David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 06 - Hangfire

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PROLOGUE

Looming black against the bright sunlight from the arena, two gladiators clomped under the arch and

down the corridor to the dressing rooms. Filmed with sweat, breathing hard, they congratulated each

other on their performance. The crowd had loved them despite the emperor's disappointing decision to

spare the loser. Outside, the spectators screamed and stomped their feet, demanding another

performance. They'd get it.

The two paused briefly in front of where Gilboa Woods sat wearily, one arm chained to the wall, his

face showing signs of recent beatings. He was dressed as a lightly armored secutor, as befit the Caligulan

theme of the park. The gladiators said nothing, just nodded sympathetically and passed on down the

corridor. Woods's turn was coming up soon.

Noto Draya shifted his huge bulk comfortably and put an arm around his nearest consort, a beautiful

Turko-Asian girl he'd bought from the Old Woman. He held up his goblet and a servant—a real boy, not

one of those idiotic servomechs—poured more wine. Other members of the Draya Family lolling about in

the emperor's box above the stadium saluted him with their goblets.

"Long life, boss!" Noto's counselor said across the rim of his goblet.

The crowd had grown silent, attention riveted on the two men circling one another in the dusty arena

below. They bore the arms and armor of first-century gladiators. The Pompeiian was the odds-on

favorite, but his opponent, trained in Capua, was a good contender. They were attired in the Thracian

heavy-armored style. Of course, the gladiators who fought in the Havanagas Roman theme park actually

trained in modern facilities. But one attraction of the park was that it re-created precisely the atmosphere

of Imperial Rome circa AD 3741, the reign of the emperor Caligula. Exact reproductions of the

amphitheater, the gladiatorial schools—the whole city of Rome, in fact—existed for the pleasure of the

park's twenty-fifth-century patrons. The other attraction was blood.

The two circled each other warily, their feet kicking up tiny puffs of dust. Then the sharp sound of the

Pompeiian's sword against the Capuan's shield brought the crowd to its feet. Beside him Noto's consort

suppressed a scream of delight as she clutched her tiny fists in anticipation. Noto grinned. He was

sponsoring the Pompeiian so he stood to win a substantial bet if his man won, and if the man lost, it

would be up to him to decide if he lived or died. Either way, he would enjoy himself.

The Capuan darted inside his opponent's guard and his sword stabbed at the Pompeiian's left leg,

striking the greave but slicing upward and drawing blood from the other man's thigh. Not an

incapacitating wound, but the first of the battle. The crowd went wild. "One for me," a tiny voice said in

Noto's left ear. He glanced downward toward a spectator box and grimaced at Johnny Sticks. Sticks,

counselor to the Ferris Family, grinned as he gave Noto the finger.

"Hey, up yours, Johnny," Noto whispered into his throat mike. "Tell Homs I got your man by the

balls." Homs, head of the Ferris Family, looked up and waved cordially at Noto. Homs had been

emperor last month, and Noto had lost heavily to him then.

The Pompeiian suddenly rained blows against the Capuan's shield, driving him back. The crowd

jumped to its feet again. The Capuan staggered under the onslaught, tripped, and fell backward. The

spectators surged to their feet, and Noto screamed for his man to finish the Capuan while Homs and his

party shouted at the Capuan to get up and return to the attack. The Capuan rolled, jumped to his feet,

and slashed his attacker across the right forearm. The tightly wrapped leather bands there protected the

Pompeiian, but the crowd saw the blow as a skillful counterattack and roared approval.

Hidden back in the shadows under the gladiators' arch, a trainer spoke into a throat mike, frowned

when he got no response, then realized he'd picked up the utility radio rather than the crypto. "Slow it

down, boys, slow it down," he cautioned the fighters. "Drag the fight out. They expect it. See if you can

go a full ten minutes this bout." Obediently, the two slowed to circling one another warily, each looking

for openings in the other's guard. They feinted and maneuvered for a full minute.

Noto turned to his counselor. "When's our boy up?"

