The sergeant is the army.
GENERAL DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
Standard year circa 1940
THE TROOPSHIP VICTORIA
The CS (Combat Supply) vessel Victoria was a mile and a half long, could carry 3 million tons of cargo, a crew of one thousand men, women, and robots, and up to fifteen hundred passengers, all of whom were crammed into tight, twelve-person bays. Andromeda McKee was one of them and glad to be aboard.
The better part of two weeks had passed since the medal ceremony in the Imperial City. McKee and Larkin had spent most of that time working their way through the military transfer facility located about a hundred miles south of LA’s core. It was a hectic place through which thousands of navy, Marine Corps, and Legion personnel passed each day. There were inoculations to get, orientation classes to attend, and, depending on a person’s destination, planet-specific uniforms to draw and sign for. That meant winter uniforms and accessories for McKee and Larkin since they were headed for Algeron.
Finally, after days of being ordered to hurry up so they could spend hours waiting in long lines, they had been sent up to the Victoria, bound for Algeron and Adobe. The navy, which was expected to provide the Legion with transportation, was stretched thin in the best of times. But now with all of its regular duties to attend to, as well as the need to try to prevent the Hudathans from entering human-controlled space, the swabbies were under even more pressure. So much so that old vessels like the Victoria were being taken out of mothballs, refitted, and pressed into service. The crew called her “the hulk” and, judging from the fact that they chose to wear their skintight counterpressure space suits even when off duty, had very little faith in the hundred-year-old ship.
“The bastards couldn’t care less about us,” Larkin complained. “You watch . . . If something goes wrong, the mop swingers will jump in the lifeboats and leave us behind.” And McKee feared that he was right. But such things were beyond her control, so she did her best to ignore them by staying busy. And, as was generally the case, the Legion gave her plenty of things to do.
Most of the troops were replacements and thus not part of a unit. So rather than leave them unsupervised, the colonel who was temporarily in charge of the mob created a battalion comprised of transit companies. Each company consisted of ten twelve-person compartments under the command of an officer. And, in order to maintain discipline, a noncom was assigned to each compartment. That included McKee, who wound up reporting to Lieutenant Marsha Hannon, a snooty sort who assigned her to Troop Bay 018.
Besides enforcing all of the Legion’s multitudinous regulations, it was McKee’s responsibility to prepare the legionnaires for a perfunctory inspection at 0830, make sure that they attended mandatory orientation classes, and to deal with routine administrative issues. The first was a summons to the ship’s sick bay early on the “morning” of the third day out. It was from a medic named Okada informing her that Private Fry had been injured and wasn’t fit for duty.
Once the morning inspection was over, McKee left for the sick bay. The main corridor was crowded with people. McKee saw all manner of officers, ratings representing dozens of specialties, a handful of civilian contractors, and a lot of legionnaires, most of whom were on their way to breakfast. The scenery consisted of signs that alerted her to fire extinguishers, restrooms, or “heads” as the sailors referred to them, and escape pods. Eventually, she saw one that said SICK BAY, and took a right-hand turn. The corridor led her past a line of hovering grav gurneys and to a pair of doors that hurried to get out of her way.
An android was seated behind the desk that barred the way. When McKee asked for Private Fry, the robot sent her down a hall to Ward 2. That was where a navy medic intercepted her. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for Private Fry.”
“You must be Sergeant McKee. I’m Okada. I sent the note.”
“Thanks, Doc, how’s he doing?”
“Fairly well for someone who was severely beaten.”
McKee frowned. “Beaten?”
“Yes, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Who did it?”
“Fry won’t say. You know how it is . . . Enlisted people don’t rat on each other.”
McKee knew that was true. Legionnaires took care of minor disagreements themselves. And if that involved a fistfight, then so be it. But the process left a lot to chance, and it was important for noncoms to know what was going on and intervene when appropriate. “Thanks for the scan, Doc. I’ll have a word with Fry and take it from there.”
Okada was dressed in a white tunic and matching trousers. He had black hair, a round face, and serious eyes. “Follow me.”
