This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Earth’s Legion Structure, circa 2125

Earth’s fighting forces are divided into two major strata. Most of the ships and troops are under the command of Hegemony, a planetary force focused on home world defense. The balance of the military is organized into independent legions.

The legions are hired out to fight off-world in other Frontier 921 star systems. The troops in these legions represent virtually all Earth’s forces with combat experience.

The highest ranking officers are all members of Hegemony. The rank of tribune (equivalent to a brigadier general in the past) is the highest honor obtainable by a member of any independent legion.

The ranks are as follows:

Consul:
Equivalent to a five-star general in Earth’s multi-national past. The rank of consul is a temporary one, only created in times of all-out war with neighboring powers. Multiple consuls are possible, if Earth should find itself in wars on multiple fronts.

Praetor:
A four-star general. This is a rare rank, but not a singular one. All consuls are drawn from this pool of top officers.

Equestrian:
A three-star general. This rank is the highest rank that may actually take to the field in war and is charged with handling an entire front in wartime. An Equestrian might lead the defensive efforts of an entire world or multiple worlds.

Imperator:
A two-star general. Imperators are often utilized to coordinate the efforts of multiple legions involved in a single conflict.

Tribune:
A one-star or “brigadier” general. All legions are led by a tribune, and they have an unusual degree of autonomy within their mission parameters. A legion is made up of ten to fifteen cohorts. Half the cohorts are light troops with poor gear, and half heavily armed and armored. Some legions have specialized cohorts attached that are designated as auxiliary.

Primus:
The equivalent of a colonel. A primus leads a cohort, which is made up of ten regular Units, about twelve hundred soldiers strong.

Centurion:
A centurion is a battlefield commander leading approximately a hundred and twenty troops. The equivalent of a captain, centurions lead their unit into battle personally. They are the highest-ranked front line troops.

Adjunct:
Adjuncts operate as lieutenants supporting their centurion. There are normally three adjuncts in every unit.

Veteran:
The highest rank attainable by enlisted personnel. Those warriors honored with the rank of veteran are equivalent to the master sergeants of the past. There are several veterans in each unit, and it is their job to support the officers.

Specialist:
Specialists are lower-level non-commissioned officers. They’re valued for their training more than their command skills. They have a wide variety of specialties, but the most common three are bio specialists, weaponeers and techs.

Regular:
A regular troop is an experienced individual who has been proven in battle. They’re more likely to be issued expensive armor and weapons, placing them in a cohort of heavy infantry rather than a light infantry formation. This rank is equivalent to that of a private first class.

Recruit:
The starting place for all new soldiers. These are the least experienced people in the legion, and consequently they’re always placed in light infantry cohorts with the cheapest weaponry. Good alien-made equipment is expensive, and normally it’s only issued to people with proven skills.

Recruits are often referred to as “splats” due to their tendency to experience frequent, violent death.

“A coward dies many times before meeting his actual death.”

– Julius Caesar, 48 BC

-1-

Earth had gone through several dramatic changes during my years as an adult. First, we’d been thrown into an economic tail-spin when Cancri-9, better known as Steel World, had canceled our most lucrative legion contracts. Years later, we’d been given a boost in budget coming from the Empire’s coffers to handle local defense. Times were good back then.

Things had shifted yet again this year. After reestablishing contact with the cephalopod race at Tech World—and somehow ending up in a state of undeclared war with them—Earth was tightening up her collective belt all over again.

It wasn’t that we didn’t have money. The Mogwa, a race of Galactics that were struggling with their peers for dominance among the Core Systems, essentially owned our backwater province. Either as part of their strategy or because we were just a small line-item in a vast budget, they were still sending us funding in the form of hard Galactic currency.

What
had
changed was Hegemony Government’s state of mind. Our worldwide politicians and bureaucrats were rationing everything, spending every spare credit on our military effort. I understood the goal, but it was annoying.

Gone were the days when a trooper could buy himself an alien-made contrivance for the fun of it. All the best imported stuff went straight to the legions. They’d stopped paying us in Galactic Credits too, opting instead to issue Hegemony Credits to soldiers. What’s more, the established rate of exchange was ruinous. In the past, about a thousand Hegemony Credits had been deemed worth a single Galactic Credit—but they were now giving us less than half that after the accounting was all said and done.

“Crooked government stooges!” Carlos complained bitterly over a beer in legion Varus’ Chapter House in Atlanta. “At least we’ve finally got a cheap pub in our Chapter House.”

I nodded and sipped a sour beer. They had it on tap, and they sold it cheap. That was about all I could say that was positive about this bitter, foamy, piss-water. I suspected the reason they’d opened a bar at one end of Atlanta’s row of legion Chapter Houses was a sneaky one. The bar was a trick, an inexpensive way to buy off troops like Carlos and me. Sure, we’d lost half our income in some kind of shady, computerized money-shuffle, but at least we could get drunk for less to drown our sorrows.

Making a face, I gulped my mug dry and slammed it down. The bartender behind the counter winced, looking at us in concern.

“You two aren’t about to make trouble, are you?” she asked.

“What?” demanded Carlos. “Do Varus troops have that bad of a rep?”

“You’re getting there. We had a serious fight last night. They had to call in the MPs. There were two deaths, and one of the revives has been placed on hold pending an inquiry.”

I shook my head, snorting. “Let me guess, they’re holding up the Varus guy’s revive, right? What was his name?”

The bartender shrugged and frowned, thinking for a moment. “A big guy. Sargon was his name, I think.”

“Hot damn!” I said. “I wish I’d been here to watch his back. Poor Sargon.”

