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  At least they don’t hide what they think of us… Solomon thought.

  “And what if we don’t want to?” grumbled a convict with thick dreads plaited down the center of his back.

  The warden paused before answering him, as if coming to an internal decision. “Against my better judgement, I can tell you that you have two choices. Join the MEF here and now, or we will ship you off to Titan with the others.”

  Solomon’s thoughts raced. What was better? Living and dying on some frozen moon hundreds of thousands of miles away from home? Or dying in some hideous starship explosion or skirmish, some hundreds of thousands of miles away from home?

  “You should all count yourselves lucky to even be called to serve!” Warden Coates appeared to be having difficulty dealing with the convict’s lack of loyalty, Solomon thought. What did he expect?

  “But you should perhaps know that your contract term as an MEF soldier will only be twelve years, compared to the life sentence you’d receive on Titan.”

  “Twelve years!” the Yakuza woman, Convict Wen, burst out, and the astonishment in her voice was palpable. It wasn’t the astonishment of outrage or shock, though, but exultation. “And after? Can we go back?”

  Back to Earth, Solomon thought.

  Warden Coates managed to stand even straighter in his rigid posture, if such a thing were possible. Solomon rather thought that for a man like him, this must feel like he was having to negotiate with the very worst dregs that humanity had to offer.

  Which is a pretty accurate summation of who we are, I suppose…

  “Your deportation sentence will be…reviewed, depending on your military service,” Coates forced out. “But after your contract term is over, then technically, you will be at least free to travel and work in any of the colonies…and perhaps Earth…” Solomon heard the slight sneer in the man’s voice when he said the word ‘colonies.’ He wondered if relations between the Confederacy and the colonies were that bad, or whether Coates was just uptight.

  “Well, I’m in,” Convict Wen said with a crooked grin. “Twelve years flying around, eating good, training…” She shrugged like it was an obvious choice.

  Which it is, of course, Solomon thought. Twelve years compared to a life sentence, and then afterwards, he would be free to start afresh, to go wherever he liked. Not that he had any confidence that the Department of Justice and Defense would let a tried and convicted murderer back into its atmosphere. But for a resourceful man like himself, maybe he could indeed make a go of it on Proxima, or Mars, or…

  But do I deserve it? That dark thought was like a kick to the guts, making Solomon wince at the memory of blood on his hands—and the look of terror in his friend’s eyes. He didn’t deserve freedom. He deserved to spend the rest of his life hacking at ice until his fingers fell off and his eyes frosted up with snow-blindness and he shoved a pick through a pocket of solid methane and…

  But as much as he hated himself—and hated his past—Solomon already knew just what he was going to answer when it came time for him to decide where his future led.

  If I choose the Outcasts, and if I even manage to survive for twelve long years in the cruel depths of space….

  Then maybe, just maybe, he could make up for everything that had gone wrong. Every bad decision he had made.

  Maybe he could make his old bosses pay for this mess.

  And besides which, he thought as he saw Warden Coates’s fierce, disapproving stare. That little man doesn’t want me here, and I’m real good at doing things that other people don’t want.

  “I’m in,” he said.

  3

  Schlubs

  “Grab your arses and pick up your kit! You schlubs are gonna learn how to take orders!” The snarling bark of Warden Coates berated the new recruits of the MEF the second that the green alarm light of a new day flickered on over their dormitory door.

  The warden had indeed become the voice that woke them up, that put them to bed, and generally made their lives miserable during the waking hours in between. It was a constant litany of anger that would seep into Solomon’s days until he barely noticed it anymore.

  First off, the newest recruits to the Marines program were shown where they were to sleep—a bunkroom in one of the twin arms of Ganymede Military Base. The base itself was shaped like a flat-bottomed ‘U’ with the two wings holding what seemed to be laboratories, gymnasiums, medical bays, and of course, the sleeping quarters of the Outcasts.

  Which leave a lot to be desired, Solomon had thought as he’d seen the basic metal bunks built into the walls of the long room. No portholes, no screens, just the bunkbeds and access doors to the washrooms at the far side. He had been surprised to see that his small cadre wasn’t alone when they entered the room.

  “…fresh meat!” one of the bulky forms of an older Outcast recruit sniggered when Solomon, Convict Wen, and a handful of others walked into their new accommodations. Solomon heard Wen hiss back in anger and wondered when the first fight would be.

  For himself, he was only partially worried about getting into scrapes—he’d spent the last three years working the streets of New Kowloon, where it was just as easy to get knifed in an alley for the data-pad in your pocket as it was to get shot by random gangbangers. He knew how not to look a victim, and he knew how to keep to himself.

  What was it they always said about doing time? Keep your head down and do your own, not anyone else’s… he reminded himself. He wondered if that worked the same in military school as well.

  The older recruits of the Outcasts wore black encounter suits banded with flashes of red at their shoulders and down their arms, which Solomon thought must be pretty stupid if that was to be their military costume. Wouldn’t red present a target for any enemy taking potshots at them? He saw men and women from all sorts of ethnicities and castes—some with shaved heads, some with face tattoos, one with a horrible scar seeming to split his face in two.

