“This is the only place in the explored universe where you can get a perfectly marbled Grade 1A ribeye steak off Mars Primus.”

Sergeant Miguel Carvalho, loadmaster and crew chief of Bronze Raven Four, stared up at the dilapidated building, then looked back at the speaker. If it had been anyone else, Carvalho wouldn’t have believed a word coming out of their mouth. But since it was Sergeant Emmett “Ordo” Ord, 4th Squad, Bravo Company of the Bronze Legion speaking, Carvalho decided to give his longtime friend the benefit of the doubt.

Gunrunner’s was really nothing more than a bar that happened to serve food, and designed as such by an entrepreneurial mind. Half of it was an open patio, with party lights strung over the expansive area and tiki torches casting a flickering glow across the picnic-style scarred wooden tables. With its strategically placed palm trees, rum barrels, and skull and crossbones motif, the place leaned heavily into the tropical island theme popular in this section of the city. Inside followed the same decorating scheme, with the addition of dark wood paneling, high ceilings with lazily spinning fans, and a bar that stretched across the entire back wall.

It definitely did not give off “quality food” vibes to Carvalho.

“This place is where legionnaires come to get into fights with sailors,” he muttered as a pair of Navy personnel staggered out from the entrance. They split off, one going to the left and the other right, and simultaneously began vomiting in the bushes nearby. “Classy joint.”

“They don’t charge you a kidney or two for real Martian beef here,” Ord said. “The drunken brawls just add to the ambience. Plus, I know the manager. He promised me two 22-ounce rib eyes from Grade 1A Martian beef for a keg of Old Steverson Dark Stout. I provided, and now he’s delivering.”

“One day you’re going to tell me how you got a keg of Old Steverson into your berthing space without me noticing.”

“Maybe. But not today. You coming?” Ord asked. Carvalho nodded and started to enter before a familiar giggling drew his attention back to the street. He silently groaned as visions of his quiet evening of steak and beer quickly ran out the door.

Corporals Emi Hayashi and Iolana Hekekia, collectively known as HeyHey by everyone in the squadron, were prancing down the street having a grand old time. The duo were his door gunners on Bronze Raven Four and ultimately his responsibility. Tiny, blue-eyed and dark haired with matching attitudes and all the savage joy when they got to shoot their Aries miniguns, they were a menace whenever they were on a mission, and trouble the rest of the time.

And judging by the looks they were giving poor Corporal Andrew McDowell, a fellow dropship door gunner from Alpha Company, Eagle Squadron, their mission involved shenanigans aplenty. He could only guess as to what they were up to, but none of it promised to be good. Like two barracuda moving through the waters to strike at some unsuspecting flounder, they flanked him on opposite sides simultaneously, each pressing their bodies against his.

Carvalho could almost imagine the young corporal’s unsuspecting, shit-eating grin.

“He has no idea what sort of night he’s in for . . . oh, shit,” Carvalho muttered as it suddenly dawned on him just what they were doing as they sauntered off with McDowell, drinks in hand for all of them. He also spotted two, possibly three familiar faces in the crowd nearby.

He should have recognized the game sooner. Normally he wouldn’t have any issue with the game, since it was Eagle Squadron who were being played. The problem was, HeyHey didn’t recognize that the tables were about to be turned on them. Behind the trio, Carvalho spotted the door gunners from Bronze Eagle 3 following close by.

“To catch a crow?” Ord asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Carvalho nodded as a sense of doom crept over him. It was a harmless game designed more to embarrass aircrew members than anything else. The rules were simple: get a Crow good and drunk, and have them report in to the wrong unit at the end of liberty call. The crew chief of the dropship as well as the pilot of said bird would then have to go and collect their misplaced Crows, much to the bemusement of all involved—and embarrassment for the pilot of the dropship.

Bronze Raven Four—or Raven Squadron as a whole, since Major Nikki “Voodoo” Ellingwood took command—had never fallen victim to the game. Others had, much to their constantly reminded embarrassment. He wasn’t about to see that lucky streak end. Not while he had anything to say about it.

“Yep.”

“Last chance to get a ribeye beautifully cut like this for at least six months,” Ord told him. “You know the planetary supervisor at Aurora is a cheapskate.”

