Vertex Macro | Ferryboat Computer Club 03: The Nameless Project

The Third Route

The Nameless Project

During the first summer after graduation, Peter, David, and Tommy no longer shared the same clubroom.

Peter entered a university of technology. He attended classes during the day and continued working part-time at the security company in the evenings. David studied business analytics while continuing his research into trading, market systems, and Chinese policy history. Tommy joined an international program and frequently traveled between cities, helping student communities establish interschool partnerships.

Their Slack group still existed, but its name had changed from “Aoba Computer Science Club Core Team” to “The Riverside Bus Shelter.”

David said that since they no longer managed the same organization, they should not keep a name that made them look like a formal center of power.

Tommy said a bus shelter was a good image. People stopped there, changed routes, and moved on, but nobody could claim to own the road.

Peter said it sounded like three unemployed people waiting for a bus.

At the beginning of August, Tommy posted an invitation in the group.

“Three schools want to establish a youth technology network together. They would like us to help design a Community Day, LinkedIn Page, Meetup program, and Slack workspace. This time it will include university students, vocational students, and young people who have just started working.”

Peter replied immediately. “That would make an excellent third crossing.”

David answered, “Do not hurry to name somebody else’s project.”

Three days later, they met representatives of the three schools online.

Yuna represented Kitagawa Institute of Technology. She specialized in cloud development and wanted students to experience real projects.

Mark represented Seaside Vocational School. He cared about employment and wanted community activities to help students find internships.

Ruoqing represented Morning Star University. She studied design and believed a technology community should serve more than people who could write code.

“We need a shared brand,” Yuna said, “so companies know they can find young talent here.”

“We need genuine opportunities for cooperation,” Mark said. “Not another event where speakers tell success stories and leave.”

“We also need a place where beginners do not feel foolish,” Ruoqing added.

Peter opened a blank document. “Then let us begin with the vision.”

“Begin with the limits,” David said.

“Limits in the first meeting?”

“If we do not identify what the project must not become, the vision will quickly mean something different to everyone.”

Tommy entered three questions in the document.

Who owns the shared brand?

Who may speak for the entire network?

If the three schools disagree, who has the final decision?

The meeting became quiet.

“We could establish a central committee,” Yuna suggested.

“Who chooses it?” Mark asked.

“If the school with the most resources always receives the most seats,” Ruoqing said, “cooperation will merely become a hierarchy with a new name.”

Peter remembered how he had nearly turned his experience into orders during the Second Crossing.

“Let us not create a permanent center,” he said. “We can establish a temporary planning group with a fixed end date. It may organize the first event, but it cannot automatically become the permanent governing body.”

David nodded. “Give power an expiration date before discussing who should lead. That matters more.”

And so the nameless project began.

Chapter Two: Who May Represent Everyone?

The planning group’s first dispute arrived sooner than expected.

During an interview with a technology company, Yuna said that the three schools were creating a “National Youth Developers Alliance.” After the interview appeared, it was widely shared on LinkedIn, and companies began asking how to join.

The problem was that nobody had approved such an alliance or its name.

“Who authorized this name?” Mark asked on Slack.

“Why does the interview say nothing about design or vocational education?” Ruoqing added.

“The reporter needed an understandable name,” Yuna replied. “I was creating visibility for everyone.”

Peter felt a familiar unease. In the past, he might have admired Yuna’s initiative. She had seized an opportunity and attracted attention to an unfinished network. But he now saw the other side. By naming everyone first, she had also decided how the outside world would understand them.

“Were you speaking personally or representing all three schools?” David asked at the next meeting.

“I was representing the project, of course.”

“Which record authorized you?”

“If every interview must wait for a vote by three schools, every opportunity will disappear.”

“Speed does not create authorization by itself.”

“So you want me to do nothing?” Yuna asked.

“No,” Tommy said. “You may act quickly, but you must describe the scope accurately. You could say that Kitagawa is exploring cooperation with two other schools. You cannot say that a national alliance already exists.”

“And names matter,” Ruoqing said. “Calling it a developers alliance turns design, operations, content, and community work into supporting roles. We never agreed to that direction.”

