Caelum found out about Dawson at breakfast, from a cadet in Unit 11 who assumed it was common knowledge.
"Hawkins signed with Ashborne, right? Or was it Strata United?"
Caelum looked up from his tray. "What?"
"Hawkins. Your unit lead. He's been placed, hasn't he?"
"I don't know."
The cadet shrugged and went back to his food. Caelum sat there with a spoonful of reconstituted eggs halfway to his mouth and a feeling in his chest he couldn't quite name.
He hadn't spoken to Dawson since the funeral. Before that, the debrief. Before that, the shaft. Their entire relationship fit inside three weeks and a rift, and now apparently it was over and someone from Unit 11 knew before he did.
He found Dawson in the east wing corridor that afternoon, which took some work because east wing didn't like lower-strata IDs. Caelum had to wait at the wing checkpoint for six minutes while a bored enforcer verified his business, which was listed as "personal visit, Designation 612," and which the enforcer clearly thought was a waste of everyone's time.
The corridor on the other side was wider than his. Better lighting too. Floors that didn't squeak.
Dawson's door was open. Not all the way, just enough to see movement inside. Caelum knocked on the frame and Dawson looked up from a half-packed kit bag on his bed.
He was packing. Kit bag on the bed, half full. Same Dawson — same jaw, same posture — but he moved slower than Caelum remembered. Careful with things. Like the trial had taken some of the automatic out of him.
"Ward." Dawson straightened up. Not hostile. Not warm either.
"You're leaving."
"Strata United. Contract came through two days ago."
Two days ago.
And Caelum was hearing about it now, in a corridor, because Dawson hadn't bothered walking fifty metres.
"Good charter," Caelum said, because it was, and because he didn't know what else to say.
"Best offer I got. My father arranged the introduction, but the contract's mine. I earned the placement." Dawson said it fast, like he'd already had to defend it to someone else, or to himself. "They saw the trial footage. The shaft, the extraction. They want heavy-output operators for their B-class rotation."
"B-class. You're First Marked."
"Supervised ride-alongs. Strata United runs an accelerated track for high-output candidates. I'd be embedded with a senior team for the first six months, then reassessed."
Caelum leaned against the doorframe. His sling pressed into his neck and he shifted it without thinking. "Must be nice. Having an accelerated track."
Dawson's eyes narrowed, just slightly. Looking for the insult. Caelum hadn't meant one, or maybe he had. He wasn't sure. The line between observation and resentment was getting thin these days.
"What about you?" Dawson said. Not quite a question.
"Still deciding."
"The window's closing."
"I know."
Dawson folded a shirt and put it in the bag. Precise, corners tucked. Even the way he packed was controlled. Caelum watched him do it and thought about the shaft, about Dawson's hands shaking on the RS stone, about the panic that had cracked through the performance and accidentally saved all of them.
"Kifah?" Dawson asked without looking up.
"Don't know. She's been volunteering at medical. Hasn't submitted anything."
Dawson nodded once. Something crossed his face — not guilt exactly, but in the neighbourhood. He folded another shirt.
"She'll figure it out," Dawson said.
"Will she?"
"She's tougher than she looks. She held that field against the matriarch longer than anyone should have been able to." He paused, hands still on the bag. "I didn't say that to her. I should have. I didn't."
Caelum didn't touch that. If he said the wrong thing, Dawson would clam up and they'd spend the rest of the conversation pretending it hadn't happened.
"Belrose?" Dawson said.
"What about her?"
"She's not going sponsored. I heard from someone in the high-strata wing. She turned down Veridian and Lumen both."
That was news. Caelum didn't let it show on his face, but it stuck. Veridian and Lumen were as good as it got. Turning them both down was either stupid or something else entirely.
"Her business," Caelum said.
"Sure." Dawson pulled the bag's main zip closed and sat on the edge of the bed. For the first time since Caelum had walked in, he looked like he didn't have the next line ready. His hands rested on his knees. Big hands, scarred across the knuckles from training. Plasma burns along the edges of his left thumb that hadn't fully healed.
"I'm not going to say something stupid about staying in touch," Dawson said.
"Good."
"But if you end up somewhere and you need firepower, you know my designation."
Caelum almost smiled. Almost. "Six one two."
"Don't wear it out."
Neither of them said anything for a bit. It wasn't uncomfortable exactly. Just finished.
Caelum pushed off the doorframe. "Good luck with Strata United."
"I don't need luck."
"Yeah. You do. Everyone does."
Dawson looked at him. Held it longer than he normally would. Caelum thought about the window, fourth floor, the night of the candle. Didn't say anything about it.
Dawson looked away first.
"Close the door on your way out, Ward."
Caelum closed the door.
He walked back through the checkpoint. The enforcer didn't look up this time. The corridor on his side felt narrower than it had twenty minutes ago, which was stupid, because corridors don't change size. It just felt that way.
His datapad buzzed in his pocket. Éloïse's message from yesterday, still unanswered.
Training ground C. Tomorrow. 0800. Come alone.
Tomorrow was now today. He had four hours.
Caelum walked back to his room, changed the sling to the other side of his neck where the skin wasn't raw yet, and sat on his bed looking at the message until the words stopped meaning anything.
Then he got up and went.