Fry was in bed seven and it didn’t take a degree in medicine to see that he’d been on the losing end of a fistfight. His face was swollen, there were blue-black circles under his eyes, and his right arm was in a cast. He was normally a cheerful kid, the kind who joined the Legion looking for adventure, and was generally liked. So who would want to beat the crap out of him? McKee was determined to find out. “Hey, Fry . . . How’s it going?”
Fry tried to smile and winced instead. “Not too well, Sarge. But I’ll be better soon.”
McKee figured Fry would be out of action for a week and on limited duty after that. “Glad to hear it. So what happened?”
Fry’s face went blank. “I fell in the shower.”
McKee frowned. “I fell in the shower” was enlisted code for “I was in a fight.” “Roger that, Private. And if all you had was a black eye, I’d leave it at that. But this is some serious shit. So I’m going to ask again . . . And I expect a straight answer. What happened?”
Fry’s eyes were focused on the overhead. “I fell in the shower, Sarge. It’s as simple as that.”
McKee looked at Okada, and he made a face. “Okay,” McKee said, as her eyes came back down. “Get better. And that’s an order.”
Fry nodded. “I’m on it, Sarge.”
Okada walked McKee to the door. “So, that’s it?” he demanded. “The investigation is over?”
McKee came to a stop and turned to face him. “Hell no, it isn’t over. Do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Keep a list of the people who come to see Fry.”
Okada was clearly curious but nodded. “Got it.”
After leaving the sick bay, McKee made her way back to Compartment 018. Perhaps some other noncom would already know about the fight. But, for better or worse, McKee wasn’t the kind of leader who spent a lot of time socializing with subordinates. Partly because she had a secret to hide but mostly because it was hard to go drinking with someone at night, and order them to clean a toilet the next morning. So she went looking for Larkin, who, predictably enough, was taking a nap. She slid the privacy curtain out of the way and shook his shoulder. “Larkin.”
The legionnaire stirred, said, “Wha?” and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the overhead light. Then, seeing who it was, he groaned. “Give me a break, McKee . . . Order someone else to mop the deck.”
“Come on,” McKee said. “It’s lunchtime.”
Larkin yawned. “I am a bit hungry . . . Okay, let me take a whiz, and I’ll be ready to go.”
McKee wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for sharing.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were on the mess deck, sitting at a metal table, eating lunch. “So,” Larkin said through a mouthful of food. “What’s up? You never eat lunch with me.”
“That’s because you’re disgusting,” McKee said, as she poked her salad. “But you are useful from time to time, and this could be one of them.”
Larkin chased the food with a gulp of milk and finished with a grin. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a long time. Wait a minute . . . That might be the only nice thing you’ve said to me. What do you want?”
“Somebody beat the crap out of Private Fry. Who did it?”
Larkin’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”
McKee sighed. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Larkin shrugged. “Sorry, I thought everyone knew about the bucket fights.”
“The what?”
“Bucket fights. They’re held in Hold 23. A sergeant named Gavin sponsors them—along with a chief petty officer named Mendez. They set up a fight between a legionnaire and a sailor and charge an admission fee that goes in a bucket. Once the fight gets under way, the betting begins. Typically, legionnaires bet on legionnaires and sailors bet on sailors. I lost ten credits on Fry. They put him up against a clerk who looked like a wimp but turned out to be a kickboxing champ. You can guess who Gavin and Mendez put their money on.”
“So what’s in it for the combatants?”
Larkin shrugged. “Bragging rights for one thing. And they get a share of the gate.”
“So that’s it? Fry fought a kickboxer to make a few credits?”
“Maybe,” Larkin replied. “But Gavin has a reputation as a bully. There’s no telling what he said to Fry. And the kid is green as grass.”
“I see,” McKee said. “When’s the next fight?”
“Tonight.”
“Take me with you.”
Larkin looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t like that kind of stuff.”
The expression on McKee’s face was cold. “I don’t.”
• • •
Outside of the morning inspection, and two or three hours of classes per day, the legionnaires were free to do as they pleased. And that included the “evening” hours. So as McKee and Larkin left the compartment, there were plenty of people out and about. Many were headed for the ship’s auditorium and whatever movie was playing. Others were planning to exercise, play card games on the mess deck, or simply walk the corridors.