“I only wanted the outside world to see us,” Yuna said.

“Helping the world see people and deciding what those people will be seen as are different things,” Peter replied.

They created a new rule. Anyone could discuss work in which they personally participated. However, phrases such as “we represent the three schools” or “the network has decided” required a traceable decision record. A rotating spokesperson could respond quickly in urgent situations, but only within a preapproved scope of known facts. The spokesperson could not invent policies, names, or commitments.

Yuna asked the publication to replace “National Youth Developers Alliance” with “Three-School Youth Technology Partnership.” She also clarified on LinkedIn that the formal name and governance model were still being designed together.

Aoi, now leading the Aoba club, had been invited to observe.

“If Yuna had no bad intention, why be so strict?” she asked David.

“The most common expansion of power does not begin with someone announcing that they will become king. It begins with someone saying that the matter is urgent, the opportunity is rare, and they will decide for everyone first.”

“Does that not restrain people with initiative?”

“That is why a system must provide fast and legitimate paths, not prohibitions alone. Rotating spokespersons, preapproved message boundaries, and public records afterward allow speed and authorization to coexist.”

“Rules should not tie a boat to the shore,” Tommy said. “Good rules tell the captain which weather permits departure and which conditions require reporting.”

Peter looked at the corrected headline. Speaking for others did not merely offer a stage. It meant accepting responsibility for the risk that others might be misunderstood.

Chapter Three: The Teacher’s Invitation List

The first Community Day was scheduled for Morning Star University. Each school proposed speakers, but only twelve sessions were available.

Peter recommended two colleagues from the security company. They were not famous speakers, but they had handled real incidents and were willing to lead practical exercises.

Yuna recommended technical executives from major companies, believing their names would attract registrations.

Mark recommended engineers who had graduated from vocational schools so students could see more than one path into the industry.

Ruoqing recommended interaction designers, technical writers, and accessibility consultants.

As the list grew, the discussion began to resemble a silent marketplace.

“This executive may bring sponsorship.”

“This engineer can offer internships.”

“This designer is excellent with beginners.”

“This speaker has one hundred thousand LinkedIn followers.”

Peter discovered that his two colleagues had fallen to the bottom of the ranking.

“Why are their scores so low?”

“They have little public visibility and promised no sponsorship,” Yuna said.

“But they can deliver practical learning.”

“First, we need people to attend.”

David examined the scoring fields. “This model gives heavy weight to follower counts, company size, and potential sponsorship. It does not measure teaching ability, age-appropriate content, or conflicts of interest.”

“Without recognizable names, nobody will open the registration page,” Yuna argued.

“And with recognizable names alone,” Ruoqing replied, “students may arrive only to hear corporate presentations.”

Peter remembered how he had once built momentum from lists of well-known speakers. Every familiar company name appeared to be a bright lamp. Yet a bright lamp did not necessarily illuminate a student’s next step.

“Do not begin by asking who is most famous,” Tommy said. “First decide what the twelve sessions must accomplish.”

They redesigned the program. Four sessions would provide genuine technical practice. Two would address careers and internships. Two would cover design and accessibility. Two would feature student presentations, and two would focus on solving interschool problems.

Speakers were then evaluated against each session’s purpose rather than against one another’s fame.

David added four conditions. Could the speaker explain what participants would learn? Would the speaker accept a content review? Would commercial relationships be disclosed? Would usable learning materials remain after the event?

Both of Peter’s colleagues were selected. One led an account-security workshop, and the other conducted an incident-timeline exercise. Two prominent executives were not invited because their proposals resembled product promotion.

“What if registration numbers look bad?” Yuna asked.

“We still need promotion,” Peter answered, “but we cannot exchange the wrong content for larger numbers. A brand may bring people through the door. Their experience determines whether they stay.”

When the program went public, the first session to fill was not a corporate keynote. It was “Find the Cause of an Account Takeover in One Hour.”

“You finally understand that knowing many people does not mean placing all of them onstage,” David told Peter.

“I was never that extreme.”