  “Play nice now, mes chers,” growled a loud, gruff voice with a thick French accent, as one of the older recruits unfolded his over six-foot frame from one of the bunks. He was a tall man, built with slab-like muscles that Solomon and the others could easily see, given that he had stripped down the top half of his encounter suit. He had short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and a large handlebar mustache that he pulled and tweaked at as he leaned against the metal. He had two bunkbeds all to himself, and Solomon quickly surmised that he must be the big kahuna around here.

  “Welcome to ze Outcasts.” The man smiled wolfishly. “My name is Arlo. I’m a regular, along with everyone else you see around you. Zat means, little fish, zat you recruits are at ze bottom of ze barrel,” Arlo said in a matter-of-fact way, and immediately began assigning them to their bunks.

  At least he cuts straight to the point, Solomon thought. There was a sort of safety in knowing who thought they were boss, and who you had to avoid.

  “You, Bunk Three. Share with Maria.” The big Frenchman nodded at Wen, who scowled back but she, too, seemed to know to not pick a fight on Day 1.

  “You, Bunk Seven. You, Bunk Ten…” Arlo seemed to pause for a moment as he considered each of the six new recruits before him, appearing to match them up to their bunks according to some system that Solomon didn’t understand.

  It came to Solomon’s turn as the other recruits were busy muttering and negotiating their arrangements with their new bunkmates.

  “Merde,” Arlo said, as he realized that the only free bunk left was the one above his own, and he was clearly used to his privacy. Solomon looked at Arlo and said nothing.

  “Here.” The big man suddenly shoved the spare foam mattress and blankets from the top bunk so that they fell to the floor with a heavy thump. “You can take it back there, next to Malady,” he said, and that was that.

  I don’t think I want to really spend the next twelve years sleeping above you either, buddy. Solomon shrugged, picking up the mattress and blankets as he heard one of the other regulars already snickering a
t his misfortune, and proceeded to haul it to the back of the room, where a large, boxy booth appeared to be in place.

  “Please don’t be a toilet or something,” Solomon grumbled as he walked towards it, to be surprised when tiny orange lights suddenly flickered on along the booth, and a shape broke from its interior—

  The hulking shape stood up, and then unfolded itself.

  “Holy frack…” Solomon froze.

  He was looking at a full tactical. What the hell is that doing here? he thought in alarm. Full tacticals were the name given to the full-encounter suits that were more mecha than human. Still humanoid, but easily twice Solomon’s width, with metal-plated armor sheathing every available surface and servo-assisted joints. Solomon saw black cables snaking from between its suit plates before plunging into command and control nodes around the hip. The thing barely had a head, the shoulder pads were so large, but the hump of its helmet did indeed have a faceplate, through which Solomon saw the pale visage of human eyes.

  “I am not a toilet, little man,” the full tactical said in a human voice that was modulated through electronic speakers, making it sound like a chainsaw might sound if it was given vocal chords.

  “I’m sorry, I, uh…was just surprised to see one of you here is all…” Solomon said hurriedly.

  “You and me both,” the full tactical warrior—a human soldier with so much cyborg adjustments that it was rumored they couldn’t even get out of their suits anymore—grunted.

  “Uh… is it alright if I…” Solomon gestured to the empty floor space beside the booth that Malady apparently powered up in. He heard the grate of metal as the soldier shrugged, and he sat back down again, his suit reconnecting with the power points and the lights flaring to a dull standby mode.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Solomon said, setting the mattress and blankets near, but not too near, the mechanized human.

  “I said, get your behinds in gear! Attention!” The words of Warden Coates were unremitting on the day their training began. No sign of the small man, but he apparently could see just how slow they were. Solomon learned quickly to copy what the other regulars did—get up, get dressed, and stand by the ends of their bunks until the green light started flashing. Even Malady sprang to life beside him, powered up and lumbering to stand in front of his booth. Solomon found himself surprised by that.

  “Too slow. You recruits are going to have to do a lot of learning!” the voice barked, and that was apparently the cue for those assembled to start the business of getting washed and ready for the day, before marching out of the dormitory doors to a long white corridor beyond.

  “You get your food here,” Solomon heard the large metal man in front of him in the queue say, as along both sides of the walls service hatches were whisking open, revealing a simple plastic cup of some sort of grayish liquid, next to a plastic-wrapped slab of berry-colored gunk.

  “Blackcurrant today, my friends!” the guffawing voice of Arlo called from the head of the line as hands eagerly grabbed at the protein and mineral slabs and stuffed them in their mouths. The watered-down solution, Solomon realized, was full of electrolytes and tasted disgusting.

  “Does it get any better?” Solomon asked.

  “Not yet,” the metal man answered as the door hissed open and the queue, still chewing their slabs of breakfast, walked in to find themselves in a small hall with windows overlooking the surface of Ganymede. He followed Malady to the back as he saw the others moving to stand in rows before a raised platform. Black and red drapes of material broke the view of outside at regular points, and at the center of the platform was a small lectern, lit up by a spotlight.

