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Once the recruits had showered and shaved, it was time to put on the antiquated CMC-250 armor that they’d been training in for weeks. Each suit had logged thousands of hours of use before being repurposed for use in boot camp, and smelled funky inside.

Only about twenty percent of the hardskins were fully combat-ready at any given time, but they looked good, thanks to the countless hours that each recruit was required to spend washing, polishing, and applying touch-up paint to them. And the attention to detail didn’t end there. Each gauss rifle had been cleaned, lubricated, and inspected to make sure that not so much as a tiny fleck of dirt or rust could be found on it.

Then, having checked one another for flaws, the recruits filtered out onto the grinder for the final inspection that would precede the trooping of the colors. During the ceremony each company would carry a flag that belonged to a serving battalion. This would honor the line units that many of the newly graduated marines would soon be part of.

The band played To the Eternal Glory of the Confederacy followed by a sequence of stirring marches as each company completed a full circuit of the grinder before coming to a much-practiced stop in front of the reviewing stand.

Could the people on the reviewing stand actually see a ding from hundreds of feet away? Murphy claimed that they could, but Raynor knew that was absurd, not that it made any difference.

So they stood inspection, Murphy pronounced himself happy with the results, and was visibly proud as the flag for the 2nd battalion, third marines was given to the company’s four-person color guard for safekeeping. Kydd, who had been chosen to march on the right side of the battalion’s flag with a gauss rifle on his shoulder, was beaming with pride.

There was a fifteen-minute wait for all of the units to get into position, followed by a barely heard order from the training command’s sergeant major, and a swift flurry of drumbeats as the troops went into motion. The band played To the Eternal Glory of the Confederacy followed by a sequence of stirring marches as each company completed a full circuit of the grinder before coming to a much-practiced stop in front of the reviewing stand.

As luck would have it, Kydd’s company was toward the center of the large formation and the four-person color guard was directly in front of the stand. So when Macaby rose to introduce the battalion’s guest of honor, Kydd could not only hear, but see the Honorable Cornelius Brubaker, who was one of his father’s best friends!

As Brubaker began to speak, Kydd was tempted to break ranks and run forward, thereby rescuing himself from the Marine Corps. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, however, because even though the strategy would almost certainly be successful, it would ruin the graduation ceremony for his friends. Plus, given Macaby’s promise to buck his case up to division level, Kydd figured there was no need to make a scene. Once the people at the top took action, justice would be done. In the meantime, it felt wonderful to be truly good at something, and to be included in an organization on account of his personal accomplishments, rather than the name he had been born with.

So Kydd stood at parade rest, eyes front, as Brubaker thanked the newly graduated marines for their dedication and sacrifice. And that was when Kydd remembered that the rifle on his shoulder had been manufactured by a subsidiary of Brubaker Holdings—which meant that both the businessman and his family had profited handsomely from the war. Just as Bennet Industries had. In fact, the more people and equipment that were destroyed, the better it would be for the Old Families! No wonder Brubaker had been willing to speak.

During the celebration none of them noticed the semi-transparent figure that had materialized on a steel walkway high above their heads.

Once Brubaker’s comments were over, and he returned to his seat, Macaby stepped up to the podium again. “It is my pleasure, and my lasting honor, to welcome you to the Confederacy’s Marine Corps,” the officer began. “As you know, once marines complete basic training they are normally sent on to Advanced Infantry Training, or AIT. However, due to the somewhat unusual situation here on Turaxis II, we have an opportunity to provide you with actual combat experience, rather than further training scenarios.”

At that point the battalion’s sergeant major shouted, “Hip, hip . . .” and the marines shouted, “Hooray!”

Macaby smiled knowingly as if to suggest that he could scan minds. “I know all of you want to get out there and fight the Kel-Morians as soon as possible! But it wouldn’t be a good idea to drop you directly into a combat situation without some additional seasoning—so you will spend your first few weeks well back of the front lines. Then, when your commanding officers decide that you’re ready, they’ll move you up. All in all it will be a good way to support our line units while providing you with the extra training you need.

“Once you return to quarters you will receive your orders, load-out schedules, and an additional issue of field gear. Your armor will be issued to you when you arrive at your receiving command. Again, congratulations, and good luck.”