“You were extreme more politely.”

Chapter Four: The Free Places

A sponsor offered fifty free places for students facing financial difficulty. The proposal looked generous, but applicants had to provide household income, telephone number, email address, school, fields of interest, and future career ambitions.

“Fifty places could help many students,” Mark said.

“Why does the sponsor need their career ambitions?” Ruoqing asked.

The company said it wanted to measure impact and provide internship information later.

“The places are not free,” David said. “The students are paying with data.”

“Should we reject the offer completely?” Peter asked.

“First separate what is necessary from what is merely wanted. What data are required to establish eligibility? What is required for event communication? What does the sponsor want for marketing?”

Tommy proposed anonymous assistance numbers. Each school would verify eligibility through a counseling or administrative office. The event organizer would know which numbers had assistance but would not receive household-income details. The sponsor would receive totals, attendance rates, and anonymous feedback, not a personal list.

“Then we cannot prove which students benefited from our support,” the sponsor’s representative said.

“You can prove how many benefited without knowing their family circumstances,” Ruoqing replied.

“We also wish to maintain contact with students.”

“You may offer voluntary subscriptions at the event,” Peter said. “They cannot be tied to the free place.”

“Your requirements are stricter than those of many formal organizations.”

“Young people often find it harder than formal organizations to refuse,” David answered.

They reached an agreement. The sponsor still supported fifty places, but personal details stayed with the schools. Internship notices and subscriptions were entirely optional.

“What if a sponsor withdraws because of such rules?” Aoi asked. “Then nobody receives assistance.”

“That is the difficult part,” Peter replied. “Protecting rights sometimes costs resources, so we cannot only say no. We prepared small-donation and volunteer-exchange alternatives. People can choose freely only when another route exists.”

“If privacy is the only price someone can pay for entry, that is not a choice,” David said. “It means there is no other road.”

A week before the event, the sponsor published the data-protection arrangement. Other partners saw it and began revising their own registration forms.

“A ferryman must not only bring people aboard,” Tommy said. “He must also prevent the ticket office from taking what it has no right to take.”

Chapter Five: Peter Was Not There

On the morning of Community Day, Peter did not appear at Morning Star University.

The previous night, his security company had experienced a serious incident. Customers received forged notices, and internal systems showed abnormal logins. His supervisor asked him to stay in the incident room and help determine the impact and track notifications.

At five in the morning, Peter posted on Slack.

“I may not reach the venue today. Yuna has the opening presentation. Mr. Lin will lead the security workshop. Ruoqing is now the emergency contact. I am sorry.”

At six, David replied, “Do not apologize. Follow the handover.”

Ten minutes later, Tommy wrote, “Handle the incident for which you are truly responsible. We will keep you updated.”

Peter watched the event stream begin silently from the company meeting room. He wanted to turn on the sound but could not afford the distraction.

“Did you not have an event today?” his supervisor asked.

“Yes, but they can operate.”

“You are not worried?”

“I am. But being worried does not mean returning to take control.”

At the venue, Yuna walked onto the stage with the opening notes. She did not claim to represent the nation or describe the event as the achievement of one school.

“This project has no permanent center,” she said. “Every partnership is explained by the people responsible for it, and every decision has a traceable scope. Bring your questions. You do not need to prove that you are already excellent.”

Twenty minutes into the first workshop, the network became unstable. In the past, everyone might have called Peter. Instead, Ruoqing followed the incident procedure, identified the affected rooms, and activated the backup network. Mark moved disconnected participants to the offline exercise area, while Tommy posted updates on Meetup and Slack.

The situation stabilized within fifteen minutes.

David recorded the event without writing either “Peter’s absence caused confusion” or “the team handled everything perfectly.” He documented facts, impact, actions, and improvements.

That afternoon, Peter finally checked his messages.

“Without me, it seems nothing changed,” he wrote to David.

“It changed. The difference simply did not have to appear as operational failure.”

“Am I no longer important?”

“If importance means that everyone can only call you when something fails, then what you want is not value. It is dependence.”