"Next, boss. Everything's ready."

"You're sure they can't jump up into the stands?"

"Sure, boss. The vet operated on their leg tendons. But they're still plenty dangerous. He won't last

long."

The families particularly enjoyed shoving agents into the arena because what happened to them was

real.

Another scream of delighted rage erupted from the spectators as the two gladiators leaped at each

other, furiously hacking and smashing. Their shields slammed together and the sound of swords banging

off them resounded throughout the amphitheater. When the blades crossed, sparks flew from the metal,

to the immense delight of the crowd. Then they were on the ground, rolling in the dust. Their weapons

flung aside on impact, they were using heads, elbows, feet, and fists.

Using a wrestling maneuver, the Capuan managed to throw the Pompeiian off and jump to his feet. He

retrieved his sword and, before the other man could recover, placed its blade under the Pompeiian's chin.

The fight was over. The Capuan looked up at the emperor's box. Noto leaned over the railing, his ample

body quivering with rage. His first reaction was to get rid of his defeated fighter. If he did that, though, he

couldn't put the man back into the arena for the rest of the month, and despite his loss, the Pompeiian

was still Noto's best chance to win big another time.

Noto gave the thumbs-up. The crowd booed and cursed as one. People threw things into the arena. A

wave of angry sound washed over the emperor's box. "Fuck you!" Noto shouted back. "Who runs this

place, me or you?" he asked in a lower voice. He turned to his counselor. "They want blood? All right.

Give 'em Woods."

For six years Noto Draya had been head of the Draya Family, since removing his brother. When the

Drayas had joined with the Ferris Family to run their enterprise on Havanagas some twenty years ago, his

brother had moved to Havanagas so he could maintain better control over business matters while keeping

an eye on the Ferris Family. The bitter wars between the two crime families that had characterized their

relations before the Havanagas deal were not so far in the past that they'd been forgotten.

Now Noto, the ruthless and ambitious second son of the infamous capo James Ferguson Draya, was

head of the family. As soon as he could manage it, the Ferrises would be history. Then he would deal

with the local rebels. But for the moment he would show the Ministry of Justice it couldn't send its agents

to spy on him.

Two burly guards came for Woods. After days of brutal interrogation, a bridesmaid could have

handled the agent, but Noto was taking no chances.

"Wa'uh, wa'uh," Woods mumbled. The guards ignored his request for water. Noto had had his tongue

cut out. No matter what he screamed in the arena, nobody would understand him.

The guards hauled him to his feet and half carried, half pushed him toward the sunlit archway leading

into the arena. Outside it was so bright that, after the gloomy interior, Woods was blinded at first. One of

the guards thrust a short-bladed sword into his hand and shoved him out into the amphitheater, where he

tripped and fell to his knees. Behind him a solid door slammed shut. He staggered to his feet. As his

vision cleared he saw the detritus of combat strewn all over the arena, broken shields, discarded swords,

and fragments of armor.

The arena was about two hundred meters in circumference, surrounded by stone walls four meters

high. Above the walls were boxes and stands for spectators. Woods knew very well what went on here.

The contests were all fixed, and gladiators seldom died in the arena. Men suffered terrible wounds

sometimes, but most of the gore was artificial. Woods knew his wouldn't be.

The arena was empty.

Woods stared at the wall opposite where he stood panting, waiting for his opponent to emerge from

the staging area. Would he be a retarius, a net-fighter armed with a dagger, trident, and net? Woods

hefted his short sword. In his current physical condition, even another secutor would make short work of

him.

The crowd began to chant, "Bring on the fight! Bring on the fight!" The roar swept over Woods.

