“Yes, First Sergeant,” Berg said, following the NCO into an even smaller room. The first sergeant waited until the outer door was closed, then cleared his throat. “Clearing Fourteen.”

The inner door, marked with a large red numeral 14, slid aside revealing a corridor. They took a right and headed down the highly polished tile floor, passing several doors. Unlike at Berg’s previous station, none of the doors had titles on them, only numbers. And most of them were sliding doors similar to the ones he’d entered the building by. For that matter, every ten feet or so there was a black pod on the ceiling that indicated a security camera. The interior of the building looked less like a headquarters than a prison.

The first sergeant stopped about halfway down the long corridor and cleared his throat again.

“Entering Seven-Six.”

“Seven-Six, opening,” a robotic voice replied as the door opened. “Five, four…”

“Come on,” the first sergeant said, stepping through quickly.

At “Zero” the door slid closed with Bergstresser barely clearing it.

“Hate that system,” said the Marine behind the desk in the office they’d entered.

“So do I,” the first sergeant replied. “But it’s there for a reason. Come on, Berg,” he added, opening the door marked “First Sergeant.”

The first sergeant took a seat behind the desk and looked Bergstresser up and down. The PFC had come to parade rest again, legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands folded behind his back, and was staring at a point six inches over the first sergeant’s head.

“Rest,” Powell said, ordering him to keep more or less the same posture but the PFC could talk. “I’ve read your service record. You were selected for this unit because of your IQ, your MGT scores, and your scores in Operator Training. But I’m going to ask you a few questions and I need straight answers.