Tommy sent a photograph of students completing the account-security exercise Peter had designed. His procedure cards lay on the tables.

The message contained one sentence: “The person is absent. The method remains.”

That night, the company’s incident stabilized. Peter’s notification timeline helped the team avoid duplication and omissions. Community Day also ended successfully. The event did not fail because of his absence, and his professional responsibility was not abandoned for the event.

For the first time, he felt that two paths could coexist without requiring the sacrifice of one.

Chapter Six: David’s Flawed Model

After the event, David built a scoring model from participant numbers, completion rates, sponsorship, internships, downloads, and retention. The model ranked Kitagawa first, Morning Star second, and Seaside Vocational last.

“So we were the worst-performing school?” Mark asked.

“You brought fewer registrations and published less content,” David replied.

“We managed equipment, guided lost students, built the offline practice area, and handled allergy labels for lunch. Were those included?”

“Some volunteer hours were included, but not at that level of detail.”

“Most of your data came from the platforms,” Ruoqing said. “Invisible work disappeared again.”

David did not defend himself immediately. The calculations were not wrong. The error was treating what could be calculated easily as what mattered most.

“If sponsors receive this report, what will they do?” Peter asked.

“They may direct more resources to Kitagawa.”

“Then the model does not merely describe the present. It changes future power.”

David turned off the projector.

“I have criticized people for using titles and visibility to hide reality. I did the same thing with numbers.”

“Numbers are not the enemy,” Mark said. “I simply do not want equipment, care, and on-site support to be treated as if they appear naturally.”

The schools redesigned the evaluation. In addition to platform figures, it included peer feedback, work logs, risk prevention, accessibility support, knowledge transfer, and invisible labor. Every score needed a source and a statement of limitations. There would be no single apparently objective ranking.

“Comparison can support learning,” David said, deleting the league table. “Ranking makes people change their behavior to serve the score.”

“Are you not afraid the report will become too complicated?” Tommy asked.

“If simplicity sacrifices truth, it merely helps decision-makers misunderstand more quickly.”

“You admitted a model could be wrong,” Peter said. “We should commemorate this day.”

“Models are always wrong. People merely prefer to inspect everybody else’s model.”

The revised report finally made Seaside’s contribution visible. Sponsors agreed to fund transport and on-site support in the next cycle rather than concentrating only on stages and promotion.

David ended the report with one sentence: “Being visible to numbers does not make something most important; being difficult to quantify does not make it nonexistent.”

Chapter Seven: Tommy Stops Being the Middleman

As the partnership expanded, Tommy became the person everyone contacted.

Kitagawa could not find Seaside’s contact, so it asked Tommy. Morning Star wanted to invite an overseas community, so it asked Tommy. Sponsors did not know whom to approach, so they asked Tommy too.

At first, he was glad to help. He understood cultural differences and knew everyone’s habits. Two months later, however, he received more than one hundred messages a day. Every misunderstanding reached him first, and every partnership seemed unable to begin without him.

“Do you not enjoy connecting different places?” Peter asked.

“Enjoying connection does not mean enjoying being the only tollbooth on every road.”

“You have become an irreplaceable intermediary,” David said. “That is also power.”

“And power easily disguised as service,” Tommy replied. “Everyone believes I am helping. I enjoy being needed. Meanwhile, nobody builds direct relationships.”

He changed his method. When someone asked him to relay ordinary cooperation, he created a shared channel instead. When cultural misunderstandings arose, he explained the context and returned responsibility to the people involved. If a school lacked a permanent contact, he required it to establish the role rather than forwarding every message forever.

“This was easier when we only had to contact you,” an overseas representative complained.

“It is harder in the short term. In the long term, you will not depend on me.”

“Are you not the network’s global contact?”

“I support international connections. I do not represent every community, and I do not own every relationship.”

“Then what is your value?”

The question hurt. Tommy had often told Peter not to measure himself through authority and income alone. Yet when he released his central position, he too became afraid of losing importance.

“You once told me a ferryman does not complete the passenger’s whole journey,” Peter reminded him that evening.