“Argh. Don’t remind me.” Carvalho looked inside Gunrunner’s. Most, if not all of Bravo Company of the Bronze Legion were already inside and drinking, with Navy personnel from the PNV Perseverance mingling throughout, and some locals to boot. He could smell the all-too familiar scents of alcohol, food, and violence in the air. Gunrunner’s promised an interesting and fun night, even with his prosthetic leg. It was an excellent chance to blow off some steam before they shipped out to Aurora.

But then there was HeyHey, out in the wild and unsupervised, doing HeyHey things . . .

“Good luck.” Ord interpreted his friend’s hesitation correctly and slapped him on the back. “I’ll think fondly of you while enjoying my ribeye. Rare, seasoned only with salt and pepper, seared on a skillet, all while drinking a pint of Old Steverson dark stout.”

“Fuck my life . . .” Carvalho whispered miserably as he limped off to try to keep HeyHey out of too much trouble.

#

“He’s such a lightweight!” Hayashi crooned, dark eyes glittering with mischief and malice as she stared at McDowell over the rim of her glass.

Their fellow Crow was going to rue the day he’d decided to mess with them in gunner school. He’d had the nerve to hit on both of them, separately— because apparently he was as dumb as he was hot—and had tried to play them. Too bad for him, they had already been nearly inseparable by that point, so they’d caught onto his game quickly.

Now, they were going to play him.

“This is going to be too easy!” Hekekia added as she took another drink. McDowell wobbled on his feet as he eyed the half-filled shot glass, then dramatically brought it closer to his face to get a better view of it. Hekekia cackled as McDowell nodded happily and took another sip. “He can’t even keep up with us!”

“I know, right?!” Hayashi grinned happily as another round of shots landed on their table. “We’re gonna finally catch a Crow, and not even Carvalho will be mad at us.”

“Shhh! Don’t call the devil by name or he’ll hear us!”

“Right, right.” Hayashi held out her pinky finger. “Before we begin, we have to promise each other. No mudslides.”

Hekekia wrapped her pinky around Hayashi’s and nodded solemnly. “No mudslides, no matter what.”

Both gunners darted nervous glances around the bar before lifting their next shots in a toast.

“Here’s to honor! Get on her, stay on her, if you can’t come in her . . .”

#

“. . . come on her!” the rest of the bar chorused the toast, then cheered raucously.

Carvalho grimaced as HeyHey both pounded another shot of the blue liquor, barely registering that McDowell was acting drunker than he really was while merely sipping his drink. In their eagerness to get McDowell hammered, neither HeyHey seemed aware that they were in the process of getting properly wasted themselves . . . or that McDowell’s fellow Crows were drinking nearby.

Moving through the crowd of locals, he kept a close eye on HeyHey while ensuring he didn’t step on any toes. His prosthetic leg was good—very good, in fact, which is why he was able to become a Crow after his accident occurred—but he wouldn’t know if he’d actually trod on a foot until the cursing began.

Carvalho knew his gunners were sneaky and paranoid. If they spotted him, they would scatter and then he’d be all night chasing them down. So he was careful to approach from behind them, never taking his eyes off his targets . . . which is why he didn’t see the locals until it was too late.

“Where do you think you’re going, friend?” a grizzled older man asked, stepping between Carvalho and his gunners and holding up his hand.

A pair of young men appeared on either side of him, one bearing a striking resemblance to the older, the other with a badly crooked nose from one too many bar fights. Both were dressed neatly however, and neither seemed inebriated.

They were also about twice his size.

Shit.

Before he could back away, they grabbed his upper arms, their grip strong but not painful.

“I’m not one to judge, friend, but those girls are far too young for a man of your . . . maturity.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “And it didn’t look as if you had good intentions.”

Carvalho opened his mouth to agree that he hadn’t and HeyHey deserved it, but then realized these were civilians who might not understand military discipline. In the time it took him to figure out a better way to phrase it, the second man tugged him around, away from his gunners, who hadn’t so much as looked up from teasing McDowell.

