“Nobody was cowering,” I said firmly, setting down the equipment manifest once again. “We were all doing our best. We were outnumbered 19-to-1. It was an absolute mosh pit. We are professional soldiers, and we need not whine about it afterward because a few of us died and a few of us didn’t. That lets the enemy win. In this case, the enemy is,” I pointed a finger up at the ceiling, “Tribune Graves himself.”

  “Yeah,” Leeson muttered. “He was kind of an asshole, dumping all that foam on us.”

  Harris thought that over for a moment. “Yeah… He sure as hell was.”

  My redirection had worked at last. The bad man was now Graves, an untouchable deity outside our reach. The officers all bitched about Graves for a time, and I encouraged it.

  Now that we’d settled down some, other soldiers were grinning. They were each remembering their own versions of the exercise. The stories were already becoming legends, and the legends mostly started with Centurion McGill burning down the artificial forest to flush out hiding enemies.

  I imagined that by the time it made the rounds around the ship, I’d probably be credited with inventing the fire suppression foam as some kind of a dodge to avoid certain death. Reality was what the rumor mill wanted to make of it, in these situations.

  Eventually, a soft chime sounded from my tapper. It was an intercom message from an AI voice. That couldn’t have come at a better time, because I was getting pretty tired of our post-exercise analysis, which was full of emotions rather than facts and useful details.

  “Centurion McGill, report to Primus Winslade’s office immediately.”

  The message repeated itself. It always did—twice.

  A lot of people in the module were giving me strange glances after that. They’d overheard, of course. There was rampant speculation as to whether this would result in a commendation for old McGill—or an angry court-martial. Maybe there would be a giant bill dropped on my unit’s meager budget for the property damage.

  Honestly, to me, the court-martial option seemed the most likely.

  “Uh-oh,” Leeson sang in a singsong. “Someone’s in trouble.”

  “About time,” Harris muttered, his anger finding a new target yet again. “Maybe now they’ll do something about officers who abandon their people in the field.”

  He was back to that again, but I ignored him. I stood up straight, pulled my uniform down at the waist, and did my best to look presentable.

  “Probably just a debriefing. That’s standard procedure after a training exercise. Nothing for you boys to wet your panties about.”

  “You burned down half of Green Deck, James,” Collins remarked unhelpfully.

  “Yeah, yeah—but it could be worse,” I said, heading for the door. “I could be facing having to listen to Harris for the rest of the afternoon.”

  There was some laughter after that, which followed me as I moved out of the module. For the most part, everybody was in a good-natured mood, but I caught a final glare from Harris as the door slid shut.

  The walk up to Winslade’s office on Gold Deck took me through several sections of the ship, each with its own distinctive character. By the time I reached the senior officer’s deck, the corridors were practically deserted.

  Winslade’s office was exactly as you’d expect from a Primus, especially a prissy one. Mind you, there were no velvet curtains, gold-braided ropes, or lush, thick carpets—that was the sort of thing you’d see in Galina’s quarters. Nope. His office space was neat and functional—but decorated with enough bureaucratic military awards and commendations to remind visitors that he’d brown-nosed his way into his position rather than earning it through legendary battlefield successes. One wall was practically lined with “campaign support staff” ribbons, “unit training” citations, and photographs from various behind-the-wire posts. A small table at the end even held a collection of alien artifacts, souvenirs from various operations throughout the province and beyond.

  Winslade himself was sitting behind his desk when I entered, looking formal and slightly disappointed to see me. His expression was carefully neutral, but I’d known Winslade long enough to read the subtle signs. This wasn’t going to be a simple debriefing.

  “Centurion McGill, at last. Sit down.”

  I sprawled on the offered chair and waited for the lecture to begin. I hadn’t tuned him out, not yet, but I sensed that step was inevitable. Especially if he took too long to get to the point.

  Winslade did not ream me out immediately, but instead pulled out a data pad and began to read from it.

  “Unauthorized use of incendiary ammunition in a training environment,” he began, his tone becoming formal. It was the kind of lilt he reserved for official proceedings. “Destruction of ship’s property valued in excess of two hundred million credits.”

  One of my eyes squinted shut in estimation, but I nodded. I couldn’t argue with the figure. In fact, I figured it was probably a bit low.

  “Violation of established safety protocols regarding fire hazards aboard spacecraft and injured personnel through reckless disregard for environmental containment regulations.” He looked up. “Do I have to read the whole thing?”

  “Please, no, sir,” I said. “Just go over the highlights.”

  “There’s also the small matter of false reporting, claiming equipment malfunctioned when you deliberately switched ammunition types, failure to follow established tactical doctrine, and my personal favorite here, conducted operations in a prejudicial manner to good order and discipline through excessive creative interpretation of mission parameters.”

  I shifted my chair. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t think it’s good,” Winslade said, setting the data pad aside and knitting his fingers together.

  “Okay, then… what’s the ‘but’?”

  “What?”

  “There’s always a ‘but’ in these conversations. You didn’t call me in here just to read me a list of charges and then dash off some written reprimand.”

  Winslade allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward for a moment—a hint of a smile.