At that point the sergeant major shouted, “Atten-hut!” and a crash-thump was heard as the training battalion obeyed.

Then, after three beats came the order, “Dis-missed!” and a cheer went up as Raynor, Harnack, and all the rest removed their helmets.

During the celebration none of them noticed the semi-transparent figure that had materialized on a steel walkway high above their heads, or heard what the apparition had to say: “Some of you will lead—and others will follow. Those who lead must spend lives wisely—and those who follow must give themselves gladly. For you share a common bond, and when you die, it will be for each other.” Then, like the spirit he was, Gunnery Sergeant Travis disappeared.

BORO AIRBASE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The trip from the airstrip adjacent to Turaxis Prime to Boro Airbase covered more than seven thousand miles, all aboard a maxed-out four-engined Bennet Industries heavy transport aircraft. The huge transport had been designed to haul anything from troops to tanks—which meant scant attention had been paid to the creature comforts. So the three hundred–plus troops packed into rows of removable seats could do little more than shoot the breeze, make use of whatever was stashed on their newly returned fones, and take uneasy naps as the large vehicle droned toward its destination.

Raynor and Kydd, both of whom enjoyed reading and listening to music, took the trip in stride, but it was more difficult for Harnack, who slept some but spent a lot of time fidgeting and bothering those seated around him.

Raynor, who was listening to the latest music file that Kydd had sent him, frowned and pulled one of his earbuds loose. “This stuff is kind of slow, Ryk . . . and what the hell is a fugue?”

“It’s an imitative polyphonic composition, in which a theme or themes are stated successively in all of the voices of the contrapuntal structure,” Kydd replied matter-of-factly. “Keep listening—it will grow on you.” Raynor nodded, put the earbud back in, and surreptitiously switched to a tune called “The Mar Sara Shuffle” by Harvey and the Heartbreakers.

When the transport entered Turaxis II’s eastern hemisphere, four Avengers took up stations around it, because the aircraft was a juicy target for the KM fighters. So once the landing gear finally thumped to the ground, and the transport taxied to what looked like a new terminal building, the marines were glad to deass the plane and collect their gear from the jumble of bags that came out of the cargo compartments. “Damn, it feels good to get off that piece of crap,” Harnack exclaimed, as the three of them lined up to retrieve their bulky B‑2 bags.

“Since my family built that ‘piece of crap,’ as you call it,” Kydd replied cheerfully, “I’ll pass your complaint along to Father the moment he shows up.”

“Which will be in about a hundred years,” Harnack replied skeptically. “Face it, rich boy, you’re in for the duration.”

“And you’re in the way,” Raynor put in, as the marines in front of them got their bags and left. “Get your butt in gear.”

Then, having been sorted into numbered contingents, the heavily burdened newbies were herded through a guarded gate and into what had once been a hangar. Awaiting them were rows of open crates and a long line of tables. There was barely a pause as Raynor’s retinas were scanned, he was told to advance, and a corporal shoved an E‑9 rifle across the table at him. Kydd produced a whoop of joy as he was issued a Bosun FN50, and Harnack took delivery on an SR‑8 shotgun. Rifle slings, cleaning kits, and ammo were distributed as they progressed down the line and past a grim-faced sergeant whose sole responsibility was to say, “Do not load your weapons until instructed to do so.”

There was more, much more, as the newly arrived marines were given instructions on everything from how to find the mess hall, to what sort of gear to take with them in the morning. A half-hour later they were dismissed, and as Raynor left Assembly Area Alpha, he noticed that something was different. Rather than being marched to dinner, they were free to find their own way. Not a huge change, perhaps, but an indication that they weren’t boots anymore, and that felt good.

After being rousted out at 0500 hours, the marines were fed, ordered to pack up their gear, and hustled onto three military trucks. A fourth was loaded with B‑2 bags that they weren’t going to see again until they arrived at Fort Howe. Wherever that was. In the meantime Raynor figured it was going to be a long, tiresome day as the trucks pulled out onto a four-lane road. There they became part of a metal flood that was headed southeast, where most of the fighting was.

Raynor saw the first signs of the war on the trucks that were headed for the repair centers located to the rear. SCVs were making field repairs, but there had been no way to salvage the flame-scorched tanks and chunks of unidentifiable wreckage that he watched roll by. It was a sobering sight.