Suddenly the opponent's door clanged open. The crowd went instantly silent. For a full thirty seconds

nothing emerged from the black square. Then two agile, bipedal, reptilian creatures bounded out into the

amphitheater, and the crowd gasped in surprise. Behind them two more scaly animals colored in irregular

stripes of yellow, green, and brown appeared in the doorway. Their heads, half the length of a man's

forearm, had gaping jaws lined with fearsome serrated teeth. They bounded into the amphitheater on

massive hind legs that had three dagger-like claws on each foot. Stubby forearms held shorter but no less

lethal-looking claws. The creatures stood a meter tall. An agile, heavily armored man could easily deal

with one; two were always a little more difficult. But, the year before, the best of the Gauls had fought

four of the beasts at one time and emerged with only a few wounds. The spectators rose as one and

shouted approval.

Disoriented by the roar of the crowd, the beasts tried to leap the walls into the crowd at first, but the

severed tendons in their legs prevented them from jumping that high, normally not a difficult thing for this

species.

And then they saw Woods.

The raptors bounded at him quickly.

Woods placed the tip of his blade just under his sternum and threw himself to the ground as hard as he

could. The crowd screamed in anger and disappointment as the blade pierced his chest but settled down

immediately as the beasts set about reducing Woods's body to red chunks.

CHAPTER ONE

Getting from the highway to the side of the headquarters building was no problem; the Marines'

chameleon uniforms easily hid them from the crowds of HQ workers milling about outside during the

lunch break. Those same crowds confused the motion detectors and other passive surveillance devices

around the building's perimeter so the sensors didn't notice the intruders either. Just where the intelligence

report had said it was, they found an open window to an untenanted office.

"Rock," Corporal Kerr said into his helmet radio. His infra screen showed Lance Corporal Rachman

Claypoole slithering through the open window. Kerr followed immediately and had to move immediately

to keep PFC MacIlargie from landing on him inside the office.

By the time Kerr got to his feet, Claypoole was next to the hallway door. Kerr checked his HUD and

shook his head. He was amazed that it didn't show guards in the hallway. But nobody seemed to be

there. He thought that was amazing for so large a building. Of course, most of the people who worked at

the headquarters were civilians, and civilians didn't act like military personnel.

"Go," he said softly into his radio. Claypoole's next move was the first true test of the

infiltration—intelligence didn't know if there were passive surveillance devices in the headquarters'

corridors.

Claypoole pushed the door open and darted through. No alarms sounded, but that didn't mean none

were blinking somewhere else, alerting guards to the intruders. Kerr tapped Claypoole's invisible

shoulder and gave him a push. The three Marines sprinted to the nearest radial corridor and down it to a

vending alcove. Kerr rechecked their route on the floor plan in his HUD, made sure his men knew where

they were going next, and then they were off once more, soft-footing their way. Their objective was the

command center deep in the center of the large building. So far there were no signs of pursuit.

They next stopped outside a door on an inner ring-corridor, and Kerr once more examined the

building's floor plan on his HUD. Three green dots indicated the positions of he and his men; the door

icon showed its lock was engaged. Five ill-defined red dots inside the room showed where its occupants

were. Maybe. The dots were indistinct because his sensors weren't sure the hot spots were people; they

could be overheated equipment. The floor plan showed another door leading from the room deeper into

the building. It didn't show another route to where they had to go—unless they blasted through a wall.

Blasting through a wall was out of the question; for their mission to succeed, they had to infiltrate the

interior of the building undetected. They weren't even carrying anything that could blast through a wall.

This was a good test, Kerr thought, of how three Marines could quietly subdue five people. It wasn't a

good idea to rush in and try to physically overpower them. Even if the five were trained navy guards

instead of ordinary sailors or civilians, the Marines had a distinct advantage since they were effectively

invisible in their chameleon uniforms. Three highly trained, invisible Marines bursting in unexpectedly

should have little problem subduing five people, even trained security men. But could they do it before

one of the five managed to sound the alarm? In any event, they had to get through a locked door before

they could deal with whoever was in the room. But breaking the lock would alert the people inside, and if

the lock was tied into a security system...