Carlos nudged me. “Why don’t you go charm the Imperator? I bet she’d squeeze out a revive for him if you handled her right.”

Carlos was talking about Imperator Turov, who’d had a questionable relationship with me last year. I gave him a sour glance and waved for a fresh beer. The bartender poured it, but I could tell she was wary about feeding us any more alcohol.

“That business with the Imperator is all over with, Carlos,” I said. “She doesn’t care if I live or die now.”

I lifted a fresh mug toward my face, but the beer never reached my lips. A hand interposed itself, touching my wrist to block the path of my beverage. The hand was fairly strong, but pale-skinned and thin-boned.

Getting between a drinking man and his brew was rarely a good idea, but it was especially ill-advised in the case of a Legion Varus trooper. We just didn’t take that kind of crap from anyone.

Without even thinking about it, I rotated toward the intruder. My other hand was already balled up into a fist, and it levered back almost on its own, ready to deliver a hammer-blow. Behind the bar, the bartender had already hit the floor. She was probably summoning the cops on her tapper—but I didn’t much care.

The only thing that stopped me from slamming my fist into the face I saw standing over me was recognition.

“Winslade?”

I could tell right off he knew he’d miscalculated by grabbing my wrist. His hand leapt off mine and he backed up a step.

“McGill,” he said, trying to pretend I hadn’t scared him. “You know striking an officer is a flogging offense, yes?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, as if gauging my options. Finally, I lowered my fist and purposefully turned back to my beer. I took a drink, made a bitter face, and waited for him to explain himself.

Winslade was Turov’s lapdog. He was a suck-up and worse. He’d abandoned Legion Varus for Hegemony at the same time Turov had. That was a shameful thing in the eyes of any off-world combat legionnaire. We knew that men who couldn’t handle real fighting often sought cush jobs in office buildings on safe, reliable dirt.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” Winslade demanded. “That’s great. What else should I have expected?”

“This is a bar, sir,” Carlos pointed out. “And we’re off-duty.”

Winslade nodded. “You
were
off-duty. You’re back on as of now, McGill.”

He finally had my complete attention. “What’s up, Adjunct?”

He was a prissy officer, as they went, and I could tell he didn’t like my lack of deference. I could see his annoyance in the way his lips twitched and his eyes narrowed—but I just didn’t care about that right now.

“I’m here to transport you up to Hegemony Central. In Northeast Sector.”

“I know where it is,” I said, frowning.

The worldwide seat of Hegemony Government had been established on a chunk of land that had long ago been known as Connecticut. I’d never thought much about why the powers-that-be had chosen that small plot of the planet to elevate to the status of a new capital, but I supposed it was the same reason they’d built Washington D. C. in the first place: it was close to where the important people lived.

“Why the hell are you taking McGill to the capital?” Carlos demanded, immediately jealous. “What about me? If he did anything cool, it was only due to my private counseling.”

This statement seemed to amuse Winslade. He’d gotten over his rush of fear concerning my fist, and he was back to his usual slick, self-confident attitude.

“What if I’m taking him up there to be properly permed?” Winslade asked.

“Well then,” Carlos said, “in that case I’m not responsible. In fact, McGill has been acting strange lately. Like he’s hiding something. Maybe you should go out to his shack in the swamp and mess with him tonight. He loves that.”

Winslade nodded at Carlos dismissively and gestured to me with his fingers as if he was beckoning to a dog. “Follow me, McGill.”

“You’re a hog,” I pointed out rudely. “An officer, but still a hog. I need orders from my own legion.”

Winslade’s face remained confident and bemused. “Have you checked your tapper lately, Specialist?”

Frowning, I looked down at my arm. The mail light was blinking red. A priority message was waiting for me in my inbox. I didn’t even have to read it. I knew Winslade had me.

“All right,” I said, accepting that I was beaten. Winslade was the kind of guy who waited until he had all the cards before making a move. There was no point in arguing with him now. It would just give him the thrill of backing me down.

I slapped a twenty credit piece on the bar and stood up. “See you, Carlos. Let’s go, Winslade.”

I followed the officer to the door.

“He’s paying for mine, too,” I heard Carlos tell the barkeep.

I shook my head. I’d meant to leave the girl a big tip. It was the least I could do after scaring her half to death.

Exiting into the parking lot, I followed Winslade to a sleek black contraption parked out on the periphery of the puff-crete pavement.

“Is that an air car?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes. Personal use. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in one before?”

“I rode in one that I liberated from a Galactic once,” I said, giving him a grin.

His face froze in a mask that told me I’d given him more information than he wanted to hear. He opened the canopy, and I climbed over the wing and slid onto the plush saurian-hide seats. He climbed in the other side.

“Don’t talk like that,” he said seriously. “About Galactics, I mean. Not even if you’re joking around.”

“You think they’re bugging the alien-made cars now?”

“Maybe,” he said, licking his lips and powering up the air car.

The strange vehicle vibrated for about ten seconds then launched into the sky with alarming power. We rose up into the clouds and leveled off. The only sounds were the thrumming of the engine and the muted rush of air flowing over the dual canopies.

“What do you want from me, anyway?” I asked.

“Xlur wants you. He’s waiting for us up at Central.”

This statement, at long last, cut through my state of intoxication. Up until then, I’d been just another hard-drinking trooper in a foul mood. Now I knew things were serious.

Xlur was one of the Mogwa. He was, for all intents and purposes, a pharaoh on Earth. A god-king who wielded the ultimate authority of the Galactics within the boundaries of Frontier 921.

I’d met Chief Inspector Xlur previously under unfortunate circumstances. I sincerely hoped that he didn’t recognize me this time around.

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