The temperature began to climb as the sun arced higher into the sky, so the marines raised the waterproof fabric that protected the cargo area and let muggy air flow through the back. They sat facing each other, with their backs to the road, but Raynor tried to see what he could.

Everything looked pretty normal at first as the long convoy wound its way through scenic farmland, across rural bridges, and through little towns. But eventually, after a stop to eat their rations in a dusty turnout, the bucolic setting began to change.

Raynor saw the first signs of the war on the trucks that were headed for the repair centers located to the rear. SCVs were making field repairs, but there had been no way to salvage the flame-scorched tanks and chunks of unidentifiable wreckage that he watched roll by. It was a sobering sight.

Then the convoy began to pass through small cities that had clearly been attacked from the air, past burned-out buses that had been pushed off the road, and fields that had been transformed into civilian shantytowns. Those were the hardest to look at, as hollow-eyed adults stood and stared, and skinny children ran along beside the trucks, holding their hands up. Raynor tossed every bit of food he had over the side, and others did likewise, but he knew that a few cans of fruit and some energy bars weren’t going to make much difference.

“There hasn’t been any fighting back home yet,” Raynor said to Kydd, as they left the latest encampment behind. “But if the war spreads to Shiloh, my mom and dad could wind up like that.”

Kydd nodded, but looked away, clearly thinking about his parents. They, like most members of the Old Families, were safe on well-protected Confederate core worlds like Tarsonis.

“I can’t believe it’s this bad,” Raynor said.

“Me, neither.”

“It just seems so hopeless. What can we possibly do to help these people?”

“I don’t know. I guess just do what we’re told, and hopefully it’ll make a difference.”

“This isn’t what I thought it was gonna be like,” Raynor said.

“This isn’t what I thought it was gonna be like,” Raynor said.

“Tell me about it.”

They sat in silence for a while as the depressing scenery rolled by. After a while Raynor turned around and found Harnack quietly throwing dice with a hollow-faced marine named Max Zander. Raynor was glad to see that his boisterous friend had found something to do besides piss everyone off—even if he was destined to lose most of his money.

Still, all of the people he’d known in boot camp were starting to change, and that included Hank. He was still hair-trigger, and a bit unpredictable when off duty, but squared away the rest of the time. In fact, it was very rare for a noncom to find fault with either his uniform or his weapon.

That night was spent in a military rest area, which consisted of underground dormitories that had been scooped out of the ground and covered over with a thick layer of soil. The water tanks, septic system, and supply depots required to sustain the facility were buried as well. In fact, the only items visible on the surface were the command center, the comsat station adjoining it, and an engineering bay. It wasn’t fancy, but comfortable enough, all things considered.

Raynor caught an hour of guard duty that night, which sucked because his watch was a “splitter,” meaning that he had to get up in the middle of the night and then go back to bed again. But at least the watch was uneventful. He was able to get back to sleep without any difficulty, and felt reasonably rested when he got up in the morning. Then it was time to clean up, eat some rations, and reboard the trucks.

The sun was little more than a yellow bruise in a gray sky. The air was warm and humid, hinting that it might rain later in the day, and Raynor could feel his undershirt stick to his back as he followed Harnack up onto the truck. The vehicle had been left running, and for no good reason insofar as Raynor could see, especially given the fuel shortage back home. That pissed him off, but he lacked enough rank to do anything about it.

Having been cleared for departure, the trucks rolled onto the busy highway for what promised to be another boring day. One of the marines had a beat-up boom box loaded with a selection of Rilian techno riffs, which he proceeded to play full blast, so that the vocals and the backbeat merged with natural sound to create what amounted to a soundtrack for the trip.

At some point it began to rain, but not that hard, so the marines elected to leave the side panels up even though that meant getting sprayed by vehicles headed in the opposite direction. The convoy entered a verdant valley, where mounds of burned-out rubble marked what had once been profitable moss farms.

Were the farmers still alive? And living in refugee camps? Or had they been killed? There was no way to know, and Raynor was thinking about his parents, when the first Kel-Morian Hellhound dropped through the overcast and opened fire. A truck exploded, another ran into the fireball, and somebody began to scream.