The corporal quickly inventoried the equipment available to him. Like the stunguns that were their main

weapons, all their grenades, were nonlethal. The flashbang wouldn't do, its bang was too loud, the gas in

the coldcock grenade would take seconds to fill the room and knock out the occupants, and one of them

might set off an alarm in the interval. The neurophaser grenade worked fast enough to take all five down

before they knew what was happening, but it would also affect the three Marines if they didn't give it

enough time to stop radiating before they entered—and they didn't have much time. The best items they

had were the put-outs—gas-impregnated cloths capable of rendering a normal-size person unconscious

in just a couple of seconds if held over the mouth and nose. But they'd work only if the Marines weren't

outnumbered, as they were. Of course, they could simply rush in, stunguns blazing, and knock out

everyone that way—but if the people were civilians, it wouldn't be right to treat them so roughly.

One of the red dots on the HUD moved toward the door. The door opened and a man in civilian

clothes stepped into the corridor. Before he shut the door a female voice asked him to remember the

extra sugar in her coffee. He laughed, said, "You're sweet enough without the extra." He let the door

swing shut on its own as he turned down the corridor and almost stepped on Kerr's foot.

Kerr moved fast. He threw an arm around the man's chest to lift him off the floor and clamped a hand

over his mouth and nose. The man flailed his arms and kicked wildly, but his soft-shod feet only

connected with Kerr's shins and made little noise and less damage.

Almost immediately, Claypoole was on the man, his fingers pinching his carotid artery to knock him

out. Simultaneously, MacIlargie grabbed the door to keep it from shutting all the way and relocking. The

door remained ajar by the width of his gloved fingers.

"Good thinking," Kerr said, "both of you." The comm unit in his helmet transmitted his words to his

men and not beyond. They were committed now; the security system might set off an alarm if the door

remained held open. They had to go in. He shifted the unconscious man so he held him up with one arm,

leaving the other free to give instructions. He made quick marks on his HUD and transmitted them.

MacIlargie flung the door open then dashed through and to the left. Claypoole was right on his heels,

darting to the right. Kerr came last and headed straight ahead, holding the unconscious civilian like a

shield.

"Back so fast?" the female voice asked. The woman looked up and her eyes bugged when she saw

her coworker's inert body advancing on her. It slammed into her and knocked her off her chair before

she could scream. To her right, MacIlargie had already stunned one civilian and was shifting his stungun's

muzzle to another. On the other side, Claypoole had disarmed a navy guard and was engaged in a silent

struggle. Fortunately, the sailor, distracted by having to wrestle with an unexpected, invisible opponent,

was too panicked to yell out a warning.

Kerr dropped the man and slapped a put-out on the woman's face. She tried to draw a deep breath

as she kicked and flailed her arms. The breath was a mistake and she went totally limp.

"Sorry about that," Kerr murmured. He was afraid he might have injured her when he slammed her

coworker's body into her.

A rapid-fire thump-thud to his right spun him in that direction. Claypoole's sailor dropped like a rock.

In his infra Kerr saw Claypoole look toward him. "I had to bounce his head off the wall," Claypoole

said. "He might have a concussion."

Kerr grunted. Suffering serious injury or getting killed was a chance sailors, soldiers, and Marines

took.

"Secure them," he ordered.

In a moment all five people had their wrists cuffed behind their backs and their ankles held together

with the self-adhering security bands the Marines carried for that purpose. The Marines used wide tape

to close the mouths of the five. Last, they used strong cords to link the people's ankles to their wrists.

One of them, the corridor man, regained consciousness before they were finished.

Kerr knelt next to him and flipped up his shields so the man could see him. "Just lay there and relax,"

he said. "You're not going anywhere without help, and nobody's seriously injured." He flipped his infra

and chameleon shields back into place and stood. His HUD indicated that the next room was vacant.

"Let's go. Mac, me, Rock."

MacIlargie opened the inner door and zipped through. Kerr and Claypoole followed just as fast—they

wanted to get away from the door in a hurry in case their sensors were wrong about nobody being in the

adjoining room.

The three Marines trotted along the narrow passage between a rank of desks and a bank of data

stores to a doorway on the far side of the room. The HUD floor plan showed a broad corridor beyond

the room. The sensors also showed a number of people, mostly singles but some in pairs or trios, walking

in both directions along it.

