That wasn’t far from the truth. The prisoners were allegedly offered the chance to join the Marine Corps after a brief stint at the reformatory, as an alternative to doing hard time in prison. But old ways die hard, and with nothing else to do, the criminals had broken out of the area assigned to them. He pitied any poor social workers or counselors who would be assigned to help these guys become upstanding citizens—they sure had their work cut out for them.
Now, like it or not, Raynor was faced with a choice. It would be incredibly satisfying to see Harnack receive some of his own medicine. But he knew exactly what his father would say if he were there: “Remember, Son … the true measure of a man is whether other people can count on him when it makes a difference.”
“Here,” Raynor said, as he handed his rations off to Omer. “Take care of those, will you? I’d appreciate it.”
“Don’t do it,” Omer advised ominously. “You’ll be sorry.”
Distant shouts were heard, followed by three shrill blasts from a whistle and the thunder of feet on steel.
“Yeah,” Raynor agreed, as he removed his jacket and placed it on top of the rations. “I probably will.”
Some of the recruits had placed their backs against the bulkheads by then, but others were caught up in the moment and eager for entertainment. They began to chant, “Blood! Blood! Blood!” as Raynor navigated his way between a scattering of encampments and into the open area beyond. The circle was tighter by then, so much so that Harnack was starting to fend off blows, as more whistles blew in the distance.
One of the onlookers had a sprained ankle, and was leaning on a crutch, which Raynor jerked out from under her as he strode past. The girl swore as she went down, made a grab for the recruit on her right, and both of them fell in a tangle of arms and legs.
“Shit. Sorry, miss,” Raynor uttered hastily as he continued on.
A pang of fear dropped into Raynor’s gut as he entered the fray with the improvised weapon. By now a con had wrangled Harnack into a headlock. The crutch made a whirring sound as it slashed through the air, caught the con behind the knees, and brought him down.
Having been freed from one attacker, Harnack launched a spin kick at another. As he completed the move and sent the con reeling backward, he looked at Raynor and grinned. “Okay … You aren’t a sissy. But you’re stupid as hell!”
There was no time for a response, as Raynor took a glancing blow to the side of the head, and brought the crutch around by way of a response. It struck one of attackers in the mouth, broke some of his teeth, and put him on his ass.
The whistles were louder by then, as a phalanx of noncoms began to work their way across the deck, stunning anyone who failed to obey orders. But it was slow going because they had to pause frequently in order to take escaped cons into custody.
So as Raynor rammed the crutch into a con’s gut, he knew it would be at least three or four minutes before help arrived. And a lot of things could happen in that time.
Raynor swore as somebody took hold of the crutch and jerked it away from him. Then a fist hit him in the right kidney. The pain was intense, and he was starting to fall, when a badly bloodied Harnack grabbed him by the belt. “Stay on your feet!” he shouted. “They’ll stomp you if you don’t.”
Having been stomped by Harnack’s friends in the lavatory, Raynor understood the wisdom of the other youth’s advice. So he battled to stay vertical, as the two of them fought back-to-back, and bets were placed all around. Then, as Raynor landed a roundhouse punch on a hate-filled face, the noncoms arrived.
The uniformed marines were swinging their stunners at anything that moved by that time, which was why Harnack pulled Raynor down. “Go limp!” he commanded. “They’re gonna stun you!”
Raynor obeyed, but some of the cons fought back, which earned them a high-voltage clubbing and a presumption of guilt. Once the criminals had been cuffed and led away, Harnack scrambled to his feet. “You’re one crazy sonofabitch,” he said admiringly, as he reached down to give Raynor a hand.
“Thanks,” Raynor replied. “I think.”
That was when Omer arrived with a leather bag full of coins. There was a jingling sound as he shook it. “Look at all the money I won betting on you guys! We’ll split it three ways.”
When Harnack grinned, a bloody film covered his teeth. “Great… . It was worth it then.”
Raynor put a hand on his kidney. It hurt like hell. “I’m not so sure about that… . What triggered the fight anyway?”
“It was their fault,” Harnack said defensively. “I called one of them a freak and he threw a punch. That’s when I decked his ass.”
Raynor sighed and rolled his eyes. “I should have known.”
Omer chuckled.
“I’m hungry,” Harnack announced suddenly, as he snatched the bag of coins from Omer. “I hear somebody smuggled some real food on board and they’ve got a brew-up goin’ back in the corner. Come on … lunch is on me.”
Omer made a grab for the bag, but Harnack had already spun around and started to leave. A few seconds later, he stopped abruptly and looked back. “You losers comin’?”
“This should be good,” Raynor mumbled cynically, as he threw an arm across Omer’s shoulders. “Assuming we survive the trip to boot camp, we should be able to survive anything the KMs throw at us.”
Four intervals and several warp jumps later, the Hydrus entered orbit some three planetary diameters off of Turaxis II. Under normal conditions the ship would have cut it closer, say one diameter out, but with Kel-Morian raiders on the prowl it was necessary for the old transport and ships like her to form a convoy before entering orbit.
Though originally built for peaceful purposes, the enemy ships had been armed and armored using materials and skills furnished by the Morian Mining Guild. The KMs didn’t have a fleet as such, so members of the Kelanis Shipping Guild were filling that role, and had proven themselves to be quite formidable despite a lack of military training.
The KMs were unpredictable for one thing, which made it that much more difficult to defend against their constant attacks, as the admiral in charge of organizing the Confederate ships sought to order, cajole, and sometimes shame the merchant captains into placing their vessels where they were supposed to.
Meanwhile down in the Hydrus’s hold, there was very little for the recruits to do except worry, because the ship was secured for battle, and in the absence of acceleration couches they had to lie under drift nets for hours at a time.
Raynor, who was flat on his back next to Harnack, understood the need. Because, should the vessel come under attack and the argrav generators fail, everything, including unsecured recruits, would suddenly become weightless and drift all about. So to protect them, as well as the ship herself, it was necessary to immobilize the boots.
Each of them handled the situation differently. Omer was frightened, his body tense and perfectly still, and his face drained of color. Raynor was concerned, knowing that the Hydrus would have to depend on other ships for her defense, but figured the swabbies knew what they were doing. There was no way to know how Harnack felt, because he was asleep, and snoring loudly.
“Will you shake him or something?” Omer asked.
“Be careful what you ask for,” Raynor responded. “He’s so peaceful at the moment.”
“It sounds like his nostrils are too small for that melon head of his.”
“Or maybe he’s been punched in the face one too many times. That’s my guess.”
“Why are we hanging out with him again?” Omer asked.
“I don’t know. Entertainment? Pity?”
“I can hear you …” Harnack mumbled, smacked his lips, and launched directly back into his snoring. Raynor and Omer cracked up.