“If every relationship must pass through you, you are not a ferryman,” David said. “You are a checkpoint on the bridge.”

“You are using my own words against me.”

“It is called knowledge transfer,” Peter said.

Three months later, the schools could cooperate directly. Tommy received fewer messages, yet the network became more active. Regional groups organized their own Meetups and jointly maintained multilingual documents.

Tommy’s name no longer appeared in every email, but the method of connection he had designed remained.

Beside his world map, he wrote: “A true connector does not make everyone seek him. He helps people finally find one another.”

Chapter Eight: No Permanent Chair

The planning group’s six-month term expired.

Under the original rules, it had to dissolve or receive new authorization from the three schools to establish a governing team.

By then, the project had three thousand LinkedIn followers, more than one thousand Slack members, regular Meetups, and several sponsors. Many people believed replacing the team was too risky.

“We cooperate well,” Yuna said. “There is no need for another election merely as a formality.”

“Resources have increased,” Mark replied. “That is precisely why authorization must be renewed.”

“The original planners are founders,” Ruoqing added, “but founders do not automatically become permanent governors.”

Peter understood Yuna’s concern. A new team might not understand the history and might make poor decisions. Yet if only the original members were qualified to govern, succession would be nothing but a slogan.

David proposed a new structure. There would be no permanent chair. Schools would rotate meeting facilitation. Budget, platform security, and content direction would belong to separate teams, so no single role controlled every resource. Major decisions required cross-school support, while responsible teams could handle daily work quickly. Terms lasted one year, with one renewal allowed, followed by a mandatory break.

“Would it not waste talent if the most capable person must leave because of a term limit?” Aoi asked.

“A system cannot assume talent will remain forever,” David said. “It must force the organization to develop the next person. Otherwise, ability slowly becomes a justification for monopoly.”

“Rotation should not discard experience,” Peter added. “Former leaders can advise and provide context, but they cannot keep making decisions for the new team.”

“A handover is not throwing away the key,” Tommy said. “It is showing the next person how the door opens and then truly removing your own hand.”

The new structure passed.

Yuna became the first rotating chair, but her authority was smaller than she had once imagined. She convened meetings and coordinated externally, but could not independently control budgets, accounts, or partner lists.

“I once believed I could not lead without complete power,” she told Peter.

“And now?”

“Leadership is not deciding everything. It is ensuring that each decision reaches the right people.”

“Congratulations,” David said. “Your theory of power has advanced from possession to allocation.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Nine: The Third Route

After the governing team was formed, everyone discussed a formal name.

Some proposed “Asian Youth Technology Alliance.” Others preferred “Future Developers Network.” Some wanted to continue the ferry imagery.

Peter did not rush to speak.

Aoi finally proposed “The Third Route.”

“The first crossing helped people move from being afraid to begin toward taking action. The second taught one community not to control another. This time, we are not building another fixed crossing. We are helping different places choose their own routes.”

“A route can also be adjusted,” Ruoqing said. “There is not only one destination.”

“And it does not make us sound like headquarters,” Mark added.

“Will there be a fourth route?” David asked.

“Yes,” Aoi answered. “But we may not be the ones who name it.”

The name was approved.

The LinkedIn Page no longer promised to build the largest youth technology community. Its description became: “Helping young people establish suitable technology routes through public rules, transferable methods, and cross-disciplinary cooperation.”

Meetup activities no longer followed one format. Some schools held large Community Days. Others ran ten-person coding circles, design workshops, or vocational portfolio sessions.

Slack no longer forced every discussion into a central space. Regions could establish their own management methods as long as they respected several shared boundaries: permissions were recorded, suspensions had time limits, data was not transferred arbitrarily, external representation required authorization, and nobody could claim another person’s contribution.

The Third Route no longer resembled an organization Peter could observe from its center. It looked more like many small boats leaving at once, sometimes traveling together and sometimes separating.

“Is it becoming too decentralized?” he asked.

“Decentralization loses some control but gains resilience,” David said. “If one road closes, other places continue operating.”

“A community does not require everyone to say the same thing,” Tommy added. “People need to know which values must not be broken and which methods may change freely.”