Kerr checked the door. The locking mechanism was disengaged, that much was good. The rest of it

wasn't.

Impatiently, he watched red dots moving along the corridor on his HUD. It quickly became obvious

the Marines would have a long wait for the corridor to become vacant; there might not even be a moment

when nobody was walking in the direction of this door. They had to take the chance that nobody would

notice when the door opened and no one came out. Keeping an eye on the moving dots on the HUD, he

gave instructions.

The door opened to the left. At a moment when nobody was coming toward it from the right, he

opened it and MacIlargie rushed past him into the corridor.

"What's that?" Kerr asked in a voice that could be clearly heard by nearby people.

"You've got to finish this before you go," Claypoole replied just as loudly. He ducked past Kerr into

the corridor.

"But—oh, all right," Kerr grumbled, then stepped away from the door and let it close. He glanced left

along the corridor. Nobody seemed to notice anything. They headed deeper into the building, closer to

their objective.

A man effectively invisible can move without, in most places, being noticed, as long as he moves

quietly. But in a corridor with even moderate traffic, being quiet isn't enough. People automatically avoid

obstructions they see; they don't avoid obstructions they don't see. An invisible man is an unseen

obstruction. The three Marines had to duck, weave, and occasionally backstep to avoid people who

were about to bump into them. They weren't successful one hundred percent of the time.

"Excuse me," a man in a flight suit said absentmindedly when MacIlargie found himself stuck between

two people moving in opposite directions. The young Marine was able to avoid one but not both.

MacIlargie grunted something and spun away. The flight-suited man, with his hands swooping through the

air, continued his conversation with his equally intent and swoop-handed companion. A few paces later

the man in the flight suit realized he hadn't seen anybody where he'd bumped into someone and stopped

to look back.

"What's the matter?" his companion asked.

"I bumped into somebody, but nobody's there."

"Sure there is." The companion pointed his chin at the person MacIlargie had managed to avoid when

the flight suit bumped him.

"No, I saw her. It was a man's voice that said ‘No problem.’"

The companion looked at the doors lining the corridor. "Whoever it was must have gone into one of

those offices."

"You think so?" Flight Suit wasn't sure there had been enough time for the man he bumped to make it

to one of the doorways and through it before he looked back.

"Of course I'm sure. What else could it be?"

Flight Suit shrugged "I guess you're right. There's no such thing as an invisible man—and there aren't

any Marines here." They resumed walking and returned to their conversation. Their hands began making

flight patterns once more.

At last the Marines reached their next way point, a janitor's closet off a short side corridor, and

ducked inside among the cleaning robots. Kerr shrunk the scale of his HUD floor plan, then rezoomed on

the section that showed the route from there to the command center that was their objective.

"It should be tougher from here on," he said softly. "We're likely to start running into guards."

"The one in that first office was easy enough," Claypoole snorted, forgetting how much trouble he'd

had subduing the sailor.

"From here in, they'll probably be more alert."

Claypoole stifled a remark about three Marines' swabbing up a headquarters full of squids, instead

listening for his fire team leader's next orders.

Despite Kerr's concern, the only guards they encountered between the janitor's closet and their next

way point were two petty officers flanking the ornate entrance of what was probably an admiral's office.

The guards, standing at parade rest, appeared to be more ceremonial than functional.

The next way station was their last. Kerr's HUD sensors showed no red dots nearby so they appeared

to have a clear passage along the next two, short, corridors. He knew there was a guard station right

beyond the range of his sensors. According to the intelligence reports, nobody could pass the guard

station without being identified and cleared.

Kerr touched helmets with his men and said, "Here's what we're going to do..."

A minute later, halfway down the second corridor, a warning tone in their earpieces froze the Marines

in their tracks. A sensor had picked up the emanations of a motion detector.