  Walking from one side of the platform came Warden Coates, still dressed in his gunmetal gray encounter suit with the gold banding and peaked cap.

  “Recruits! Regulars!” The warden stood at attention. “Welcome to the Confederate Marine Expeditionary Force. In time, and after some extensive training, some of you may even make the grade as full Outcast officers,” the warden stated clearly, although his tone indicated that he also clearly doubted it.

  Silence filled the room, and Solomon wondered that this had to be a regular thing—something that had become so routine that the regulars knew not to interrupt their superior.

  “We have a new force of recruits joining us, so we will be starting with the basics. Again,” the warden droned, as the view of Ganymede behind him dimmed and the windows blackened, forming into data-screens instead. A schematic of the station appeared, turning slowly in place, with some sections in green and other sections in red.

  “Red is for restricted clearance. Only myself, other MEF officers, or those of you who gain specialist status are given the command codes for those areas.”

  The ranking structure for MEF training turned out to be simple, as the warden bluntly explained. Recruits eventually became regulars, and then a regular was either kept as an all-round regular Outcast soldier, or else some unique aptitude sent them to become a specialist in one of the various disciplines. Those designated commanders while still in training were called as such.

  Once they became full Marines, they entered the full ranking structure but maintained their specialisms with their assignments. A trainee combat specialist may become a sergeant and squad leader, with a combat specialty.

  “Pilot, command, medical, technical, and close-combat,” the warden stated, with all of their roles being fairly explanatory. The pilot specialism enabled the regular to spend a longer time training behind the command chairs of space-fighters, land-tanks, or any other sort of vehicle. Command was for those who had an aptitude for strategy and communications. Medical was for field medics and battle surgeons. Technical was for any with electronic and mechanical expertise. Close-combat did, Solomon presumed, just what it sounded like.

  “Everything here in the Marines is run on excellence, and trust,” the warden bellowed. “Which does not mean to say that you get an easy ride at all. Or that I trust any one of you schlubs! You have to show yourself to be excellent in some way, and you have to earn my trust.”

  And if we don’t? Solomon thought about that long future on Titan that awaited him should he mess up.

  “If you can do that, then you will earn a specialism, and perhaps even an officer’s role. Better yet, I will be able to turn you into one of the best fighting forces seen since the Spartans!”

  Solomon wondered if many of his fellow convicts even knew who the Spartans had been.

  “I do not need to remind any of you that I still have you all chipped, and that your details have been uploaded to Ganymede’s mainframe. If any one of you breaks our codes or gets in the way of me doing my job, the mainframe will isolate you and shock you. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir!” the crowd chanted.

  “Then repeat after me, the Marine Oath…

  “Through blood and fire, I will still stand strong.

  “I will stand at the borders and the crossroads, I will stand strong.

  “Even with the eternal night before me, I will be the flame!’

  Solomon mumbled his way through the words, even though they made him feel uneasy. Why did the Confederate Marines have such a warlike mantra? He had thought that all they did was escort trade ships and chase off the occasional raider. He resolved to ask Malady about it, when he next got the chance—which wasn’t any time soon, apparently, as Warden Coates threw them into their first exercise.

  “Now, Outcasts… Let’s see what you’re made of!”

  I’m not made of a lot. Solomon gasped as he collapsed, his hands on his knees. He, along with all the other recruits and regulars, had just spent the last two hours in grueling physical training, the doors opening from the audience chamber to a long, sunken gymnasium apparently built under their wing.

  And it was big, like, really big, Solomon thought. You could host an entire basketball tournament in here and still have room for a squash court at the far end. Their first wave of exercises had been nondescript but punishing
—running lanes, first at a slow jog, then a sprint, then a jog, then a sprint, then a…

  Solomon had always prided himself on keeping fit. You couldn’t do his job—my old job, he corrected—if you couldn’t run at certain key, life-threatening moments. But the sort of fitness required for the Confederate Marines was a whole new level to dodging and running through the alleyways of New Kowloon.

  In fact, if Solomon wasn’t mistaken, he rather thought the whole point of these grueling exercises were to be broken and exhausted, not fit and healthy.

  After the running came the squats and climbing—easier in the lower generated gravity, but still concerning when Solomon realized that he had climbed almost to the top of the climbing wall—some thirty feet up in the air. A fall from that height would still kill him.

  “Let’s make this a little harder now, shall we?” The warden stalked down the middle avenue of the gymnasium steadily, his boots clicking on the smooth floor as he raised his control device.

  Solomon winced.

  TZP! He swore that he could feel the pop of electricity that burst its way into his spine as his arm muscles suddenly convulsed. Luckily, for all of those who were at or near the top of the climbing wall, the rictus muscles meant that their grips were now tight on their handholds, and so no one fell off…yet.

  The pain of everyone’s chips did not appear to go away, however, and instead reduced to a dull, spasmodic ache that made Solomon feel faint and his stomach churn.

  What sort of torture is this!? he thought as he started to ease himself down, his muscles aching in time to the throb of pain in his neck.