Raynor knew he had to stand up for himself, and was halfway out of his seat when a florid Timson appeared. “What the hell are you jerk weeds doing back here?” the noncom demanded. “This ain’t no fekkin’ tea party. Sit down and shut up or I’ll put a boot up your ass!”

The admonition left Raynor with no choice but to sit down, or complain about the other recruits, which was sure to make the situation even worse. Timson wasn’t there to protect him—he just didn’t want any trouble. Where the hell is Omer? Jim thought. And then he spotted him. Having just boarded the bus, Omer pretended not to notice the confrontation and immediately took a seat in the front row. Well, so much for loyalty.

Harnack straightened and nodded solemnly. “Sorry, we were working on seating arrangements, that’s all… . We’re good to go.” Raynor was surprised by the bully’s sudden deference.

Timson’s beady brown eyes flicked from face to face. “Don’t cause any trouble back here… . You’ll regret it if you do.” And with that he turned back toward the front of the bus and proceeded to count heads as he made his way forward. Then, having matched the total to the number on his list, he gave the driver permission to proceed. Harnack flashed Raynor a wicked smile before taking a seat a few rows up.

The engine roared and the bus lurched into motion. Then, while the few remaining spectators looked on, the transport raised a cloud of dust as it followed the main street to the two-lane highway, which is where the journey to the next town began. There were two additional stops, each lasting an hour or so, which meant it was well after dark by the time the bus pulled into Burroughston.

But rather than the hotel that Raynor had been hoping for, the recruits were ordered to get out in front of the local upper school, where the custodian was waiting to lead them to the gymnasium. They’re going to make us sleep in this place? he thought. It had high ceilings, simwood floors, and bleachers that were positioned along the south wall. The score on the electronic reader board was zero-zero. Raynor could have been back in Centerville.

“Welcome home,” Corporal Timson said sarcastically. “You think this sucks? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is a fekkin’ paradise compared to your average barracks.”

There was a scattering of mumbled replies, which, judging from the expression on Timson’s face, amounted to a personal insult. He stood with fists on hips. “What the hell was that?” he demanded rhetorically. “Eventually, should one or two of you be fortunate enough to get through basic, you will be entitled to call me Corporal. But until that unlikely day dawns, you will address every noncom and officer that you encounter as either sir or ma’am, depending on the type of plumbing they were issued. And you will do so in a voice that can be heard on Tarsonis. Do you scan me, maggots?”

Maggots? It was so melodramatic, Raynor had to battle a grin as he shouted “YES, SIR!” along with the other recruits. The response was still ragged, but a good deal louder, and phrased correctly.

“That’s better,” Timson allowed grudgingly. “Not perfect, but better. Draw your gear, pick a place to bed down, and report to me. We’re eating field rats tonight, better known as barf boxes, and don’t even think about trying to heat one of them up. If you burn this dump down it will be deducted from your pay. Do you scan me?”

This time the answer was nearly perfect. “YES, SIR!”

“All right, assholes,” Timson growled. “Get your butts in gear.”

It didn’t take long for Raynor to get a mat, blankets, and towel. Then came the problem of where to put them. A good number of at least temporary friendships had been forged on the bus, but after being targeted by Harnack and his toadies, Raynor had been ostracized. Even Omer had deserted him. Not as part of a conspiracy, but because of a generally held desire to stay clear of the bully, as well as his pin-headed supporters.

So Raynor wound up throwing his mat down on the floor next to the north wall, a position that was a good fifteen feet from the nearest recruit, but would allow him to sleep with his back against something solid. Hopefully, assuming things went well, Harnack—whose name Raynor had discovered was Hank—would turn his attention elsewhere.

With that accomplished, Raynor went over to the line that led to Corporal Timson and three crates of A-rats—containers holding meals that could be eaten hot or cold—plus heat tabs they weren’t supposed to use, an energy bar, and two contraceptives.

Two minutes later Harnack showed up, elbowed his way into the queue, and grinned menacingly. “Hey, sissy boy, mind if I cut in?” It was the fueling line situation all over again.

Raynor felt the anger begin to rise inside him, and was careful to channel it, as he snapped his head forward. It was a move that his father, who had been something of a brawler in his younger days, had taught him when he entered upper school—when his mom wasn’t around, of course. “Don’t ever back down from a bully,” Trace had said. “Fight to win and end it as quickly as possible.” And the head butt worked extremely well as solid bone met the bridge of Harnack’s nose, cartilage broke, and blood gushed onto the bully’s chin.

Then, while Harnack was still trying to absorb what had happened, Raynor brought a knee up into his crotch. That was when Harnack produced a high-pitched keening sound, fell to his knees, and brought both hands in to guard his aching stones.

“Sure,” Raynor said conversationally, “please feel free to cut in front of me anytime you want to.”

Corporal Timson heard the disturbance, issued a long string of swear words, and arrived on the scene thirty seconds later. He looked down at Harnack and up to Raynor. “Did you do this?”

Raynor was about to say yes when Harnack lurched to his feet and came to something resembling attention. This was when Raynor learned his first lesson about the military: the unspoken code that marines don’t rat out other marines. “Sir, no sir,” he lied. “I slipped and fell.”

“Really?” Timson inquired cynically. “You fell on your balls?”

That got a laugh from everyone within ear range with the notable exception of Harnack’s toadies, who shuffled their feet and glowered at Raynor.

“Yes, sir,” Harnack said stiffly, his eyes straight ahead.

Timson shook his head wearily and sighed. “Okay, be more careful next time. Now hit the head, get yourself cleaned up, and report to me. I’ll put a box of A-rats aside for you.”

Harnack gave a stiff nod, said, “Yes, sir,” and limped away. Once he was out of earshot, Timson looked Raynor up and down. “What’s your name?”

“Raynor, sir. Jim Raynor.”

“Well, recruit Raynor,” Timson said in a voice pitched so low no one else could hear him. “I know Harnack has been up in your face … but what goes around nearly always comes around, which means you should keep a close eye on your six.”

Raynor knew Timson was referring to the six o’clock position on a standard clock, which was to say, his ass. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Plus,” Timson added ominously, “if you do anything like that again you’re going to piss me off… . And pissing me off is a very bad idea. Do you scan me?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good. Go get something to wipe up the blood with, get back in line, and don’t screw up. I’ll be watching you.”

So Raynor went in search of a utility room and found one. Then, mop in hand, he went back to clean up Harnack’s blood. And it was then that he noticed how things had changed. Recruits who hadn’t been willing to speak with him before were openly friendly now—which meant he had people to sit with as the group explored their rations.

The fact that each of them had been issued two condoms came in for a good deal of humorous commentary, as did the political propaganda that was printed inside the lid of each barf box, urging “each member of the Confederacy’s military forces to fight the Arbellan menace with all of his or her strength.” The problem was, the Arbellan rebels had been defeated ten years earlier! The rations had apparently been sitting in a warehouse for a very long time.