THE PLANET RAYDIN III, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

The sky was gray, huge thunderheads were building in the southwest, and it was a hot, humid day in the town of Prosser’s Well. Tychus Findlay figured it would rain later, which was fine by him, since all of the dust made it hard to keep things clean. Like the company’s weapons, for example.

There was a sudden roar, and windows rattled as a formation of Avengers passed overhead. Such events were so common, no one bothered to look up.

Lots of people were in town, still celebrating the fact that the Kel-Morian forces had been driven out of the area three days earlier, and were retreating toward the east. A good deal of the northern part of the settlement had been destroyed during the fighting, but the rest was relatively untouched, including the central business district.

There were dozens of variations, but all of the city’s buildings had a boxy look because their components had been produced by the same on-site factory that had been dropped into position when the community was founded. A variety of domes, arched gateways, and walled courtyards had been added over the years and painted different colors. That gave Prosser’s Well some additional character.

The town was laid out on a colonial grid so that it was easy for strangers to find their way around. A convenience that Tychus had reason to appreciate as he fell in behind a trio of half-drunk marines and followed them down the main drag toward the warehouse district at the other end of town.

The problem with being a noncommissioned officer in the Confederacy’s Marine Corps was that it took so much time away from stealing things. There were exceptions, of course, his present errand being one of them. Because a civilian would never have been aware of the opportunity he had in mind. So maybe being a staff sergeant had its advantages after all.

Take the warehouse full of captured Kel-Morian weapons, armor, and other gear, for example. Only someone like him, who was positioned to monitor all of the communications that flowed past his CO, would be in a position to profit from the situation. The key was to act quickly, cut a deal with the supply sergeant in charge of the storage facility, and remove a large quantity of the captured gear before an official inventory could be carried out. Because, insofar as the Marine Corps mentality was concerned, items that aren’t on a list don’t exist! And if something doesn’t exist, it can’t be stolen.

The thought brought a grim smile to Tychus’s square-jawed face as he ducked under a sign and paused to gaze at a window display filled with women’s shoes. Or, more accurately, at the general area, because his peripheral vision was quite good, and if someone was following him, he wanted to know.

Not having spotted any MPs or suspicious civilians, Tychus turned a corner and followed an alley to the next street over. A hard left carried him into the warehouse district, and from there it was a three-minute walk to a low, metal-sided warehouse that would have been completely unremarkable had there not been sentries posted outside.

Tychus made his way over to the nearest guard. The fresh-faced youth immediately puffed out his chest to compensate for his significantly smaller stature. That reaction was not new to Tychus; at over six-and-a-half feet tall, he was a giant compared to most, and his deliberate, hulking demeanor intimidated just about everyone he encountered. His brown hair was cropped into a flattop, and well-worn creases connected his chiseled features and set off a strong brow. Due to the relatively high concentration of methane gas in the planet’s atmosphere, everyone on Raydin III had to wear nose plugs, a transparent air hose, and an auxiliary oxygen canister. The big noncom was no exception. In addition, he wore basic cammies and was armed with a pistol and a gauss rifle.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“If you say so,” Tychus growled. The sound of his voice was like a gravel crusher in low gear. “I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Sims… . Is he around?”

The private nodded earnestly. “He’s inside, but I gotta see some ID first, Sarge.”

Tychus grunted, waited for the sentry to pass a scanner in front of his eyes, and was already making his way toward the front door when the green indicator light came on. That was when the private spoke into his lapel mic, heard a one-word reply, and turned his back to the warehouse. For the first time in at least a minute, the private exhaled.

Having entered the dimly lit warehouse, Tychus spotted a distant light and made his way toward it. The air was cool and slightly musty. Piles of Kel-Morian cargo modules were stacked against the walls—while others stood like islands in the middle of the clean-swept floor. Now that Tychus was closer he could see the desk that sat directly below the light. A gunnery sergeant was seated behind the beat-up piece of furniture with his feet up. Had Tychus been an officer, this would have been a dangerous thing to do, so it was obvious that Sims was expecting his visitor and wasn’t the least bit surprised when the other noncom came to a stop.

Sims had one pay grade on Tychus, but there are pay grades, and then there are pay grades. And, as every marine knows, the jump from staff sergeant to gunnery sergeant involves a lot of additional responsibility, authority, and respect. That, combined with the fact that Sims “owned” the warehouse, put him in the driver’s seat.

The hair on Sims’s head amounted to little more than brown stubble and, due to the way his ears stuck out, some of the men referred to him as “jughead.” Never to his face however, which was dominated by coal chip eyes and an extra chin. Rather than use the plugs most people wore, Sims favored a minimal mask that covered his nose. It was held in place by an elastic band. Tychus nodded. “Gunny Sims? My name is Findlay… . You got a minute?”

Sims shrugged. “Sure, Sergeant… . Take a load off. What’s on your mind?”

Tychus let the rifle slip off his shoulder, placed the weapon within easy reach, and sat down. The chair creaked and seemed to disappear beneath him. “We have a mutual friend,” Tychus began cautiously. “Somebody who believes in the importance of free market capitalism.”

“And who might that be?” Sims inquired levelly.

“The individual I’m referring to is Master Sergeant Calvin.”

Sims nodded. “I know Calvin… . We were corporals together. He’s a good man. What’s he up to these days?”

“He’s in charge of the 2nd Battalion’s transportation company.”

“Interesting,” Sims said. “So, like I said earlier, what’s on your mind?”

This was the point of no return. Because if Tychus told Sims what he had in mind, and the gunny turned him in, his next meal would be served in a military work camp up in the mountains. But if he didn’t take that chance, no money could be made. So Tychus took the leap, as he’d done so many times before. “You’ve got a lot of stuff sitting around here, Gunny… . I’d like to take some of it off your hands.”

Sims brought his feet down off the desk, pulled a drawer open, and stuck a hand inside. Tychus felt his stomach muscles tighten knowing that the other noncom could be reaching for a gun. But what Sims brought out was a box of cigars, which he flipped open. “Care for a smoke?”