But a steady trickle of people, McKee and Larkin included, boarded lifts that took them down to Deck 3. From there it was a short walk to Hold 23, where they had to drop five credits into a bucket before being allowed to enter. That particular hold was loaded with “empty” war forms, meaning T-1s and quads that would be issued to cyborgs on Algeron but were currently inert.
The ring was positioned between two of the looming quads and lit with what were supposed to be emergency lights. It consisted of a fifteen-foot-by-twenty-five-foot raised platform surrounded by posts and ropes. There was a sense of excitement in the air because two heavyweights were slated to go head-to-head that night. A corporal named Colby—and a petty officer named Zazzo. Or the “Zaz,” as his buddies called him. Both men were ringside and warming up.
McKee scanned the faces around her. “Where’s Gavin?”
“That’s him over there,” Larkin said as he pointed with his chin. “Mendez is right next to him.”
McKee eyed Gavin from afar. He had a bullet-shaped head, a pug nose, and a heavy jaw. Though not much taller than she, Gavin had broad shoulders, a barrel-shaped chest, and arms so thick the fabric of his short-sleeved shirt was stretched tight around them. Mendez was small and sleek. He had white sidewalls, with hair that was slicked back on top and a pencil-thin mustache.
Here, all around McKee, was the Legion’s dark underbelly. Men and women who, like herself, had something to hide. And when left to their own devices, they reverted to type. It wasn’t pretty. But, unlike McKee, Larkin was looking forward to the fight. “They’re climbing into the ring,” he announced. “Look at ’em! They’re huge. This is going be about power and who can take the most punishment.”
Both combatants were in their corners by then, being attended to by their buddies. The buzz of conversation fell off as Mendez climbed onto the platform and took his place at the center of the ring. He was holding a mike, and his voice reverberated between the durasteel bulkheads. “Good evening—and welcome to Hold 23.”
The words were greeted by a roar of approval. McKee estimated that about three hundred legionnaires and sailors were present. With so many people in attendance, how had Gavin and Mendez been able to keep the fights secret?
The question went unanswered as Mendez went over the minimal rules and introduced the fighters. Then a bell rang, and the battle began. Colby had light-colored skin, and Zaz was dark, but they had a lot in common. Both were big, well muscled, and heavily tattooed. And as much as McKee hated to admit it, she was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of so much man-power.
But as the combatants stood toe-to-toe and took turns hitting each other, McKee’s interest quickly started to fade. Blood flew as Zaz landed a punch on Colby’s nose. Those who had money on the sailor cheered even as Larkin and most of the legionnaires groaned.
“Okay,” McKee said. “I’ve seen enough.” But Larkin was clearly enthralled by the fight and didn’t hear her. He was chanting Colby’s name as McKee left.
• • •
As soon as chow and the 0830 inspection were out of the way the next morning, McKee went to visit Fry. He was sleeping when she arrived, but Okada came over to speak with her. “Good morning, Sarge . . . How’s it going?”
“Good,” McKee replied. “How’s Fry doing?”
“Reasonably well,” the medic replied cautiously. “He doesn’t complain, but I get the feeling that something’s bothering him.”
“Like what?”
Okada shrugged. “I don’t know.”
McKee considered that. “Has Fry had visitors? And if so, who?”
“I kept a list,” Okada said, as he removed a comp from his pocket. He gave the device some verbal instructions before handing it to McKee. There were five entries on the screen, two of which were for Sergeant Gavin. It seemed the noncom was concerned about Fry’s health. The question was why. Having seen the man, McKee didn’t think he cared about what happened to any of his fighters. No, it was her guess that he was worried about the extent of the private’s injuries and what he might say. Because even if some of the officers were looking the other way, there were bound to be some who cared. Should she go up the chain of command? Maybe. But the code of silence applied to sergeants as well. Noncoms didn’t rat on noncoms. Not without trying to settle things themselves. So the next step was to pay a visit to Gavin. Something she wasn’t looking forward to.
