So an uneasy silence settled over the group and remained in force until the ship entered the Gladiator’s docking bay and put down. Then, once the cavernous space was repressurized, Ark and the rest of the recruits were led off the smaller ship to stand on the blast-scarred deck.

That was when three sharply dressed marines appeared and went about the job of pushing and prodding the recruits into three perfectly spaced ranks. Once the task had been accomplished a staff sergeant appeared. He had dark skin, and even though he was no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, his personality filled the bay.

“My name is Wright … sir to you. You are now aboard the troopship Gladiator, which is about to break orbit, and take you to Turaxis II. Once there you will be transformed into warriors. And not just any warriors, but the best warriors in the whole friggin’ galaxy, even if it kills you … which would be fine with me. Now we’re going to hold roll call. When I call your name you will say ‘present.’ Allen.”

“Present!”

“Alvarez.”

“Present!”

And so it went until Wright called for “Kydd” and nobody answered.

The noncom touched a button on his remote terminal console, eyed the picture that was displayed there, and scanned the ranks until he spotted Ark. Then, having pushed his way between two street thugs, Wright brought his face to within inches of Ark’s. “Are you trying to mess with me, recruit Kydd?”

Ark was surprised. Kydd? Who the heck is Kydd? Clearly there had been a mix-up of some kind. He shook his head. “No sir, my name is Bennet … Ark Bennet. If you’ll contact my father, Errol Bennet, he’ll give you a reward.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wright responded. “And I’m the finance minister—but I work as a sergeant to supplement my income. Now, I have your name down as Ryk Kydd, so that’s who you’re going to be until you file the necessary forms, collect affidavits proving that you’re really someone else, and find some civvy in the Bureau of Personnel to cut you loose. Is that clear?”

Ark found it difficult to answer with Wright only inches away. Especially since he had bad breath. “Yes, sir. When can I file the forms you spoke of?”

There was very little humor in Wright’s long, slow smile. “You can file them after you graduate from boot camp. So work hard, sweetheart, because people who don’t make it through basic training the first time start all over again. And that ain’t no fun!

“Now, having wasted my time, drop down and give me thirty push-ups. Oh, and one more thing. Welcome to the Marine Corps.”

ABOARD THE TROOPSHIP HYDRUS, EN ROUTE TO TURAXIS II

The Hydrus was more than fifty years old, but she was big, in keeping with her original purpose, which was to transport settlers to colony worlds like the one Raynor had been born on. But those days were over, and the ship had long since been purchased into military service, and was currently being used to support the Confederacy’s war effort. Which was why Raynor and more than two thousand other “boots” were camped out in the vessel’s cavernous hold.

And “camped out” was the operative term, since there weren’t cabins for anyone other than the crew and the two hundred or so uniformed personnel traveling to Turaxis II for a variety of reasons. So, with the exception of a section of deck that the noncoms in charge referred to as the “parade ground,” Hold Two was a noman’s-land of individual encampments, each of which served as home for up to fifteen recruits.

The arrangement led to occasional turf wars, which the noncoms sought to squelch. But in spite of their beady-eyed vigilance, and the stunner-armed patrols tasked with keeping things under control, the “zoo,” as many of the inhabitants referred to it, was a dangerous place to live.

All of which had come as a surprise to Jim Raynor, who, based on everything he’d seen and heard on the news, believed that the military was highly organized, perfectly integrated, and fully supplied. And that was why taxes were so high, or so everyone had been told, to make sure the military had everything it needed. Except that they didn’t have everything they needed. Including adequate transportation.

That became even more apparent as Raynor drew his daily rations, and was carrying them toward his squat, when a Klaxon began to beep. An official announcement followed: “This is Lieutenant Freeson. Due to a security breach, unauthorized personnel have gained access to Hold Two. Military police are en route. Those individuals assigned to Hold Two are to avoid contact with the intruders, take up positions with their backs to the port and starboard bulkheads, and await further instructions. I repeat, this is Lieutenant Freeson …”

Raynor might have listened to the message all over again, but he was distracted as a mob of people rushed his way. One of them bumped Raynor’s arm and sent the boxes of rations spinning away. Raynor was clambering to retrieve them—it was either that or go hungry—when a scuffle broke out nearby. “That’s right, freak,” he heard a familiar voice bark, “it’s time to go back into your cage.”

Raynor straightened, peering through the crowd to get a glimpse of the melee. His suspicion was confirmed. The voice belonged to Hank Harnack. Most of Raynor’s injuries had healed since the beating he received in the lavatory, but the skin around his eyes was still purple, and hurt whenever he touched it.

Corporal Timson had followed up on the incident, of course, but having heard Harnack refuse to rat him out, Raynor had been careful to do likewise. Something the noncom clearly approved of. Timson had been careful to keep the two combatants away from each other after that, and once the original draft was combined with others from different parts of the planet, the recruits had been separated. Up until now, that is.

After breaking out of the forward hold, several hundred violent criminals were on the loose—the hold had been abuzz with a rumor that the Hydrus was carrying prisoners on their way to some sort of military work camp or reformatory. Now, most of the captives were trying to lose themselves in the larger crowd, or steal personal items from the squats, but half a dozen of them were circling Harnack like a pack of wild dogs.

Tom Omer materialized at Raynor’s side. “Uh-oh,” he said ominously. “It looks like Harnack is about to get his. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

Raynor couldn’t help but smile, his gaze fixed on Harnack, who was now offering the thugs a supercilious smirk while kissing each bicep and striking a weight lifter’s pose. “Yeah, he’s a sweetheart all right.”

Omer snorted as the constantly shuffling circle tightened around Harnack. “Wonder what he did to crack them off,” he mused aloud. “It could have been anything. These guys are animals.”

That wasn’t far from the truth. The prisoners were allegedly offered the chance to join the Marine Corps after a brief stint at the reformatory, as an alternative to doing hard time in prison. But old ways die hard, and with nothing else to do, the criminals had broken out of the area assigned to them. He pitied any poor social workers or counselors who would be assigned to help these guys become upstanding citizens—they sure had their work cut out for them.

Now, like it or not, Raynor was faced with a choice. It would be incredibly satisfying to see Harnack receive some of his own medicine. But he knew exactly what his father would say if he were there: “Remember, Son … the true measure of a man is whether other people can count on him when it makes a difference.”