“I’ll wait for the drinks,” Kydd said.

“Good. Order another round. We need to sedate this sonofabitch before he gets himself in trouble.” Raynor turned and headed straight for Harnack.

“Hel-lo, ladies!” Harnack hollered as he approached the marines.

“Good evening,” one of them responded with a smile, nodding politely. The others followed suit.

“It seems you fellas don’t remember me too well. Let me refresh your memory,” Harnack said tauntingly as he leaned forward, fists on the table. “I’m the guy who drop-kicked your sorry asses and left you cryin’ for your mommas!”

Raynor jumped in, throwing his arm around Harnack. “Gentlemen, please pardon my friend here. He’s had a few too many, and we’re just gonna get on our way—”

“Nonsense,” one marine interrupted. “We’re all brothers here, fighting for a common cause. Whatever may have happened between us in the past … consider it long forgotten. Please …” He motioned to two empty seats. “Care to join us?”

“Hell no,” Harnack snarled.

With one hand, Raynor pinched a pressure point on the back of Harnack’s neck—a move he’d picked up in combat training—and steered him away from the table. “Again, sorry for the interruption,” he offered over his shoulder.

“Get off me!” Harnack shrugged his way out of Raynor’s grip. “Those guys are damn freaks. What the fekk happened to them?”

“I don’t know, Hank,” Raynor said as he guided Harnack back to his seat. “The reformatory must be really top-notch, or maybe they got their asses kicked into submission by some hardcore DI or something.” Even as he said it, Raynor couldn’t shake the feeling that something weird was going on. Those marines were just too nice.

The waitress set down their drinks, and Raynor nodded his appreciation. “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m glad they were so understanding, because otherwise you’d have just gotten yourself into a shitstorm of trouble, Hank, and I ain’t in the mood to bail you out again. Consider yourself lucky.”

Hank offered Raynor a one-fingered salute by way of a response.

“Ugh!” Raynor cried after taking a sip of his drink. “This tastes like crap! Why do you drink this stuff?”

“Eh, you get used to it,” Harnack responded.

Just then the dancer kicked her panties out into the crowd, and five marines fought to take possession of them. A beefy corporal won the contest and jumped up onto a table to wave the trophy over his head. The crowd roared with laughter, inspiring the noncom to pull them onto his head like a hat.

“I’m gonna go see if I can buy those panties off him,” Harnack said excitedly, leaping out of his seat and jogging over to the corporal. Laughing, Raynor and Kydd shook their heads in disbelief, and the two watched with quiet amusement as Harnack offered money, got denied, and strode back to his seat wearing a mischievous smile.

“No luck?” Kydd asked.

“Nope. Looks like I’m gonna have to find my own pair of panties. What color are yours, Kydd?” he asked, winking. Kydd playfully shoved Harnack on the shoulder and all three guys cracked up.

As the dancer waved and the stage sank out of sight, two trapeze artists dropped from above and began a series of death-defying stunts. The fact that they were naked made the performance all the more interesting, and the whole crowd was mesmerized—even Harnack. In the meantime the second round of drinks arrived and went down smoothly—followed by another round twenty minutes later.

The Black Hole was full to overflowing by then, and even though Raynor was feeling a little light-headed, he did notice that the composition of the crowd had changed. There were more crewmen in the bar by then—all dressed in space-black uniforms and all apparently off the same ship.

The usual jibes could be heard as the eternal rivalry between the fleet and the grunts continued to play itself out, but things went well until a drunken swabbie spilled a drink on a belligerent recruit, and all hell broke loose.

Harnack uttered a whoop of joy as fists flew and the fight began to spread. Raynor noticed that the ex-cons were still sitting at their table as more people got up to take part in the mayhem.

In the meantime someone attacked Kydd as he was returning from the restroom, and Harnack jumped immediately to his friend’s defense. That brought more swabbies their way and Raynor suddenly found himself at the center of a brawl.

It wasn’t the first such fight to take place in the Black Hole, which was why all of the tables and chairs were bolted to the floor. That kept the furniture from being used as weapons, thereby limiting both the severity of injuries suffered and the amount of damage done to the bar.

The proprietors didn’t want to host a fight, however, so it wasn’t long before distant whistles were heard and the MPs arrived. Raynor, who was trading blows with a burly petty officer at that point, threw a right cross. As it connected with the swabbie’s jaw, the shock of the blow traveled all the way up Raynor’s arm. When he saw the noncom’s eyes roll back in his head, he knew that particular battle was won.

As the MPs began rushing the crowd, Raynor knew that he and his friends needed to escape or be arrested. He took advantage of his momentary victory to shout, “Harnack! Kydd! Follow me.”

And just as they had for the last nine weeks, the other two obeyed willingly. Unfortunately, some of the combatants were blocking the path to the kitchen. So when a bleeding marine stumbled into Raynor’s path, he pushed the man into a swabbie, who swore as both tumbled to the ground.

Raynor led the charge, stepping over the grappling foes—and inadvertently slammed the swinging kitchen door into a stunned waitress as they burst through. Mortified, Raynor glanced down to see that the front of her minidress had been plastered with chocolate cake on one side and what looked like framberry pie on the other.

He opened his mouth to apologize, and was greeted by a bone-crunching closed-fist punch to the nose. He stumbled back into Harnack and Kydd as the cursing woman continued her assault by scooping a gob of chocolate off her apron and smashing it into his face.

“Ow, damn it! Knock it off … we’re just tryin’ to get outta here!” Raynor pleaded, slurring from drink, wincing in pain, and mumbling through the heavy smear of sticky chocolate and blood that now coated his nostrils and mouth.

Two white-clad cooks appeared behind the waitress. One of them lifted her by the armpits as she thrashed about. “Let go of me! What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, April, we got this,” the cook said as he put her down. April stomped off, furiously wiping her dress.

“Hey, chef man,” Harnack said, as he battled a hiccup, “let us get the hell outta here and no one gets hurt. Otherwise, I’m gonna break your fekkin’ bones, one by one… .”

The cook made use of a meat cleaver to point toward the back of the kitchen. “Get out. And don’t you idiots ever come back here. I specialize in butchering meat. Get me?” He waved the cleaver and the other chefs snickered behind him.

“Okay, let’s go!” Raynor yelled as he scrambled up and dashed toward the back. He snatched a rag off the counter and quickly ran it over his face before tossing it haphazardly on the floor.

Raynor saw Kydd hesitate as he edged nervously past the cooks, who stood watching with their thick arms folded. “Come on!”

The three recruits bolted out the back door, aware that the MPs were no doubt making their way through the brawling crowd and would be there to arrest them at any moment. They exited into the rear parking lot.

They split up, searching for a means of escape, but found nothing until Raynor spotted an olive drab vulture hover-cycle idling next to a marine combat car—it probably belonged to one of the MPs who was called to the scene. How the hell am I going to drive this damn thing? Raynor wondered, his head swirling with doubt. But he knew he had no other choice. “Okay! Here’s our ride, men … hurry, climb on the back.”