Peter remembered when his family called him a tiny official who only opened doors. He still opened doors, but no longer treated that as his entire value. He had security work, a formal advisory project, and technical methods he could deliver. Community work was not his only stage. It was one route he willingly traveled.

“What if someone still says we build boats for others for free?” he asked David.

“Look at the evidence. Some participate voluntarily, some have contracts, some gain internships, and some develop skills. If exchange is transparent, exit is free, and contributions are recorded, the word ‘free’ cannot describe every relationship.”

“And if somebody truly exploits the community?”

“Use the system to address it. Do not substitute a worldview for evidence.”

“David no longer uses cynicism as a universal answer,” Tommy said.

“I merely downgraded it from an operating system to a diagnostic tool.”

Chapter Ten: Lights Remaining on the Water

On the Third Route’s first anniversary, the three friends returned to Aoba High School.

The old clubroom had been repainted, and newer equipment replaced the aging computers. Two familiar sentences remained on the blackboard.

Make it work first. Make it perfect later.

First ask whom we are helping to cross. Then build a boat that does not depend on one person alone.

Aoi had added a third sentence.

Let everyone choose their own shore, and let power know when to leave the boat.

That evening, the Aoba club held a small Meetup. There was no large stage or famous executive. About twenty students sat in a circle and shared what they had recently completed and where they had failed.

One newcomer said nobody used the website he had created.

Another said she had forgotten to turn on the microphone during her first hosting session.

A vocational student said he had submitted ten internship applications and received only one reply.

Peter offered no speech about success and did not describe every failure as a precious gift. He simply asked, “What is the smallest thing you want to change next time?”

David helped the students convert vague feelings into questions that could be examined.

Tommy introduced people facing similar challenges, but made no promises on their behalf.

After the gathering, a student asked, “Which of you is the real founder?”

Peter looked at David. David looked at Tommy.

“We all took part in the beginning,” Tommy said, smiling. “But the community works today not because its founders still control everything.”

“Do you still have power?”

“Having influence does not grant unlimited authority,” Peter said.

“Having experience does not allow us to skip procedure,” David said.

“And being heard does not require others to obey,” Tommy said.

When they left the school, night wind moved across the river. Several small boats traveled in different directions, each carrying a light at its bow.

“I used to fear that everyone else would take the results after an event while I kept only the photographs,” Peter said.

“Do you no longer fear it?” David asked.

“I still do. That is why I learned to negotiate contracts, record results, retain credit, and stop letting other people define all my contributions. But I also know that not every valuable act immediately becomes a position or budget.”

“I once feared beautiful words so much that I treated every relationship as an exchange of interests,” David said. “That reduced disappointment, but it also hid trust that was still growing.”

“I once enjoyed being the intermediary,” Tommy said. “I believed more connections made me more valuable. Then I learned that if nobody can cooperate without passing through me, connection has not succeeded. Dependence has.”

They stopped on the riverbank.

“What have we learned?” Peter asked.

“Goodwill needs systems,” David said, “and systems must accept examination.”

“Connections need boundaries,” Tommy said, “but boundaries must not prevent people from approaching.”

“And leadership,” Peter said after thinking, “is not tying every boat to your own harbor. It is ensuring that every boat knows how to depart safely.”

The lights moved one by one across the water.

No single light illuminated the entire river. No single boat represented every direction. Yet because they could see one another, they knew they were not traveling alone in darkness.

The Third Route had no permanent center and no teacher who could speak for everyone. It had public rules, replaceable roles, traceable decisions, and people willing to accompany someone who had lost the way.

The true strength of a community was not making one person permanently irreplaceable. It was ensuring that when the person was absent, everyone still knew where a problem should go, where authority should stop, who deserved credit, and how a tired person could hand over the oar without shame.

Peter, David, and Tommy continued along the river.

They did not know where the next route would lead or whether they would always work together. They no longer needed permanent titles to prove their relationship.

Some companionship was written into contracts. Some remained in systems. Some was simply a light at night.

As long as the lights remained visible, the river would never have only one direction.