Kerr checked his HUD. The warning device was on the opposite side of the mouth of the next

corridor on the right, the last corridor they had to follow. The motion detector was probably tied into a

control panel at the guard station. They withdrew a few steps while they considered what to do about the

motion detector. By that time they were close enough to the guard station for the HUD to show two dots

representing the guards. The two dots were motionless, so either the motion detector hadn't picked up

the Marines or the Marines weren't acting suspicious enough to draw the guards' attention—yet.

The Marines weren't carrying anything that could unobtrusively disable a motion detector. There was

only one thing they could do.

"Plasma shields up," Kerr ordered. He hefted his stungun. "We go fast and take the guards down."

And hope they didn't have projectile weapons, he thought. The plasma shields would protect the Marines

if the guards had blasters, but they weren't wearing body armor. "Our objective is right beyond them."

Claypoole and MacIlargie acknowledged him then turned on their plasma shields and readied their

stunguns.

"On three. One. Two. Three."

The three Marines sprinted the ten meters to the adjoining corridor and skidded around its corner, The

guards had noted movement on their monitor and were drawing their hand-blasters.

"Where are they?" shrieked one when he looked up from the monitor that told him three targets had

just run into their corridor.

The other guard, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise, raised his hand-blaster to fire blindly, but he

convulsed as shots from two stunguns hit him before he could press the firing stud. His weapon fell from

limp fingers and he collapsed over the railing of the guard station. The other guard was twitching and

falling before the first dropped his weapon.

"Go!" Kerr shouted in the clear.

The three Marines bounded through the guard station, burst through the double doors beyond them,

and scattered into the command center.

"Everybody, you're dead!" Kerr shouted as he raised his helmet shields.

Most of the two dozen people in the room looked toward him with disgust.

Three other grinning, chameleoned Marines were already there, helmets off. They shouted friendly

greetings. A cluster of high-ranking officers, including three Confederation Marines in dress reds, stood at

the far end of the command center.

Rear Admiral Blankenvoort, commander of the Confederation Navy supply depot on Thorsfinni's

World, and the highest ranking member of the Confederation military in the sector, looked glumly at the

second trio of Marines to burst into his command center, then hung his head and shook it ruefully. "I

really need to tune up my security chief. Probably replace him. This is downright embarrassing."

The lieutenant commander who, as provost marshal, was responsible for security, blanched.

Blankenvoort looked sideways at the Marine lounging next to him. "I hope your Marines didn't injure

any of my personnel."

Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon, commander of the Confederation Marine Corps' 34th FIST, and

Thorsfinni's World's second-highest ranking military officer, replied, "I don't think they did, Admiral. I

impressed on them that civilians and sailors, even navy security personnel, are fragile creatures compared

to Marines and that they needed to be gentle with anyone they couldn't avoid." He couldn't keep a touch

of smugness out of his voice. "And, Admiral? Don't be too severe with your provost marshal."

"Why not?"

"A couple of reasons. First, no matter who the nominal security chief is, you're ultimately responsible."

When Sturgeon didn't immediately give the second reason, Blankenvoort asked through a clenched

jaw.

"Commander Van Winkle's infantrymen are very, very good." Sturgeon and one of the other Marines

exchanged grins.

"How many other fire teams do you have in the building?" the admiral asked. Anger and despair fought

for control of his voice.

"Four."

The top navy people in the room groaned.

The three Marine officers courteously refrained from grinning.

Ten minutes later the sixth and final Marine fire team burst into the command center and announced

that everybody was dead. The command center had six entrances; each fire team had entered through a

different one. Brigadier Sturgeon and Colonel Ramadan, his chief of staff, went with Admiral

Blankenvoort and his staff to debrief the results of the security exercise, while Commander Van Winkle

took the infiltrating Marines, two fire teams from each of the three blaster companies in his battalion, into

a room where his S-2, intelligence officer, waited to debrief them.

"Did you kill anybody?" Van Winkle asked as soon as the door was closed.

"Nossir," the fire team leaders barked.

"Any serious injuries? Other than the guards you had to overcome at the entrances to the command

center?"