“We don’t need anyone starting trouble in here.” The man who looked like a younger, less grizzled version of the first frowned, his grip tightening. “And what kind of men would we be if we let someone start trouble with girls half his size?”

A small crowd had formed around him. For a brief moment Carvalho almost fought against the pressure, but then noticed the attention he was starting to draw. Some of the others in the bar might not take too kindly to someone beating their buddy with their own arm.

“We want girls to feel safe when they hit bars like ours,” the third man added firmly for the small crowd’s benefit. “Time for you to leave, pal.”

Carvalho started to struggle but stopped as he realized it was futile. If he really put effort into freeing himself, there would be injuries and hard feelings. Not something he particularly wanted at the moment, considering his prosthetic. As it was, the notion that these locals were trying to protect young women like Hayashi and Hekekia was actually comforting—even if he’d been swept up by overzealous protectors quite by accident.

“Fuck my life.”

With a defeated sigh from Carvalho and a resounding cheer from the onlookers, the trio of men tossed him from the pier and into the shallow marshy waters below.

#

“Aw, damn it,” Hayashi muttered as she spotted Carvalho being unceremoniously dropped into the marshy bank just outside the bar’s rear entrance. Like every other bar in the district, this one featured a short pier for small pleasure craft to tie up at. It also doubled as a location to toss drunks into the water without putting them in too much danger.

Hekekia followed her gaze and groaned when she spotted their spluttering loadmaster. “This is all your fault!”

“My fault?” Hayashi scowled at her best friend. “How is this my fault?!”

“You said his name and he heard you! Now Carvalho’s gonna spoil our fun!” Hekekia declared dramatically before she downed another shot of the tasty blue liquor. She leaned against McDowell and poked him in the ribs. “Hey, Asshole McDreamy. We need to find somewhere else to drink.”

“Asshole McDreamy?” McDowell sputtered indignantly around his half-finished drink. “What the fuck?”

Red washed across Hayashi’s face. “You weren’t supposed to tell him we call him that!”

Hekekia shrugged. “Sorry, I meant Asshole.”

“That’s not better!” Hayashi slurred as she smacked Hekekia on the arm. Then she spotted Carvalho dragging himself out of the marsh and staggered back a step. The sergeant looked pissed, and his eyes were definitely looking for them. Neither was quite ready to be found. “We gotta move, now. But where to next?”

The duo shared a look before staring expectantly at McDowell.

“Toadies?” he suggested after a moment.

“Toadies,” they answered and grinned in drunken anticipation.

#

“Of all the times for the locals to try to protect a Crow from a seemingly lecherous old man . . .” Carvalho growled as he tried to get the worst of the foul-smelling water from his jacket. “They’re not even innocent girls! They’re menaces to both society and my sanity wrapped in innocent camouflage.”

After a second he gave up and tossed the jacket into a trash receptacle. His shoes squished with every step and promised to smell even worse than his jacket. If any of his outfit survived the experience, he would be shocked. He was just grateful his prosthetic leg was none the worse for the unexpected swim. Serving in the Legion came with its dangers, but they tried to do right by their legionnaires and had equipped him with the best prosthetic available. He never quite forgot it wasn’t his original limb, but it was as close as science could get.

“I just wanted a steak dinner . . .” he growled.

As he carefully circled the bar he’d just been unceremoniously tossed out of, he searched through the wide windows for his drunk gunners—and found them scampering off through the crowded street with McDowell in tow. In the next instant, the girls tugged their prey down a torchlit side street, one barely visible from the main road. On the plus side, the Bronze Eagle gunner had looked as if he were regretting his life choices in targeting HeyHey. On the very not plus side, he was still playing the game, and McDowell’s other Bronze Eagle buddies were still following the trio of miscreants, casually turning down that same alley.

On the “whyyy had he been stuck with the most annoying gunners ever” side, there was only one place that particular side street led to on miserable evenings such as this. As luck would have it, he’d been there once or twice himself back in his heady, youthful days. Back when he’d had all four of his limbs, and a penchant for picking fights with sailors.

“Fuck my life,” he repeated for the umpteenth time that night. “They’re headed to Toadies.”