  “You’re right about that, McGill. There is a ‘however’ attached to this situation.” He leaned back in his chair. “And it’s this: You achieved the highest enemy casualty rate of any cohort today. Eighty-eight percent, in fact, compared to an average of fifty-two percent for the other cohorts. Your mission overall was declared a standoff, but you personally are estimated to have killed more enlisted than anyone else in the entire legion.”

  “Hot damn!” I said, slamming my hands together, making a loud popping sound. Winslade winced slightly. “So that’s it, huh? I’m getting a commendation, some kind of award? Biggest murderer of squid-bait splats. That’s got to be it.”

  Winslade slowly shook his head. “Sadly, while you succeeded spectacularly,” he said, “you did so with unapproved methods. This creates an interesting problem for military justice. The purpose of these exercises, you see, is to teach our troops how to handle a difficult situation.”

  “What would you call more difficult than first getting burned, then dumped on by a chemical bath from above, followed by a knife in the spine from yours truly? I think I learned a lot of boys something brand new to their experience.”

  Winslade pursed up his lips tightly. It was a disgusting thing to see on a man. “Your methods were unorthodox, but they were also undeniably effective. Therefore, your punishment is going to be relatively modest, considering the circumstances.”

  I straightened up. “Punishment? What the hell is this? Punishment?”

  “That’s right. Ten lashes in a public forum. Tomorrow, 1400 hours on the main deck.”

  I stared at him, trying to process what I’d just heard. “Ten lashes? Oh, you had me worried. Do I get to take my shirt off to impress the ladies?”

  Winslade’s pursed mouth transformed into a folded shape. This was, to me, no less disgusting. “The ship’s discipline code will be respected. Ten lashes, administered publicly, will serve as an example to other personnel.”

  Leaning back in my chair again, I shrugged. “Oh… That’s all, huh? That’s pretty good. No reduction in rank, no confinement, no extra duties. I’m down for a whupping any day. I like that kind of punishment—one and done.”

  “Ten lashes,” Winslade repeated. “Let’s see who can administer the... ah, yes. Veteran Bob Walsh is on hand...”

  “Walsh?” I tried to place the name, but I couldn’t immediately. “So… who the hell is Walsh?”

  Winslade grinned then, the first honest expression he’d given me since I’d walked in the room. I didn’t like the look of it because when Winslade smiled, it meant that somebody else was about to suffer some pain.

  “Do you remember one Virginia Walsh? His wife?” he asked.

  “Virginia Walsh…” I said, thinking about that for a moment. “Oh, yeah. She was a recruit I met while we were flying back home from World, I think. We had a brief relationship.”

  “Relationship, huh?” he asked.

  I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Yeah. An under-the-bleachers kind of thing. So… it’s her husband who’s going to be doing the beating?”

  “Now you’ve got it!”

  I nodded. Yes, I did get it. There were supposed to be ten mild lashes, done in public and professionally delivered.

  Instead, there was going to be this Bob Walsh guy—who I was already convinced was built like a gorilla—performing the service. He had to be a brute with more hair on his back than on his head. More importantly, he would be obsessed with a deep-seated rage for old McGill.

  I wondered how long it had taken for Winslade to dig through all the personnel files to find this guy. That’s what he must have been doing when I came in here. Poring over various Intel files to figure out one name from the list of possible disciplinarians. A man I’d never heard of, but who had undoubtedly heard of me.

  This was how good old Winslade was going to get his pound of flesh. He had to give me a light punishment, but he was determined to make the best of it.

  I could understand his cold rage. He was the one getting stuck with the bill, with millions of credits due. He must have wanted to drag the great McGill from his quarters and beat him to death, if only so he could watch the replay late at night with the sound turned low.

  But no, for purposes of morale-building he couldn’t do that. Maybe Graves had instructed him to go easy on me.

  So, I was to be given a relatively light punishment. But we were both now certain it would be delivered with the utmost fury.

  Winslade watched me as all these thoughts occurred, and I could tell he was reading my mind. He could do that pretty well—like a chick.

  I stood up. “Very well, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  He gave me one last quick smile. What a prick he was.

  “Dismissed, McGill.”

  -15-

  Old Winslade wasn’t kidding when he said he’d plan on a very public flogging. The main deck of Scorpio had been cleared for the ceremony, creating a wide circle of open space that could accommodate the entire ship’s crew complement, if necessary. Today, it held maybe three hundred spectators, arranged in a loose semicircle around the disciplinary apparatus, a metal framework that looked like it belonged in a medieval dungeon rather than aboard a modern starship. The thing stood about two meters tall, with adjustable restraint points and what appeared to be drainage channels cut into the deck plating beneath it. How thoughtful the designers had been…

  I spotted my tormentor immediately, Robert Walsh, a veteran from 2nd Cohort. He stood near the apparatus, testing the weight and balance of a regulation punishment-whip. He was a meaty bastard, just like I suspected, built like a dock worker who’d spent too many years lifting heavy things and eating too much fried food. His arms were as thick as ham hocks, corded with muscle but softened around the edges with a layer of fat. This man was a born hog, I could tell. He enjoyed his off-duty hours just as much as he did his on-duty time.

