Kai stepped out of her office, the classified folder tucked under his arm, his mind spinning with new information.
The corridor was empty, the afternoon sun slanting through dusty windows.
Lieutenant Rivera, dead under suspicious circumstances.
General Hardeman, retired and comfortable.
Commander Wolfe, carrying guilt and anger.
And somewhere in this building, in those files, in that transmission---the truth about what Marcus Chen discovered in Colorado.
He had access now.
Protection, within limits.
And a fragile alliance with someone who might be his best ally or another manipulator using him for her own agenda.
Kai walked with purpose across the parade grounds, taking the long route, cataloging everything.
Three recruits running punishment laps.
Veterans playing cards.
A woman in lieutenant's insignia---Intelligence officer, sharp eyes, data pad---intercepting a corporal with rapid-fire questions.
Near the mess hall entrance, a group of recruits heading to early dinner.
One of them---stocky, broad-shouldered, natural leader---noticed him carrying the official folder.
The talking stopped briefly as they assessed him.
Kai continued toward the armory, his mind processing details his rapid assimilation ability cataloged automatically: security cameras, worn paths in the floor tiles, duty rosters, patrol rotations, the social hierarchy written in seating arrangements and body language.
The armory loomed ahead---reinforced concrete, thick doors.
The sign read "QUARTERMASTER - SGT. V. KOZLOV."
He pushed open the door.
The interior smelled of gun oil, metal, and leather.
Behind a scarred wooden counter sat a man who could only be Viktor Kozlov---mid-forties, built like decades of carrying heavy equipment through hostile terrain, a scar running through his left eyebrow, steel-gray hair, pale blue eyes that flicked up the moment Kai entered.
Kai stopped at the counter.
"Sergeant Kozlov. Recruit Kai Chen, reporting for gear assignment."
Kozlov's eyes dropped to the folder under his arm---noted it, cataloged it---then returned to his face.
When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble with the faintest trace of an accent.
"Chen." He stood slowly. "Commander called ahead. Said you'd be coming."
He pulled out a requisition form.
"Standard recruit kit. You'll get upgraded gear when you prove you can handle it and won't lose it in the first week."
He paused, then added with something that might be dark humor: "Assuming you survive the first week."
Kai met his pale eyes steadily.
"Understood, Sergeant. What do I need to sign?"
He set the folder down on the counter and accepted the pen, scanning the requisition form.
As he signed, he added without looking up: "I heard you served with my father. I'm not expecting special treatment, but I wanted you to know I'm aware of the connection."
He slid the form back across the counter.
"Whatever history there is, I'd rather have it acknowledged than pretend it doesn't exist."
Kozlov's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture---a fractional relaxation.
He took the form, stamped it, and filed it.
"Marcus Chen," he said, his voice neutral but not hostile. "Good man. Smart. Could talk his way out of situations that would've gotten the rest of us killed."
He paused.
"You look like him. Same eyes. Same way of watching everything."
Before the moment could become uncomfortable, Kai glanced at the disassembled weapon on his workbench.
"That's a pre-war Kalashnikov variant you're working on---looks like an AK-74M based on the receiver design. They're rare out here. You maintain all the specialized equipment yourself?"
Kozlov's eyebrows rose fractionally---surprise, and possibly approval.
"You know your weapons."
"I know what I've seen on trade routes and in settlements. My mother dealt with scavengers and merchants who'd bring in pre-war tech."
Kai kept his tone factual.
"I can identify most common weapon systems, but I wouldn't claim expertise in maintenance or modifications. That's clearly your domain."
"Hm."
Kozlov moved to a storage locker and began pulling out gear.
"Most recruits can't tell a Kalashnikov from a pipe rifle. The fact that you can identify the variant..."
He set a rifle case on the counter.
"Maybe there's more to you than a pretty face and a famous last name."
He opened the case, revealing a well-maintained rifle.
"Standard issue M1989A2 Ranger Special. Semi-automatic, .308 caliber, effective range 600 meters in the right hands. You'll qualify on this during training. Lose it, damage it through negligence, or fail to maintain it, and you'll be cleaning latrines for a month."
Next came body armor, ammunition pouches, a combat knife, canteen, field kit, communications headset.
Each item was set on the counter with practiced efficiency.
"Your barracks assignment is Bay 3, bunk 7. That's the southeast barracks, second floor. Your squad leader is Corporal Hayes---he'll run you through daily routine and expectations."
Kozlov loaded the gear into a duffel bag.
"Training starts 0600 tomorrow. Physical conditioning, weapons qualification, tactical drills, and classroom instruction. You'll learn Ranger protocols, wasteland survival, combat medicine basics, and equipment maintenance."
He hefted the full duffel and set it on the counter with a solid thud.
"Questions?"
"Just one," Kai said, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. "The Commander mentioned you're tough but fair. What's your definition of fair?"
Kozlov's pale eyes studied him for a long moment.
Then, surprisingly, the corner of his mouth twitched---not quite a smile, but close.
"Fair means I don't care who your father was, what your skills are on paper, or why you joined. Everyone gets the same standards, the same training, the same chance to prove themselves."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Fair also means if you fuck up, you face consequences. If you excel, you get recognized. And if you try to coast on your last name or your linguistic talents without putting in the work..."
He tapped the counter with one thick finger.
"You'll wash out just like anyone else."
"Understood, Sergeant."
"We'll see."
He turned back to his rifle maintenance, but added without looking up: "Your father survived longer than most in hostile situations because he was smart, adaptable, and didn't let pride override judgment. If you inherited those traits along with his face, you might actually make a decent Ranger."
Kai nodded once and turned toward the door.
"Chen."
He paused, looking back.
Kozlov was watching him with those unsettling pale eyes.
"Commander Wolfe said you have clearance for the Archives tonight. Restricted section."
It wasn't a question---he knew.
"Whatever you're looking for in those files... be careful what you find. Some truths are more dangerous than the lies that cover them."
"Is that experience talking, Sergeant?"
"That's fifteen years of watching good Rangers die for political reasons talking."
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
"Your father was one of them. Don't be another."