery Quantity:
Delivery Plan:
“What, quantity’s whatever we want?”
“Probably. Their hole’s pretty big now, right?”
“True enough.”
Rumor had it they’d use the defectives short-term but scrap them ASAP.
“You bidding?”
“Have to. See the name? Planning Officer.”
“Pardon…? Oh?!”
The employee reread; eyes bulged at the name.
“Palan Oclo… the medal guy?”
“Yeah, from a count’s family too. He wants bids? What choice we got.”
Reserve colonel.
A commoner who never pinned stars.
Opponent? Heir to a count, emperor’s pet soldier.
Screw up, lose the shot—and maybe the factory.
To survive long, know your weight class. This ain’t it.
Deadman’s rise to colonel? One skill: abyss detection.
And Palan Oclo’s name screamed bottomless pit.
“Ugh, I’m beat. Just kill me.”
A week into being Western Support Unit Planning Officer.
My schedule? Pure hell.
Why does work never end?
Yesterday—Sunday—I clocked in at 8 a.m., out at 10 p.m.
“Haa.”
Heavy sigh from my dantian.
Dying to sleep more, but 7 a.m. Out for work.
“Today: review bids morning, present at staff meeting. Afternoon: budget ops meet, contract draft review…”
What glory was worth this grind?
Seriously considering infantry battalion… nah.
Heard Aditz Empire’s top commander switched from General Maemold Sikaite to Duke Seto.
In my view, war’s imminent.
Since losing Yalk Island, they bled with every breath.
They’d decide soon.
Yeah, no desk hell beats the front lines.
Forced positivity, suited up in uniform.
“Facilities are top-notch, though.”
My field-grade officers’ quarters: three-room setup, Korea-style.
Most majors have families, so bigger space.
No match for the capital mansion, but leagues above past barracks—hotel tier.
One room as a PC bang if computers existed.
Great world, minus no computers.
“No phones either. Total dopamine detox.”
War’s insane dopamine hits kept boredom at bay.
Did lack of computers spark old wars?
Mind-blowing truth…
“Sigh, I’m losing it.”
Slap!
Cheek smack, quick wash, out the door to work.
“Sir!”
“Sir!”
“Sir!”
Majors get salutes from random troops now.
Captain days: just neighborhood uncle. One rank, world of difference.
Shoulders heavy.
“Sir, good morning.”
Captain Dennis, already in, stood.
“Early bird again. When’d you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago, sir.”
His desk? Papers everywhere.
Way more than fifteen.
Rumor: near-hour early.
“No early pay. Better OT.”
“Haha, but I focus better days. Get key stuff done early.”
“Tough fate for a penny-pincher.”
Small talk, bag down, seated.
“Winter gloves bid deadline today?”
“Yes, sir. Picked up from post en route. About fifty entries.”
“That many.”
Kaillan’s initial fifteen? Triple now.