Having made up her mind, McKee said good-bye to Okada and set out for Compartment 312, which, according to the ship’s electronic roster, was where Gavin could be found. It took the better part of fifteen minutes to get there, and once she arrived, McKee was struck by the feel of the place. Loud music could be heard from within, a couple of sloppy-looking privates were leaning on the bulkhead outside, and the scent of something spicy floated in the air. A sure sign that an illegal hot plate was in use somewhere nearby.
As McKee started to enter, one of the privates stepped forward to block her way. He had beady eyes and a long, ratlike nose. That was when McKee realized the men were sentries. “Howdy, Sarge . . . What’s up? Maybe I can help.”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Gavin.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you need?”
“I need to speak with Sergeant Gavin.”
“Okay, no need to get your panties in a knot. Just trying to help, that’s all. The sarge is in his office. That’s two hatches down on the port side.”
Gavin was a staff sergeant, which meant he was one level higher than McKee. But staff sergeants don’t rate offices on troop carriers. Just one more indication that Gavin was a hustler. McKee said, “Thanks,” and left. Rat Face said something to his buddy, and both of them laughed.
McKee arrived in front of the hatch to find that it was closed. A wooden knock block was mounted next to it so she rapped three times. There was a pause followed by the sound of a man’s voice. “Who is it?”
“Sergeant McKee.”
“Sergeant who?”
“Sergeant McKee. Private Fry reports to me.”
There was another pause, then the hatch opened. Gavin was dressed in a Legion-issue tank top, a pair of boxer shorts, and some flip-flops. An unlit cigar jutted from the corner of his mouth. It waggled when he spoke. “Sergeant McKee, huh? Sorry, it took a moment to pull you up. This is a bona fide fucking honor! I don’t meet heroes every day.”
There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Gavin’s voice, and McKee was tempted to answer in kind. But she wasn’t there to antagonize the man. The purpose of her visit was to convince Gavin to leave Fry alone. So she struck what she hoped was a neutral tone. “I’d like to talk to you about Private Fry.”
Gavin shrugged. “Sure, no problem. Come in.”
McKee didn’t want to go in. Nor did she want to talk to Gavin in the corridor. After a slight hesitation, she entered. But when he tried to close the hatch, she stuck a boot into the gap. “Let’s keep it open. You could use some ventilation in here.”
Gavin grinned. “Welcome to my home away from home. Have a seat.”
The compartment, which was clearly intended for use by an officer, was about six-by-eight. Not much by normal standards but the equivalent of a suite on a troopship. It reeked of cigar smoke and was decorated with posters of naked women, dirty laundry, and plates of congealed food. “I love your decor,” McKee said, as she sat on the edge of the rumpled bed.
“Thanks,” Gavin said unapologetically. “Let’s get to it. I take it you have some sort of beef . . . Spit it out.”
“I don’t know why Fry agreed to participate in one of your bucket fights, but he did,” McKee replied. “I assume he knows better now. But, in order to aid his chances of a full recovery, I want you to leave him alone. No more visits.”
Gavin picked up a lighter that resembled a human skull and thumbed the igniter. A flame shot out of the top, and he lit the cigar off it. Then, when the stogie was drawing properly, he blew a plume of smoke in McKee’s direction. “Here’s the deal, hero . . . I don’t take orders from buck sergeants. No matter how many ridgeheads they supposedly killed. If I want to chat with Fry-baby, I will. And you can go fuck yourself. Unless you’d like me to do it for you, that is.”
McKee stood. Some pushback was to be expected. But the anger verging on hatred surprised and frightened her. But that was one of the good things about the scar. It made her look tough even when she felt vulnerable. “Okay, copy that.”
Gavin was visibly surprised. “What? No insults? No threats?”
“Nope,” McKee said, as she opened the hatch. “That isn’t my style.” And with that, she left.
McKee had no choice now. Having been unable to resolve the problem at her level, she had to go up the chain of command. And since Lieutenant Hannon hadn’t bothered to check in with her since the day of departure—she couldn’t expect much help from that quarter. So she headed off to find Lieutenant Wesley Heacox, who, according to the ship’s electronic roster, had responsibility for Transit Company F and Compartment 312, Sergeant Gavin included.