#

Toadies wasn’t any sort of official bar. In fact, the place prided itself on its roving location. Originally started as a man on a trike who rode around the outskirts of the Legion base selling alcohol, he found success when he started having massive beach parties at various locations along the coast. Bonfires, cold beer, and roasted barbeque were a siren’s call for any and all service personnel who were looking for something a little different.

Officially, Toadies was off-limits to Navy personnel. However, every good officer and senior NCO in the Protectorate Navy knew some orders were going to be ignored and adjusted accordingly. “Never give an order you know will not be followed” was universally acknowledged. Given that every Navy senior officer who took command thought that “this time it would be different,” though, orders were given that were not necessarily enforced to their strictest of standards.

One small oversight, though. The official ban didn’t extend to the Legion. How the base commander missed this, nobody knew. Or perhaps it was just one of the vagaries of life in the military, deliberately set up by the commander to try to enforce the unenforceable.

But because of this, loopholes were found.

And exploited.

Vigorously.

The mix at Toadies was 50/50 of Navy personnel and Legionnaires, which was just the perfect recipe for disaster. Throw in the fact that many local girls, working and otherwise, tended to find their way to Toadies to see how much money drunken legionnaires and sailors were willing to part with, and one came to understand the reasoning behind the ban in the first place.

A ban that HeyHey was only peripherally aware of. Dropship pilots and their aircrew, their Crows, were Legion.

“Toadies is the best,” Hekekia said, grinning around the drunken crowd with wide eyes and popping her hips to the wild beat. The sound system for the outdoors, roving bar was killer. “Why didn’t we come here sooner?”

“I know, right?” Hayashi snagged a trio of cheap plastic cups filled to the brim with frosty amber beer and tried to dance at the same time. It went medium. For a second, she stared mournfully at the half-full cups, then shrugged and handed McDowell the lowest, forgetting they were supposed to be getting him drunk. “Drink up, Asshole! Shoot, I mean . . . um, Andrew?”

McDowell sighed and sipped at his beer while the girls tapped their cups together and chugged. As Hayashi tossed her empty cup into a trash bin, she noticed he didn’t seem to be having as much fun, which was bad. It took her alcohol-soaked brain a few seconds to remember why that was bad. Her eyes widened. If Asshole McDreamy wasn’t having fun, he might leave, and then they wouldn’t be able to finally catch a Crow! She shot Hekekia a desperate look, but her bestie was too busy shaking her ass to notice.

Fine. Hayashi would be the bold one this time.

“Come on, McDowell. We’re dancing!”

She missed his hand the first time, and he had to steady her when she nearly faceplanted into the sand on the second attempt. That was okay. She had his hand now, mission accomplished . . . even if he was laughing at her. Shrugging, because laughter was better than boredom, she tugged him toward the nearest bonfire, snagging another full beer as she went. Hekekia followed, dancing along at McDowell’s heels, a full cup in each hand. She didn’t spill a drop.

Dancing was the best idea they’d had all night. Hayashi grinned up at McDowell, and he grinned back, no signs of boredom now. Hekekia danced around them, shaking her ass and singing along with the popular song at the top of her lungs. For just a minute, Hayashi forgot about the game in favor of just having fun and joined in. Even McDowell sang the last verse in a shockingly good baritone.

Then the song changed. Slow, sultry, with a heavy beat that whispered of sleepless nights and fun life choices. Hayashi paused. They’d wanted to mess with McDowell for how he’d treated them at gunner school, not give him the wrong idea. McDowell had also frozen, something like panic in his eyes as his gaze darted from her to her drunk bestie. He held up his hands and seemed on the verge of saying something.

And then there was a loud smack, and Hekekia jumped in startlement. Beer sloshed out of the cup in each hand, and she whirled around to confront the guy who had just slapped her ass.

“Ew no, not you.” Her lip curled in disgust. “You don’t get to touch. You’re not Asshole McDreamy.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?!”

Hekekia ignored McDowell and threw both drinks into the guy’s face. Hayashi cackled and threw her drink too. Ride or die, bitches!

Her aim was less than perfect.

