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“Good.” Sergeant Buckholz leaned forward, and his voice changed subtly. “This isn’t an easy life, Diego. We go where the Protectorate needs us to go. We’ve had peace for many years, which is why most people think they want to join. Free education, land, money, glory . . . whatever drives kids these days. But the truth of the matter is, training can be just as dangerous as real combat. You could die in an accident, in combat, in school—”

“Or in an alley here,” Diego interjected. “I understand.”

“That’s one way to look at things,” the recruiter said as he offered Diego a small smile. “Once you repeat the Oath of Enlistment before the duly-authorized representative—that being Captain Rhys, of course—and sign some papers, you’ll officially be Legionnaire Recruit Diego . . . uh, do you have a last name?”

Diego shook his head. “No, Sergeant. I wasn’t given one. Neither was my mother.”

“Well, the beauty of joining the Legion is that you can invent one, since you’re an entirely new individual. Plus, having a surname allows the drill instructors to yell at you more properly while going through basic.” Sergeant Buckholz steepled his fingers in front of him. “You don’t have to have one, mind you. But it’s one of those things that makes life easier in the Protectorate.”

“I can pick any name?” Diego asked slowly. The sergeant nodded. “Can I use Tavi as my last name?”

“Why not?” Sergeant Buckholz grinned. “Why that one?”

“It was the only name of my mother.”

“Sergeant?” a voice interrupted from behind Diego. “Problem.”

Diego turned in his chair to see what the guard was talking about. It took him less than a second to recognize the small crowd gathered outside for what it was. His heart dropped as he recognized two of them from the group who had chased him down an alley the hour before. They’d almost caught him then, but Diego had managed to slip between two large trash bins and escape. He’d almost let himself build up hope that they would give up their pursuit.

The revolutionaries were passionate and full of zeal. He should have known they would never give up on their hunt for him. Especially since he’d given them the slip not once, but three times already since they first rose up and started murdering anyone with Tyrant blood coursing through their veins.

“Corporal Aires? Alert the captain. Tell him the situation,” Sergeant Buckholz ordered as he stood from behind the desk. “Corporal Jeffe—secure the entry. No one in or out without authorization. Can’t have the riffraff pushing through and dirtying up our lobby. Might hurt recruitment efforts.”

“Lord? Are you going to turn me over to them?” Diego asked.

“Turn you over . . . what? And miss my monthly quota?” Sergeant Buckholz looked at him incredulously. “I think not!”

“Sergeant?” Corporal Aires asked from the door after locking it from the inside. On the other side of the glass, Diego could see the small crowd growing agitated. There was muted shouting, most of which he couldn’t make out, though “Tyrant’s bastard” was clear enough. He could guess at the rest.

Sergeant Buckholz frowned. “Corporal? Grab your gear.”

“Nonlethal only,” a new voice said from the back room. Turning, Diego saw a broad figure walk into the room. His face was young but stern, and he was taller than Diego by almost an entire foot. He was more muscular than any of the others as well. For a moment Diego wondered if the stern giant was kept around for head-bashing purposes, like bouncers at some of the seedier clubs in Overdark. The other three men braced to attention as the large man gave Diego a curious glance before continuing.

Everything snapped into place for him. This was something he knew. Diego nodded to himself, understanding. Of course the biggest and strongest would be in charge. That was how things worked in Overdark. Why wouldn’t it be similar everywhere else?

“Sergeant? You’ve been here the longest. How do you see the locals reacting to this?”

“Lethal, sir? They’ll run, sure, but eventually they’ll be back. Syngaard is not a gentle burrowtown, sir,” Sergeant Buckholz said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “If we wait and let them protest, sir, more will come. Eventually one of them will get all full of himself—always a young guy trying to impress a girl, sir—and then it’ll explode and get really messy. Nonlethal and abrupt, before it can get going? Sends a message, Captain Rhys, that we don’t want their trouble. But they might not listen, sir.”

“Indeed. Well, Sergeant, let’s not waste any time in dispersing this group. I’ll take the young recruit . . . Recruit, what’s your name?”

“Diego, lord. Diego Tavi.”

“Huh. You’re from Syngaard. Interesting. In the future, ‘sir’ will more than suffice. Recruit Diego, come with me so you can swear your Oath of Enlistment. Step lively now.”

“Will that make a difference, sir?” Diego asked, confused.

“Of course it will. Your oath is your pledge to the Protectorate, and the Protectorate owes you once your Oath is given. Ours is a two-way street. You serve us, and the Legion serves you. Sergeant Buckholz?”

“Sir?”

“Riffraff. Get rid of them. Recruit Tavi and I will be along in a minute. You’ve run his blood sample?”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Buckholz said. “He’s clear.” The captain nodded.

“Instruct them to disperse, begin extraction protocols of this station—I expect difficulties in the near future—and send word to the ambassador in Klysgaard. Also, notify local law enforcement—if any are still in service. Remind the local force that this is sovereign Martian soil, and if this is violated, it is an act of aggression against the Protectorate of Mars itself, and an affront to the Legion. If the protestors decide to get froggy before the police arrive, then we stop them fast and hard. Ensure the watch commander at the embassy is aware of the situation as well. And remember”—the officer paused, holding up a single finger—“nonlethal doesn’t necessarily mean painless.”

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