The trip to Deck 2 took about ten minutes. But when she rapped on the knock block next to Heacox’s door, there was no response. The obvious solution was to send him a message, tell him about her concerns, and request a face-to-face meeting. But if she did that, McKee figured the officer would immediately ask Gavin for his side of the story—thereby giving her opponent plenty of time to establish some sort of defense.
So McKee went to chow, followed by a two-hour lecture on “The Flora and Fauna of the Planet Algeron.” Most of the legionnaires were half-asleep by the time the portly major finished his presentation, but McKee was the exception. What could be more important than understanding the ecology of the world you were about to fight on?
Once class was dismissed, McKee returned to the cabin assigned to Heacox and knocked again. This time she got a response. The hatch opened and McKee found herself face-to-face with an officer who appeared to be in his midthirties. That was a surprise because most lieutenants were considerably younger. Had Heacox worked his way up through the ranks? Or was she looking at a second-rate officer who was still waiting for the jump to captain? Heacox blinked three times. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. My name is McKee. One of my men was badly injured in a fight sponsored by Sergeant Gavin. And I have reason to believe that Gavin has been threatening him.”
Having uttered the words, McKee wished she could take them back. Was she crazy? The obvious answer was yes. But it was too late to retreat. Heacox was going bald, and his skin had a pasty appearance, but his uniform was neatly pressed. He blinked three times. “Those are serious charges, Sergeant. Come in.”
McKee felt the first stirrings of hope. Heacox could have sent her packing and hadn’t. Maybe looks were deceiving. Maybe he was the real deal.
McKee left the hatch open as she entered. Like the man, the cabin was neat as a pin. The bulkheads were bare, the fold-down bunk was in the up position, and with the exception of a Legion-issue comp, all of the officer’s belongings were out of sight. “Take a load off,” Heacox said, as he pointed to a fold-down seat. “Now,” Heacox said as he blinked three times, “tell me what happened.”
McKee said, “Yes, sir,” and told the story just the way it had occurred, being careful not to add or delete anything. Once she was done, Heacox leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something, Sergeant . . . How long have you been in the Legion?”
Even though McKee wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, she had to answer the question. “Almost a year, sir.”
“And you won the Imperial Order of Merit,” Heacox said. “Yes, your reputation has preceded you. But there’s more to a career in the Legion than winning medals. Leadership is a complicated thing. I don’t know if the claims you made about the so-called bucket fights are true. But even if they were, I would not necessarily get involved. Like myself, Sergeant Gavin has served the Legion for more than fifteen years, and he knows what I know, which is that legionnaires need to blow off steam. Especially during a voyage such as this one. And how can they do that? By reading a book? I don’t think so.”
Heacox paused and blinked three times before picking up where he’d left off. “It sounds like Fry got into some sort of disagreement and came out on the losing end of a fistfight. And Gavin, having heard about the incident, went to visit him in sick bay. Is that the essence of it?”
That wasn’t the essence of it—but McKee knew better than to say so. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Heacox blinked. “Well, forgive me, Sergeant, but that isn’t enough to act on. You said Fry is getting better. That’s the important thing.”
“And the bucket fights, sir?”
“I’ll mention the possibility to Gavin. I’m sure he’ll look into it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Heacox blinked three times. “Dismissed.” The meeting was over.
Plans A and B had gone down in flames, so that left McKee with C. An iffy course of action that could easily put her in the sick bay next to Fry. But there was no way in hell that she was going to let Heacox and Gavin stay in business. Because after the meeting with Heacox, she felt certain that he knew about the bucket fights and was profiting from them. And that was why Gavin could operate so freely.
McKee went straight to the sick bay. Okada was busy working with a patient when she arrived, so she went to see Fry, who looked a lot better. His face wasn’t as swollen for one thing, and his black eyes were turning yellow. After some small talk, McKee took another shot at getting Fry to tell her the truth. “I know Gavin has been by, and I know you’re scared of him, but I need to know why.”
Fry’s eyes went to the ceiling. “It’s like I told you, Sarge . . . I fell in the shower.”
McKee sighed. “Okay, have it your way. Send for me if you change your mind.”
Okada was free by then, and McKee went over to speak with him. “I need a favor.”
The medic’s eyebrows rose. “Such as?”
