So Raynor and Harnack were waiting when Kydd cleared the free-fire zone and arrived in front of a bar so famous that its name was tattooed on thousands of arms, legs, and other body parts throughout the Confederacy. Because tradition required each boot to hoist his or her first pre-graduation beer somewhere inside the sprawling maze of rooms that the owners called Bloody Mary’s before continuing down Shayanne Street to enjoy the pleasures beyond. All three of the recruits wore maroon kepis, gray waist-length jackets with maroon trim, and matching trousers with knife-edge creases. Their shoes were mirror-bright and relatively unworn—they had always been reserved for inspections and little else.

Kydd exchanged clumsy shoulder bumps with Raynor and Harnack, who both chuckled with amusement at Kydd’s continued struggle to adopt their basic social customs. For weeks, they had been tutoring him in everything from using slang words, to making a bed, to using a sonic mop, and he’d already made a great deal of progress. They were proud.

In fact, all three teenagers had changed significantly since starting boot camp. They were lean, strong, and in Kydd’s case, a good deal more confident. The miniature sniper’s rifle that he wore on his left breast pocket was a source of pride to both him and his buddies. “So, how did it go?” Raynor asked. “Did Macaby believe you?”

“He said he was going to bump my case up to division,” Kydd answered. “So I ought to hear back in a week or two.”

“Make that a month or two,” Harnack put in cynically. “Still, that’s good news, buddy, because the minute the ol’ man springs you, we’re gonna have one helluva party! And you can buy.”

Kydd knew it wouldn’t go down like that, and so did Raynor, but both were used to allowing Harnack to be Harnack. “Well done,” Raynor said, as they turned toward Bloody Mary’s. “Now for that beer and some decent grub! I’m tired of the crap they serve in the mess hall.”

“Roger that,” Harnack agreed. “Form a single column, follow me, and don’t take prisoners.” With that, he turned on his heel and strutted through the crowd, waving his arms and hollering, “Make way for His Eminence, the Emperor of Tarsonis… .”

An hour and a half later the threesome left Bloody Mary’s thirty credits poorer, having consumed two beers each, plus enormous steaks and huge servings of the fried potatoes that the bar was justifiably famous for.

It would have been completely dark by then on many planets. But thanks to Turaxis’s three small moons, all of which reflected light onto the surface on clear nights such as this one, nights were no more than six hours long and were preceded by a long, moody twilight.

Music pounded as they walked down the street, and even though melodies changed from bar to bar, the backbeat seemed to remain the same as a man grinned at them from a doorway. Chemicals that had been injected under his skin made it glow bright blue. “We have girls, men … all nude, all hot, and all yours!”

“Thirsty, boys?” a tired-looking woman with long, luminescent hair droned from atop a rickety stool. “Every third drink is free—and we got the best band this side of Turaxis.”

“I’m the guy you’ve been looking for,” a binked-out drug dealer said, as he sidled up to Raynor. “Crab, snoke, turk … I have it all.”

“Some turk might amp things up a bit,” Harnack suggested, stopping abruptly in his tracks.

Raynor turned around and brushed the dealer off. “Not today, man.” He nudged Harnack to keep moving. “Don’t worry, Hank—you’re amped enough. Hey, let’s find the Black Hole… . I hear the floor show is great.”

The other two were ready for just about anything at that point, and happy to follow Raynor as he took a left off Shayanne and led them past a group of bored MPs to the cluster of dives beyond. That was when they saw a spectral image form directly in front of them and Harnack groaned. Multiple versions of Gunnery Sergeant Travis had been dogging them day and night for weeks by that time and had apparently followed them into town, where a network of carefully placed holoprojectors were being used to push Travis at them again.

“So you’re on liberty, having a good time,” Travis said. “That’s when a Kel-Morian agent spots you. They only gave him one grenade, but that was enough to kill three of our boys in the Dylarian Shipyards. The war ain’t over just because you dumbasses got a pass! One grenade could kill you all.”

“Come on,” Harnack said disgustedly. The image shivered as he walked through it. “Travis is full of shit. He makes that stuff up.”

Raynor didn’t think so, but kept that opinion to himself, as the insistent thump, thump, thump of loud music drew them toward a large section of pipe that extended from a two-story building out onto the sidewalk. It was painted black, in keeping with the nightclub’s name, and guarded by two brawny bouncers. They eyed the trio skeptically, but allowed them to pass, as a spiral lighting scheme led the recruits inside.

“What a dump!” Harnack shouted over the pounding music, grabbing Raynor and Kydd by the shoulders as he followed them into the Black Hole. Raynor couldn’t help but agree—the place was loud, dark, and reeked of stale beer and sweat.

But all was forgiven when the stage at the bottom of the spiraled room came into view.

“Whoa,” Kydd uttered. The three recruits stared down at the platform, upon which a young woman with pink hair was dancing seductively. The largely male crowd roared with approval as her top came off and sailed through the air.

Harnack gleefully shoved the guys forward. “First round’s on me!”

That was when a scantily clad waitress wearing too much eye makeup appeared and led the threesome down one level to a recently vacated table. As they walked, Raynor noticed that most of the patrons were fellow recruits, along with a scattering of regular marines and noncoms.

The latter sat at their own cluster of tables, surrounded for the most part by empty seats. It appeared none of the boots wanted to party next to them.

“What’ll it be?” the waitress chirped as the guys sat down.

“Three shots of Scotty’s No. 8 plus beer chasers,” Harnack answered authoritatively as he patted her rump. If the waitress felt the contact she gave no sign of it and sashayed away.

“What is Scotty’s No. 8?” Kydd asked. His father was very particular about the liquor he kept in the house—this one apparently didn’t make the cut.

“Scotty Bolger’s Old No. 8 is the good stuff,” Harnack said. “Trust me … you’ll like it.”

“Uh-oh,” Raynor said ominously. “Look over there …” he indicated with a subtle nod of his head. “See the marines sitting at that table? Two of them were in the gang we fought on the Hydrus.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Harnack responded. “I do believe you’re right! Maybe this would be a good time to finish kicking their asses.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Raynor replied incredulously. “The way I remember it they were kicking our asses when the noncoms got there.”

“Look at that!” Kydd exclaimed. “One of them waved.”

Raynor snorted, shaking his head. “Kydd, you didn’t see what went on up there. Don’t make jokes … these guys are criminals.”

“Holy crap, the twerp isn’t lying!” Harnack declared, his eyes widening. “Those bastards are waving at us!”

Raynor peered across the room at the grinning ex-cons. “What the …?” He smiled and skeptically lifted his hand into a high sign. “You’ve got to hand it to the drill instructors … they did one helluva job with those guys—” Raynor suddenly realized Harnack had left his seat and looked up to find his friend casually strolling toward the marines, cracking his knuckles.

“Hank! Damn it!” Raynor called out as he leaped from his chair. He turned toward Kydd. “I’m gonna kill him.”