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The chair was comfortable, far more so than anything Diego was used to. For the first time his eyes darted around the room, taking it all in and understanding very little of it. It wasn’t decorated like any room he’d been in before. There were three flags hanging on poles behind the sergeant’s desk. Off to the right of the flags there was a single digital photo of a much younger-looking Sergeant Buckholz in some sort of armor. Around him were a group of similarly dressed men, each holding in their hands what Diego guessed to be a weapon. Above them, a ringed planet loomed in the background.

For a moment Diego thought it was fake. He knew of the Outside, of course. The Outside was death on Myrkyma. He was even aware there were other worlds out there which were inhabited. People lived there, in constant danger of death and ruin, with Myrkyma being one of the more successfully colonized worlds. But a planet with rings around it, in the sky, for all to see?

Yet . . . nothing else in the office seemed false. Why post a picture of something which could be easily disproved? It was confusing and made his head swim.

“The first thing we have to do, Diego, is run a quick blood screen,” Sergeant Buckholz told him as he moved behind the desk and pulled out a small bio-scanner, very similar to the ones the local Enforcers used when they arrested someone. Or, more often than not, beat them until they were sufficiently bribed. Diego was familiar with the device, though he wasn’t quite sure why the sergeant needed it. The recruiter explained. “We accept anyone who wants to be in the Protectorate of Mars Foreign Legion, but there are a few stipulations. No, we don’t care about who you were in your past life. What we’re searching for is if you have any outstanding Class One felony warrants for your arrest. Past convictions, time served? None of that matters. Basically, we want to know if you’re running from the law now.”

Diego swallowed nervously. The sergeant was on point about that. He was running, but for a very good reason. Taking a calming breath, he thought about it. Was there law anymore on Myrkyma? He wasn’t too sure. There’d always been two types of law in Overdark itself—Tyrant’s law, and the laws which were enforced on everyone else. With the tarred heads of the Tyrants decorating the spiked walls outside the Reina, the laws for everyone else had scattered into the dark. Blood was the law now, revenge its sweet judge, jury, and executioner. So who would decide the law next? He had a sneaking suspicion who it would be, and it made him shiver.

Those were the ones who wanted him dead. Of course he was running.

He stuck his thumb in the scanner and felt a small pressure, a slight pain. The scanner chimed once and Sergeant Buckholz pulled it away. Looking down, Diego spotted a small bloody streak where he’d been pricked. It wasn’t much, but it did bring back a troubled memory of a spot of blood on a pearl cufflink, and a Tyrant eating a steak with the very knife Diego’s mother had been murdered with.

There’d been nothing in his father’s expression as he calmly carved the steak in practiced, measured cuts.

The device chimed and Sergeant Buckholz immediately began reading. After a moment his eyes went wide, and he looked back at Diego with a strange expression on his face. Diego felt his heart fall. The sergeant knew what he was now. He needed to leave. There was no way they would accept a bastard of a Tyrant.

“Everything . . . looks in order here,” Sergeant Buckholz said after a slight cough. “There are warrants for your arrest, but there’s a small caveat. It says there is an arrest warrant for anyone sharing this DNA, and not you specifically. Which means . . . jack squat to us. Unfortunately, the query I ran pinged whoever the local law enforcement is in these parts now. Fortunately, you’re on Mars Primus sovereign soil, since this is a Foreign Legion Recruiting Station. Our laws are respected, but not necessarily binding, when it comes to blanket warrants such as these. We can ignore it, unless you have moral qualms about doing so . . . which, to be honest, I don’t think you do, do you?”

“Does . . . that mean I can still join?” Diego asked in a cautious tone. The recruiter chuckled dryly.

“Definitely. But I need to break it down for you what your requirements will be, should you decide to enlist.” Sergeant Buckholz moved around to the other side of the desk and sat down. He leaned back in his chair and contemplated Diego for a moment before continuing. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems accepting our terms, but I am required by law to state them before we talk about enlistment papers. You will serve ten years in the Protectorate of Mars Foreign Legion, henceforth to be known simply as the Legion. You will obey all orders given to you, and you will be expected to comport yourself to our higher standard of conduct. After ten years of service, which begins the moment you report to your first Legion—not Basic Training or Advance Combat School, mind you—you will be eligible for full Protectorate citizenship, either a small plot of land to farm on a colony world, should you choose for you and your descendants, or the monthly equivalent in monetary compensation for ten years after your time of service ends.

“Desertion is not tolerated. If you desert, when you are found—that’s not an if, kid, trust me—you will be branded a traitor, flogged, marched in front of a firing squad, and summarily executed as a traitor to the Legion, and then your body tossed into an unmarked grave, your name stricken from Legion rolls. If you become physically unable to complete your term of service in the Legion due to injury or wounds suffered in battle, you will be moved to a support position and retrained. This will not ‘restart the clock,’ as they say. You will complete your term of service serving the Legion, one way or the other. You still with me?”

“Yes, lord . . . Sergeant.”

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