“I want to see Gavin’s medical records.”
“That’s against regs.”
“So is using Fry as a punching bag.”
Okada stared at her for a moment. “I should ask why—but I don’t want to know. Wait here.”
The medic disappeared into a compartment labeled OFFICE, and emerged five minutes later. “Delete the file after you read it,” Okada said, as he gave her a memory stick. “Promise?”
“I promise,” McKee replied. “Thanks.”
McKee was going to need some help, and it felt good to know there was a person she could count on even if Desmond Larkin was the sort of person who made bucket fights possible. Still, allies are where you find them, which, in Larkin’s case, was asleep in his bunk.
• • •
Dinner was over, most of the legionnaires had free time on their hands, and a bucket fight was scheduled to take place in spite of McKee’s conversation with Lieutenant Heacox. So with no last-minute reprieve, McKee was going to implement Plan C even if it killed her. Which it might. That was why McKee felt sick to her stomach as she got off the elevator on Deck 3. Larkin was right beside her. “You’re sure about this?”
“No, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
“You’re crazy . . . You know that.”
“Yeah, I know. But if we stick to the plan, there’s a good chance it will work.”
“And you believe that?”
“No.”
Larkin laughed. “Don’t worry, McKee. I’ll keep Gavin’s toadies off your back. And some of the guys from our compartment will be there as well.”
McKee glanced at him. “They will?”
“Fry’s one of ours, right? Even if we all go our separate ways when this bus ride is over.”
McKee was surprised to hear that some of her temporary subordinates were going to back her, and might have taken comfort from that knowledge if they hadn’t run into trouble two seconds later. Two of Gavin’s henchmen were stationed next to the bucket, and the man McKee thought of as Rat Face stepped forward to block the way. “Oh, no you don’t. Turn around and go back to wherever you came from. You aren’t welcome here.”
Rat Face was looking at McKee. That was a mistake. A single blow from Larkin put him on the floor. Then Larkin turned to the other man and cracked his knuckles. “Want some?”
The second toady shook his head.
Rat Face was trying to stand as McKee and Larkin entered the hold. A pathway opened in front of them, and McKee got the feeling that the word was out. Something unusual was about to take place—and the crowd knew it. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and people were staring at her.
Gavin and Mendez were on the platform looking down at her as McKee approached the ring. Gavin spoke into a microphone, and his voice boomed over the makeshift PA system. “Well, well, look what we have here. Sergeant McKee is a hero. Did you know that? And she thinks bucket fights are wrong. I’ll tell you what . . . Let’s settle this with a vote. All in favor of tonight’s fight, say ‘yes.’”
There was a roar of approval.
Gavin nodded knowingly. “All opposed?”
Silence.
McKee was climbing up onto the platform by then. Gavin looked surprised but stood his ground as she snatched the mike out of his hand. McKee’s eyes swept the crowd. “You want a fight, and I’m going to give you one. Sergeant Gavin is good at sponsoring fights, and profiting from them, but why doesn’t he enter the ring? Is it because he’s a coward? If not, he’ll fight me here and now! Let’s take another vote. Who would like to see me kick Gavin’s ass?”
The second roar of approval was even louder than the first. McKee grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes. How ’bout it, Gavin? Are you going to fight? Or start crying?”
McKee could see the look of glee on Gavin’s face. He was taller, heavier, and stronger than she was. So the outcome was guaranteed. He took the mike out of her hand. “I’m going to put you on the floor and stomp your ugly face.”
McKee knew that if she hoped to win, speed and agility would be her primary advantage. That and the element of surprise. So she kicked him in the balls.
The bell hadn’t sounded, so Gavin wasn’t expecting the blow. The boot was right on target, and he uttered a squeal as he doubled over in pain. The crowd roared, Mendez tried to intervene, and Larkin put him down. That was when half a dozen of McKee’s legionnaires surged to the front of the crowd and turned to face the rest. The message was clear: Stay back.
In the meantime, Gavin managed to stand upright. His face was white with pain, and there was hatred in his eyes. “I’m going to kill you.”
McKee felt a stab of fear. Gavin could kill her, and she didn’t want to die. So live, she told herself, as Gavin began to close with her. You can do it.
