Before daylight, a medical shuttle had carried Caleb from the barge to Seventh Division's city compound. His sedan was still in its civilian lot, where he'd left it before the flight to Sector Nine.
Caleb pushed through the plastic flaps of the medical staging tent.
Cold morning air hit his face. He shifted the canvas duffel onto his left shoulder to keep its weight off the right. The medics had pumped him full of fluids and sealed the slash beside his collarbone with foam that smelled faintly of plastic and ozone.
The hunger was already returning. He forced down a block of military nutrient paste. The chalky mouthful stuck until he swallowed again.
Holographic screens crowded Seventh Division's tarmac. A Gladhand watermark spun over the looping clip of his dive beneath the warped Mimic's scythe. Each time the machine tore the wall apart with its trapped blades, the logo came around again.