"Sir, we might have given a guard a concussion," Corporal Kerr said. He gave the number of the room

where they'd subdued the five people.

"Sir, a guard put up a pretty good fight," said a fire team leader from Kilo Company. "I think we broke

his nose and an arm." He gave the number of the room where they had stashed the man.

Nobody else had anything more severe than bruised egos to report. They were all pretty smug.

"Don't feel too good about yourselves," Van Winkle told them. "Imagine if it had been actual hostiles

who burst in here? There'd be quite a few dead people here, and we'd be getting ready to move out on a

live operation. With the navy command center in hostile hands, we'd have no way of knowing what we

were up against or how much intelligence they had about our strength and intentions." He looked at his

Marines sternly. He was pretty sure, though, that no one else could have made it all the way to the

command center without being discovered the way his six fire teams had. If for no other reasons than

nobody else was likely to have the floor plans.

"Well done, Marines," he finally said "Now Lieutenant Troud will debrief you. Lieutenant."

"Sir!" Troud came to attention.

Van Winkle left the room and the debriefing got under way. The navy was going to want to know

every detail of how six Marine fire teams got from outside the building all the way into the command

center in its heart without anybody sounding an alarm.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a quiet Sixth Day night in Big Barb's. Only a half-dozen or so fights had broken out. No more than

three patrons of the combination bar, restaurant, ships' chandler, and bordello had to be carried out

insensate from the vigor of the fisticuffs. The usual raucous singing seemed muted, fewer voices than

normal shouting imperfectly remembered lyrics. Raised voices didn't stay raised for long—the more

boisterous speakers seemed cowed by the hollow booming of their voices in the relative quiet.

There wasn't anything in particular wrong. It was simply that the Marines of Lima Company's third

platoon, the main military habitués of Big Barb's, were tired from the training exercise late the night

before. And the fish the inhabitants of the area of Thorsfinni's World called "herring" were running, so

most of the fishermen and other seamen who were the bulk of Big Barb's clientele were at sea.

Tired Marines and absent sailors made Big Barb less than her normal jolly self—she wasn't making as

much money as on a normal Sixth Day night. Her great bulk threatening a stool's integrity, she sat alone at

one end of the scarred bar and glowered out at the half-empty room. She sniffed; not even wonderful

Charlie Bass was there. She remembered the deal she'd made with him for the promotion party nearly a

year earlier, and a smile threatened to break up the storm cloud of her face, but she battened the smile

down.

Several Marines from third platoon sat at a table in the corner nearest the kitchen exit. A few of Big

Barb's girls kept them company—partly because they enjoyed the company of the Marines, partly

because they hoped to entice some of them to the private rooms upstairs, where the girls made most of

their money.

Carlala, a new girl, sat on Claypoole's lap. With the fingers of the arm draped around his shoulders,

she idly played with the short hair on his scalp. She leaned against him so that a breast settled lightly on

his chest. From time to time, in seeming casual movement, her cheek gently brushed his. Carlala might

have been new at the business, but she already had distinct ideas of how to arouse a man without being

overt. She wanted to jiggle her bottom on him because her subtlety didn't seem to be getting any

reaction, but jiggling would be too overt.

Instead of being aroused, Claypoole absently lay an arm around her waist and let his hand curl slightly

where it rested on her thigh. His other hand moved languidly between the stein of Reindeer Ale he sipped

from and the Fidelon which he puffed just enough to keep it from going out. Truth was, he was barely

aware of the young woman on his lap; his thoughts were elsewhere.

Carlala was certainly pretty enough, and Claypoole had cheered and whistled as much as anybody

else a few weeks earlier when she made her first appearance at Big Barb's. She was a bit shorter than

average, but her smile and sizable bust made her appear taller in men's eyes. Claypoole had been up

stairs with her more than a couple of times. If he'd been in a normal mood that evening, he'd be reacting

strongly to her. Probably he'd even be thinking that of all Big Barb's girls she was his favorite. He might

even think he'd like to take her away from Big Barb.