Gavin advanced, chin down and hands up, ready to throw punches. McKee knew that a solid blow could put her on the floor, where Gavin could stomp her, so she danced backwards. Gavin’s bullet-shaped head shifted from side to side as he advanced.
Suddenly, McKee felt a rope pressing against her back and barely had time to jerk her head to one side. The blow landed, but not squarely, so McKee was able to keep her feet. But her left cheek hurt like hell—and Gavin was herding her toward a corner. Once there, he could pound her senseless.
There was a chorus of boos from the people who had money on Gavin as McKee dropped to the floor and rolled away. Then there were shouts of approval as she jumped to her feet. But things weren’t looking good as Gavin began to close in again.
McKee had a secret weapon, however—and that was her knowledge of Gavin’s medical history. The scar on his right knee had been visible on the day they met, and having read his M-1 file, she knew he had taken a piece of shrapnel there. That meant the key to survival was to attack the injured knee—and keep attacking until Gavin went down. All without letting him back her into a corner.
So McKee raised her hands, took a couple of steps forward, and flicked a fist at Gavin’s face. When he moved to block it she kicked him in the knee. The blow was rewarded with a grunt of pain—and, judging from the expression on Gavin’s face, he understood what she was up to.
Maybe it was in response to that realization, or maybe Gavin would have done it anyway, but whatever the reason, he threw himself onto the floor and rolled toward her. She tried to jump, but the effort came too late. The crowd roared as Gavin’s body knocked her feet out from under her, and she fell. “Gotcha!” Gavin said exultantly, as she tried to escape, and he wrapped his arms around her torso.
McKee had learned a lot of things since joining the Legion, one of which was the value of a well-delivered headbutt. It broke Gavin’s nose. Blood gushed, his hands came up, and she was free. Mixed cheers and groans were heard as McKee stood. Then, determined to end the fight once and for all, she took careful aim at the already weakened knee. The kick from her combat boot hit full force, and she heard something snap just before Gavin screamed.
The noise inside the hold was deafening as Larkin came forward to hold McKee’s right arm up in the air. She swayed, felt dizzy, and was grateful when Larkin ducked under the arm to offer some additional support. His voice was unusually gentle. “You made your point, McKee. It’s time to go home.”
• • •
McKee was a minor celebrity. That was what she discovered the next morning, when she went to breakfast. That didn’t mean she was universally admired. Not by a long shot. Many of the people who had money on Gavin the night before directed scowls her way.
But there were others, people who liked to root for an underdog or had won money by betting on her, who came up to congratulate her, which was nice. But the word was out, all bucket fights had been canceled, and that constituted the real win. And by the time she showed up in the sick bay, it was clear that Fry had heard the news. He was sitting on the edge of his bed getting ready to leave. “Hey, Sarge . . . Where did you get that bruise?”
“I fell in the shower.”
Fry laughed. Then he turned serious. “Thanks, McKee. Thanks for what you did.”
“You’re welcome. So, how ’bout it? What did Gavin have on you?”
Fry looked around. There was no one within earshot. “Promise you won’t tell?”
“I promise.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“So?”
“He’s an officer.”
Suddenly McKee understood. Enlisted people weren’t allowed to have romantic relationships with officers or the other way around. It was a rule that she and Avery had broken on Orlo II and were still violating as far as she knew. “Gavin found out?”
Fry nodded. “He was going to turn us in if I refused to fight.”
“And the visits?”
“He was afraid that I might work up the courage to report him in spite of the trouble I would be in. So he threatened me.”
McKee said, “Come on, let’s get out of here. I could use a one-armed legionnaire.”
They were headed for the hatch when Lieutenant Heacox appeared. McKee felt a sudden stab of fear. Was she in trouble?
Heacox looked from Fry to her and blinked three times. The dislike was plain to see in his eyes. “They’re going to replace Gavin’s knee.”
McKee allowed herself to relax slightly. Heacox was there to see Gavin rather than take action against her. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Heacox blinked. “We’ll meet again, Sergeant. And I won’t forget.”
McKee nodded grimly. “Sir, yes, sir. Neither will I.”