At eight, Caleb sat in the back row of Briefing Room 7 with his datapad open and nothing written on it. Eleven recruits filled the other desks. He had found the room by following them; the first turn out of the barracks had taken him toward the laundry.
A training camera above the board faced the desks, its attendance light on.
Mabel Bristow came in carrying coffee. She put the chipped mug beside the podium and looked over the class.
"Everybody signed the forms?"
Nobody answered.
"Good. Now find out how you're supposed to stay alive long enough to collect."
She brought up the pay chart.
Fifty thousand credits a month in base salary. Viewer gifts and engagement bonuses on top. The Guild took twenty-two percent of those extras. Highlight sales could add more, depending on the threat class.
Caleb entered the base figure on his datapad, then deleted it. Payroll would send that money to the debt account. For food, rent, and his brother's oxygen, he needed something outside the monthly wage.
At the bottom of the chart, a separate line described Executive Private feeds: no public chat, no competing sponsor bids.
He looked at the comms chip's connection icon. One buyer could speak to him. Thousands of people watching an arena replay did not change that.
Mabel replaced the chart with a ranking pyramid.
"Other divisions dress their grades up for sponsors. We use Schlacht ranks, slaughterhouse rules. You start at the bottom."
She touched the gray bar.
"You're Rank F, the Draugr. Walking dead, if you need a translation. You get base pay, basic kit, standard rations."
The next highlighted band was blue.
"First pay target is Rank C, Jaeger. Ten confirmed Danger Class harvests and a hundred thousand engagement points. Double base, a share of public ad revenue, better surplus gear."
Caleb wrote down both requirements. Ten kills meant surviving ten encounters. The other number depended on a feed he could not open.
"Private gifts count?" he asked.
Mabel looked toward the back row. "Paid engagement counts. Your buyer would have to fund it."
He kept the two numbers separate on the screen. He could work toward one. The other required asking the woman behind his ear for more money.
Mabel tapped the red band.
"A year as Jaeger, a million viewers, and you can qualify for my assault squad. Rank A. Shinigami. Sponsors buy your face, and you can afford armor that was built for you."
At the top, a gold block carried Barrett's name and hers.
"Aesir. Rank S. Captain and I share thirty percent of division gross. If that bothers you, live long enough to make a bid for the seats."
A recruit near the front raised his hand toward the small red tier above the pyramid.
Mabel lowered her mug.
"SSS operators answer to Guild executives, not this division. If one enters your combat zone, get out of their way. You won't be collecting points beside them."
The recruit put his hand down.
Mabel returned to the schedule. "Housing and kit records this morning. Practical drills in the staging yard at thirteen hundred. Bring your datapads. I won't explain the assignment twice because you lost the first copy."
Chairs scraped back. Caleb put his figures away and reached for his bag.
"Treadwell. Stay."
He sat again.
The others filed out. Mabel waited until the door closed, then walked down the aisle with her coffee.
"Only Executive lock in the intake," she said. "Five years in disposal, no public combat record. How did you find that buyer?"
"I didn't. A capsule dropped when I was bleeding out."
"And you accepted the contract."
"I accepted the capsule. The feed came with it."
She rested a hand on the next desk. Her scars pressed white against the knuckles.
"That lock cuts you off from the bids my recruits use to buy equipment. You're entering combat with one person deciding what you're worth."
Caleb kept his eyes on her. "I can't reach your promotion target without her money."
"You could try to break the arrangement."
"She paid for the hospital. She's kept me in the trials. I don't have somebody else waiting to cover that."
Mabel held out her hand.
"Chip."
He did not move at first. She waited. Caleb pulled it free from behind his ear and put it in her palm.
She raised its microphone toward her mouth.
"Listen, whale. He's in my squad. Lock his resources down and you're paying to watch him get killed before he learns the job."
The podium screen glitched behind her.
Purple text replaced the schedule.
[I OWN THE FEED. YOU CAN BORROW HIM.]
Caleb looked from the words to Mabel. She read them without stepping away from the desk.
"Then keep your wallet open," she said. "I need him equipped. And I give the orders in the field."
[YOU CAN USE HIM AS BAIT. DON'T CONFUSE THAT WITH OWNERSHIP.]
Mabel set her coffee down.
"I can assign him to a signal-dead bunker. You want to watch him work, stay out of my deployments."
The screen flickered but offered no answer.
She placed the chip on Caleb's desk and went back to the podium. A reset switch cleared the purple display. The Defense Force seal returned while she waited beside it.
"Keep it off until you're out of this room."
Caleb put the device in his pocket. He lifted his bag with his left hand. The right still would not take the weight.
Mabel watched him adjust the strap.
"Have you eaten?"
"Last night."
"Mess hall is down the yellow corridor. Go there before you sort your kit."
He nodded and left.
In the hall, the hunger cramped hard enough to stop him. He put his good hand against the wall and waited for his breathing to settle. The repaired bone held. The muscles around it felt as if somebody had twisted them tight.
The yellow arrows led past the laundry turn he had taken that morning. He followed them this time.
***
The mess hall was mostly empty. Veterans sat at separate tables, eating gray protein blocks from plastic trays. Caleb could smell industrial cleaner under the steam from the serving line.
He tapped his identification card on the scanner.
The attendant put one block on a tray, added a foil packet of nutrient paste, and pushed it beneath the glass.
"Double portion," Caleb said.
The attendant checked the screen. "Rank F. Standard ration."
"I'll pay for the second."
"Not at this counter. Extra allocation starts at Rank C."
Behind the glass, a pan held enough food to stop the pain under Caleb's ribs. His right hand moved toward the opening before he caught it against the tray.
He took the portion he had been given and walked to an empty table.
The paste tasted of chalk. He swallowed it, waited, and felt the heat spread beneath his sternum. His stomach remained empty. He ate half the block in two bites, then made himself slow down.
A woman put her tray across from his. She had chopped dark hair and a faded gray uniform. Dried fruit sat beside the remains of her ration.
"Locked-feed recruit?"
Caleb nodded while he chewed.
"Rina."
"Caleb."
She leaned back in the chair. "Two years here. I used to keep a promotion tally."
He glanced at her Rank F insignia.
"What happened?"
"I learned where to stand when the shooting started. Back of the formation pays the same base wage as the front."
She broke a piece of fruit with her fingers.
"Your training schedule is on the board. Low sync, extra mass work. They expect you to grow enough muscle to move the suit yourself."
Caleb set the empty foil on his tray. "It moves."
"While you're fresh. Carry it all day and see what you have left when something charges."
He took the last bite of protein. The warmth from the meal was already fading.
"I've carried dead weight before."
Rina looked at his braced posture and the hand he kept close to his ribs.
"Dead weight stays dead in the yards. Don't count on that here."
She picked up her tray. "Thirteen hundred. Leave time to find the staging yard. New people always take the laundry turn."
Caleb watched her go, then checked the two promotion requirements again.
Ten harvests. A hundred thousand points.
He closed the datapad. The chip pressed against his palm through the fabric of his pocket. He had told Mabel he needed the buyer's money, and the buyer had been listening.