Caleb reached the Seventh Division staging bay with his duffel dragging against his good leg. The rail ride from his apartment had taken two hours. He had spent most of it looking at the assignment pin to make sure he was going to the right place.
Eleven other recruits waited inside the blast doors. One slept standing against his bag until the line moved.
"Shirts off," a technician called. "Armor on the bench."
Caleb set down his kit and pulled his undershirt over his head. The tape along his back caught the fabric. He freed it with his left hand before the technician reached him.
The scanner passed over his chest and sounded an error.
The technician checked the screen, reset it, and scanned him again.
"Class-6 breach yesterday?"
"Yes."
"The breach report lists a blade wound across your back and strain down your right arm. The duel before that left you with three broken ribs." He looked from the report to Caleb. "Who treated you?"
"Trial medics. I used a combat stim yesterday."
The technician pressed a thumb beside the bruising over Caleb's ribs. Caleb held still. His chest wall held, but pain spread into the muscle along his right arm.
"Stims don't knit three ribs between the duel and this morning."
Caleb reached for his shirt. "I heal fast."
The technician looked at the recruits waiting behind him. He added a note to the file instead of reaching for another scanner.
"Tell the medical bay if that arm stops working. Cleared."
Caleb dressed before the man could change his mind. He followed the yellow arrows to the armory, with a hand pressed over the cramp starting beneath his ribs.
At the mesh counter, the quartermaster took his trial plates and ruined disposal jacket. The jacket went into an incinerator bin. Caleb watched the blood-soaked canvas land on a pile of torn uniforms.
The replacement kit was gray canvas and black plating, scratched but intact. He pulled the uniform on, fitted the plates, and found that the right shoulder buckle required both hands. The quartermaster tightened it while Caleb held his arm against his side.
"Lift it."
Caleb raised the arm as far as his chest. The buckle pressed on the bruising, but the plate stayed in place.
"Higher."
"That's what it does."
The quartermaster looked at the medical clearance, loosened the strap a notch, and marked the adjustment on the kit record. Caleb tried again. He could reach a rifle sling now, although he would have to let the weapon hang rather than lift it by the stock.
He took out the Seventh Division pin and drove it through the uniform collar. The metal was heavier than a cloth insignia. Every time he turned his head, he could feel it against his neck.
His cracked helmet passed the equipment check. It went back on the counter with eight forms and a pen.
"Next of kin. Debt routing. Salvage consent," the quartermaster said. "Read the headings. Sign the boxes."
Caleb started with his mother's name. On the next page, the base salary had already been assigned to the family debt account.
"All of it?"
"That's the account on your application. You want a routing change, take it to payroll."
He left it. The interest would take the fifty thousand anyway, and missing a payment would put collectors at his mother's door.
The quartermaster tapped the third page.
"Guild keeps Kaiju-touched remains for research. Pension goes to the family."
Caleb read the line twice. The technician's question about his bones was still in his head.
"Does my family get a choice?"
"About the remains? You're making it now."
The quartermaster waited with one hand on the pile. Behind Caleb, the next recruit shifted his duffel from shoulder to shoulder.
His mother's name was already on the pension form. He put his thumb over the word research and read the rest of the clause. The money went to her whether there was a body to return or not.
He signed, then worked through the remaining pages. By the last box, the pen had left a dent in his thumb.
***
The clock outside Barracks 4 read 03:46.
Caleb put his duffel beside a steel footlocker. The mattress still had factory plastic around it. He split the wrapping with his apartment key and pulled it off before sitting down.
Four hours until orientation. He had not eaten since the tavern, and the armor made every breath more work. He unbuckled the chest plate and set it beside his helmet.
The comms chip crackled inside his bag.
"You left it off."
Caleb took the chip out and laid it on the footlocker.
"I'm going to sleep."
"I didn't like her hand on your collar. Shishido needs to learn where she can put her hands. So does your old friend."
He looked at the device. It had been in his pocket throughout the tavern visit. Leaving it off had not kept the evening private.
"Leave them out of this."
"Put the chip back."
Caleb leaned down to undo his boots. The right lace had tightened into a knot. He worked at it with his left thumb while she waited.
"Orientation is at eight," he said. "I need sleep."
"Your assignment is on a military server. I can remove it before you reach that room."
His thumb stopped on the knot.
The board. His name in blue. Two hours on the train with the pin in his hand.
He could put the chip on and keep talking until she was satisfied. Tomorrow she would have another demand, and he would still need the salary.
He freed the lace.
"Then remove it."
The speaker fell silent.
Caleb put the boot on the floor.
"I go back to the disposal yard. Thirty credits a cycle, hauling the same dead guts. You bought a combat feed. Take away the assignment and you get a man carrying buckets."
The connection light stayed on. He waited for her answer.
"You want me in the field," he said. "I can't hold a rifle if you keep me awake."
"Careful, Caleb."
He left his hand beside the chip. He knew what she had already bought: the capsule, the hospital treatment, his private stream. He did not know how much she could do with the division server. He had seen enough interference to believe the threat.
"Let me sleep," he said. "Or find somebody else to watch."
He turned off the light before he could take the words back.
The chip's indicator showed on the footlocker. Caleb sat beside it, still wearing one boot. He waited for a message from the quartermaster, a red notice on the door, footsteps in the hall.
Nothing came.
The indicator changed to green.
"Four hours," she said. "Put it back first."
Caleb breathed out through his nose. He peeled the adhesive away from the chip's edge and pressed it behind his ear. The speaker clicked close to his skin.
He pulled off the other boot and set his datapad for quarter to eight. Then he lay down before she could find something else to say.
For the first time since the tavern, nobody spoke into his ear.