Having stuffed the cash into her bra, she took an inventory of the rest. And that was when she saw the name “Ark Bennet” on a holocard, and frowned. Could it be? Could the naïve, slack-jawed youth lying on the cot really be the scion of the famous Bennet family? After shuffling through the rest of the boy’s wallet, she concluded that he was. Not because she’d seen him on the vids, but because of the name. She’d never met anyone named “Ark” before—much less an “Ark Bennet.”

Camy’s first reaction was greed. How much would the Bennet family be willing to pay to get their boy back? A hundred thousand? A million? The notion of a ransom was tempting. Very tempting. But it was scary, too … because the Bennet family was extremely powerful, and the moment they reported their son missing the Tarsonis Police Force would scour the city looking for the boy. The thought of that, and what they might do to her, made Camy’s heart pound.

There was another party who would be willing to buy Ark Bennet, however. He wouldn’t pay as much as the Bennets would, but the transaction would be a lot safer, and would put a layer of protection between Camy and the police.

“So, pay up,” one of the men demanded. “We’ve got some serious drinking to do.”

“Don’t worry,” Camy replied. “I will. I’ll pay ten each, plus whatever you can get for that jacket, which will be ten times more. It could be traceable though, so take it at least six blocks away, and sell it quick. That goes for the rest of his stuff, too. I want one of you to strip him down—while the other goes for some street clothes. The faster we do this the better. So move!”

The grubby, smoke-filled room was located over the one-time garage that had long served as Harley Ross’s command post, and there was a strong possibility that he was the most unkempt recruiting sergeant stationed on Tarsonis. Something the marine was proud of, because while other noncoms were spending their time in upper schools, strutting about and telling lies about how wonderful the Marine Corps was, he was out sifting through working-class neighborhoods where only two out of ten teenagers finished school and work was hard to find. And his numbers were better than anybody else’s. Which explained why Captain Fredricks left him alone.

So that’s where the recruiter was, playing cards with three of his cronies, when his fone began to rattle on the table just as Dicer upped the ante. A sure sign that he had a winning hand. So rather than throw good money after bad, Ross looked at the incoming number and flipped the device open. “Hey, sweet cakes, what you got for me?”

The other men watched cynically as Ross nodded, said, “I’ll be right over,” and broke the connection. “Don’t tell me,” Dicer said. “Let me guess. I raise the ante and you have to leave.”

Ross smiled apologetically. “Sorry about that, but duty calls! There’s a war on, you know… . Somebody has to keep the Kel-Morians at bay, or they’ll land on Tarsonis and go after your wife.”

“She’d probably welcome a squad of KM rippers after all the years living with Dicer,” one of the other men observed, and Dicer glowered by way of a response.

“How ’bout it?” Ross inquired, as he cashed out. “Anyone want to make fifty credits? I could use some muscle.”

“Count me in,” a man named Vic responded. “I could use some scratch.”

Ten minutes later Ross and Vic were in the unmarked van and on their way. Traffic was bad as usual, so it took a full twenty minutes to reach the Hacker’s Flat neighborhood and pull up to the loading dock behind the pub. Camy was there waiting as the two men got out of the van. She was clearly annoyed. “What the hell took you so long?” she demanded. “The stupid sonofabitch is starting to come to.”

“That’s no way to talk about a young man who is about to join the Confederacy’s armed forces,” Ross replied sternly, as he mounted a short flight of concrete stairs. “Show some respect.”

Camy produced a snort of derision, pivoted toward the door, and led the men into the back room. A young man was laid out on the cot, but was trying to sit up and form words that refused to come. Both the fancy jacket and shoes had been replaced by used clothing purchased at a bodega a few doors down. “Good work!” Ross said, as he stood over Camy’s latest find. “He’s in good shape. Where’d you get him?”

Camy shrugged. “I think he’s a college student… . He wandered off the campus and was strolling along the street when I spotted him.”

Ross eyed her. “You think he’s a college student? Or you know he is? Let’s see his wallet. There’s bound to be some ID in there.”

“He didn’t have a wallet,” Camy responded vaguely. “Maybe he forgot it or something.”

Ross shook his head in disgust. “So you cleaned out his wallet… . What else did you get?”

Camy stood her ground. “What difference does it make? It isn’t like you need his real name or something. A girl has to make a living. Which reminds me … Fork it over.”

Ross, who was wearing a rumpled suit, removed two separately packaged ounces of crab from his coat pocket and handed them over. Crab was the nickname for a powerful narcotic substance that was both a depressant and an intoxicant. “You ought to cut back, Camy… . That stuff is bad for you.”

“And you ought to kiss my ass, Ross,” Camy snapped back, as the packets disappeared into her purse.

“I’d be happy to handle that responsibility for him,” Vic interjected, and leered at her.

“You wish,” Camy responded darkly. “Now quit screwing around and get the meat out of here. There hasn’t been any sign of a search so far, but there’s bound to be one, and I’d like to be somewhere else when the heat arrives.”

“Roger that,” Ross replied. “Vic, you grab him under the armpits, and I’ll take his legs. Camy, if you would be so kind as to go out and open the back door, I would be eternally grateful.”

Having struggled mightily, Ark managed to sit up at that point, and voiced his objections. “Gibo tell orby im pop.”

The man named Ross swore, let go of Ark’s ankles, and adjusted the ring on his right hand. Once the Marine Corps emblem was rotated inwards, he slapped the booster against the boy’s neck to fire a powerful sedative in through the pores of his skin. Ark jerked convulsively, saw the brute’s face roll out of focus, and felt himself float away.

ABOARD THE CONFEDERATE TROOPSHIP GLADIATOR

Consciousness returned slowly. Ark heard noises, occasional snatches of conversation, and the persistent rumble of something. Engines? Air conditioning? There was no way to be sure. Then someone pried open his left lid and aimed a pen light into his eye. The woman had a pleasant middle-aged face and was wearing medical scrubs. “This one is coming around,” she announced. “Let’s get him off the table and into the holding area.”

Two men, also in medical scrubs, came to assist, and they were anything but gentle as they pulled Ark up into a sitting position. “Where am I?” Ark inquired blearily, as he eyed the medical equipment around him. “You’re on a system runner, headed for the troopship Gladiator,” the woman replied cheerfully. “I hope you enjoyed your going away party … ’cause you’re going to pay with one helluva hangover.”

Ark wanted to tell her that there hadn’t been any going away party, but the men had him on his feet by then and were walking him out of the sick bay. There were a number of twists and turns, but Ark’s head hurt, and he couldn’t keep track of them. A hatch irised open two minutes later, and he was pushed into a compartment half-filled with ratty-looking young people, all of whom regarded him with empty-eyed stares. As the men let go, Ark felt dizzy and quickly sank to the deck.

Nobody said anything as the hatch closed, but a girl at the other end of the compartment was sobbing softly, and a boy was humming a pop tune. The youngster stopped when a muscular youth slapped the back of his head and said, “Shut the hell up.”