  When he looked at me, I could see the anticipation in his small, dark eyes.

  “Hey, hey,” I called out cheerfully as I approached the punishment frame, making sure my voice carried to the watching crowd. “If it isn’t Veteran Walsh. How’d you manage to survive the enlisted exercises? I heard a 2nd Cohort managed to beat their officers—but I never believed it.”

  Walsh’s jaw tightened and his grip on the whip handle shifted. “That’s right, we killed every last one of those bastards. Too bad I wasn’t on your Cohort, McGill.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “too bad.” I began to unbutton my uniform shirt. “You know what occurs to me, though? You could have used a solid death to work off some of that flab you’re carrying. Revival chambers can do wonders for the physique, you know. You would have come out looking like you were twenty-five again.”

  The crowd stirred with nervous laughter. Walsh’s face was turning red, and his eyes bulged out like chips of stone. He took a step forward, the whip coiled in his hands.

  “Centurion,” he growled, “assume the position.”

  “Have you got like a certificate in whipping boys or something like that?” I asked him.

  He shook his head and grinned. “No,” he said, “but don’t worry, I won’t miss.”

  I pulled off my shirt and tossed it to one of the nearby spectators, a pretty tech specialist who caught it with a grin. My back was already marked with a few old scores from previous encounters. I walked to the frame with a swagger, like an Olympic swimmer approaching a high dive. I examined the restraints in the handles.

  “You want me to lock myself in?” I asked, noting the magnetic cuffs, which dangled from the grip points, just to make it official.

  “No,” Walsh said quickly, “that won’t be necessary. Just hold on.”

  I raised an eyebrow and glanced over my back at him. “You sure about that? I’ve been known to have a few involuntary muscle spasms when people hit me with things.”

  “Just shut up and grab the handles, sir.”

  Right then, a devilish thought entered my mind. It was the sort of thing that plagued a sinner like me. I was considering making mention of Virginia Walsh, Bob’s wife. I know, I know, that would be rude and downright suicidal—but I wanted to do it.

  Only sheer force of will held back my tongue. It was a moment of pride for this Georgia cracker. I was glad to think that even I, James McGill, was capable of tact now and then. I know people say it isn’t so, but this was the kind of exception that proved the rule.

  Shrugging, I took hold of the metal grips, feeling the cool weight in my palms. The frame was solid, there was no give to it at all.

  Around me, the crowd had gone quiet, waiting for the show to begin. It was funny how beatings often brought out more members of the general population of a ship than one would think. The crewmen in particular liked to see a good flogging of any Legion Varus soldier. They liked watching a man they secretly feared being taken down a peg or two. Quite a number of crewmen were in among the other gawkers, along with a throng of legionnaires. These were probably just the type that liked to see a little extra pain and blood on a Thursday afternoon.

  Walsh moved in position behind me, and I could hear him shaking out the whip. The thing had a traditional leather construction and what looked like weighted tips. Nothing fancy, but it would do the job.

  Winslade himself stood off to one side, arms crossed, staring. He seemed bored more than anything else. He made a spinning motion with one finger, indicating we should get on with the show.

  I rolled my shoulders and settled into a comfortable stance. “Any time you’re ready back there, Walsh, let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got a schedule too, you know?”

  The first slash came down with considerable enthusiasm. Walsh had clearly put his shoulder into it, and the leather straps caught me across the middle of my back with a sharp crack. It stung like hell and definitely left a mark, but I’d experienced worse in bar fights and much worse during flogging. I could tell right away this man was no professional and he wasn’t working with a true cat-o’-nine, but rather a lighter whip meant for a milder punishment.

  I waited a few seconds, then glanced back over my shoulder in surprise. “Was that just a warm-up? I’m not sure you even caught me with that one.”

  Walsh’s eyes narrowed at me, and I could see his knuckles whitening on the whip handle. The crowd stirred again. There were a few nervous chuckles from the enlisted personnel. The officers maintained a disapproving silence.

  “Didn’t feel anything at all, huh?” Walsh demanded, breathing a little harder than a single lash should have warranted.

  “Feel what?” I asked innocently. “Are we going to start this show soon? Because my back’s getting kind of cold standing over here.”

  That brought out a few outright laughs from the spectators. Walsh’s face suddenly went from confused to red and then even purple. He finally realized he’d been made fun of. He raised the whip again and brought it down with considerably more force. The second lash landed crosswise to the first, creating an ice axe pattern that I could feel the blood starting to trace. That one had more bite to it. Walsh was indeed warming up to his task. Still, this was nothing I couldn’t handle.

  “There you go!” I shouted. I leaned off the rack a bit and spoke to Primus Winslade, who was standing off to one side. His bored expression had not shifted at all. “You know, sir, I think maybe he’s getting the hang of it now. Maybe we should let him start over again, though. Those first few shots were obviously just practice swings.”

  “Shut up, McGill,” Winslade told me. “Walsh, continue.”

  After that, I heard a quiet buzzing sound begin behind me. Before I could question in my mind what it was, the third lash came down with an unexpected addition. There was an electric current in it that shot through the weighted tips and into my back. The shock was sudden and numbing, making my muscles spasm involuntarily.