That did happen sometimes; Bronnoysund, the liberty town outside the main gate of Camp Major Pete

Ellis, was home to a fair number of fat, happy housefraus with a brood of children—in a couple of

instances, grandchildren—who had once been Big Barb's girls.

These Marines were behaving in a most uncharacteristic manner. Not one attempted to steal a kiss or

tried to feel the softness of a breast. None even patted a nicely rounded bottom. Neither did they seem

to have any great interest in getting drunk. They'd had a robust dinner when they arrived a couple of

hours earlier, but they hadn't eaten with any of the high gusto with which they normally tore into their

reindeer steaks. Since then they'd drunk slowly and talked quietly about inconsequential things, paying

the girls no more attention than they might have given kittens hunting wild yarn about their feet.

All the Marines present that night had been stationed with 34th FIST for more than the two years, the

normal duty assignment for FIST Marines. Not that Marines were always transferred after two years;

sometimes, simply by happenstance, a Marine might stay in one place with one unit for two and a half or

even three years. But Thorsfinni's World was classified as a hardship post, and the Confederation Marine

Corps was conscientious about transferring men from hardship posts on time.

"CARLALA!" The booming voice rang out over the bang of the door its owner flung open.

Carlala—and all the other girls—looked toward the main entrance to Big Barb's. A dozen big men

rolled in. Big Barb herself looked up and momentarily forgot to glower. One of the fishing boats had

come to port, and its crew was primed for a night out.

Carlala looked at Claypoole and very deliberately said, "Someone wants me. Do you mind if I go to

him?"

Claypoole gave her an absent smile and said, "Have a good time."

With her mouth little more than an inch away from his, Carlala reconsidered the kiss she was about to

give him. She gave one wiggle on his lap, just to remind him of what he was missing, then rose and

danced off toward the fishermen who'd just arrived. The other young women were already on their way.

In moments each fisherman, one or more of Big Barb's girls clinging like lampreys to him, was headed to

satisfy his heart's most immediate desire—to a table for his first good meal in more than a week, to the

bar for his first drink since sailing, or for the stairs, to the private rooms on the second floor.

The Marines continued to drink slowly and talk quietly about nothing in particular. Until...

"Think they forgot about us?" Lance Corporal Van Impe asked. He'd been with 34th FIST for more

than two and a half years.

"Not a chance," replied Corporal Dornhofer. Of the nine Marines around the table, he'd been on

Thorsfinni's World the longest, and he'd been a Marine longer than the others. "There are a lot of things

Mother Corps forgets to give her Misguided Children. Mother Corps forgets to promote people." He

nodded at Lance Corporal Chan, who had been filling a corporal's billet for longer than normal. "She

sometimes forgets to give people medals. She even forgets to issue us gear that works right." Schultz,

Claypoole, and Dean smiled; they knew that drill by heart. "But one thing Mother Corps is real good

about remembering is rotating people off hardship posts."

"Mother Corps thinks everybody deserves to get the shit duty." Corporal Goudanis chuckled without

mirth.

Claypoole, Dean, and Chan looked at each other. They'd arrived on Thorsfinni's World together. The

other six had been with 34th FIST longer than they had. Even though they were past due for rotation,

they didn't quite feel they had the right to complain in such company.

"We aren't the only ones, you know," Lance Corporal Watson commented.

Corporal Linsman nodded. "Gunny Bass, Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, Corporal Kerr—"

"Kerr doesn't count, he was away for almost two years," Van Impe said.

"Recuperating from wounds suffered on a deployment with us," Dornhofer reminded him. "That

counts."

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PROLOGUELoomingblackagainstthebrightsunlightfromthearena,twogladiatorsclompedunderthearchanddownthecorridortothedressingrooms.Filmedwithsweat,breathinghard,theycongratulatedeachotherontheirperformance.Thecrowdhadlovedthemdespitetheemperor'sdisappointingdecisiontosparetheloser.Outside,thespectatorss...

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