Instead of hitting the offending jerk, her drink smacked an enlisted Navy guy square in the back of the head. He whirled around with an angry shout, droplets of beer flying off his soaked hair. He spotted the guy who had assaulted Hekekia and decided to hit first and ask questions never. The two men slammed into a group of legionnaires, knocking plates loaded with delicious barbeque out of their hands. With shouts of anger and understandable dismay, the legionnaires jumped into the fight.

“Um, oops?” Hayashi whispered, swaying on her feet.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” McDowell mumbled, definite panic in his eyes now. He grabbed both girls and pushed them into a stumbling run. “Time to go have fun elsewhere, Crows!”

The brawl was definitely spreading, with more sailors and legionnaires joining in. Hayashi barely had a moment to realize what some mysterious individual—definitely not her, nope nope nope—had started before McDowell yanked her backward. In the next instant, he staggered from a blow to the jaw. More Crows appeared as if by magic from the depths of the crowd, and the chants of “fight! fight! fight!” began to go up as the new arrivals plowed into Navy and Legion alike with reckless abandon.

Asshole McDreamy had been right. It was time to find fun elsewhere.

#

“Watch it, asshole!” a sailor drunkenly slurred and shoved Carvalho aside with an elbow as the brawl started to spread his direction. Already off-balance thanks to the uneven, sandy ground, it was all he could do to keep himself upright. Unfortunately, this meant grabbing a convenient legionnaire to keep on his feet.

“Hey, balara!” the legionnaire angrily yelled before catching himself as recognition dawned on his cragged, scarred face. “Oh, fech. Sorry, tasawa. Didn’t recognize you. You good, Crow?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, Master Sergeant Briggs,” Carvalho said as he turned his best glare onto the offending sailor.

Unfortunately, his basilisk gaze didn’t deter the young sailor. Given the bottle of high proof hooch in one hand and the very inappropriately attired young lady clinging to the other, the man’s better decision making skills had long vacated the premises. All that remained now was alcohol, libido, and youthful stupidity.

Dismissing the man as unimportant, Carvalho brought himself up to his full height and scanned the crowd for HeyHey. They were nowhere to be seen. The brawl, though, was growing worse. It was a living, breathing thing that swallowed all in its path. It promised to be epic, and it was just his luck that he had no time to properly appreciate what was to come.

“Just gotta deal with a little problem,” he added absently to Briggs.

“Who you callin’ little, pops?” the sailor squawked, clearly offended and looking for trouble. Carvalho blinked as four equally inebriated Navy boys appeared next to the drunk. The girl on the sailor’s arm, sensing trouble, showed more intelligence than all of the men present and scooted. “We gonna fuck you up, old man. Try me.”

“Oh, for the love of . . .”

Carvalho prided himself on staying cheerful in the face of adversity. It had gotten him through the loss of his leg, had gotten him through losing his place in his original legionnaire squad, it had even gotten him through aircrew training. Unfortunately, a positive attitude just wasn’t going to cut it tonight. His temper snapped.

“You know what? After the night I’ve had? I should be eating a steak and drinking a pint of dark stout with my best friend but no, I’m here dealing with a little prick who thinks he and his Navy bitch friends are hot shit! Fuck it.” Carvalho pulled off his ruined shirt and cracked his knuckles. “We can call this my fucking therapy session or something. Let’s fucking go.”

With that, Carvalho drove his forehead directly into the bridge of the younger man’s nose. The sailor yowled in surprise and pain. He staggered back and his hand went to his nose. Blood was already pouring out through his fingers.

“You broke my nose!”

“Pussy,” Carvalho growled and gut-punched the whining sailor for good measure. Gasping something unintelligible, he dropped unceremoniously to the sand. His buddies, not sure what just happened, swarmed the crew chief.

He was ready for them.

Or so he thought.

Experience in fights can carry someone a long way, but youthful exuberance can sometimes overcome it.

A blow caught his ribs. Another glanced off his jaw, just enough to hurt but not do too much damage. He drove an elbow into someone’s face—hopefully one of Nosey’s buddies—and was rewarded with a cry of pain. A riotous howl erupted from Briggs’ throat and suddenly every single legionnaire within the vicinity began tossing around sailors.

For a brief moment it appeared the brawl would be over before it really began. The Navy in the immediate surrounding area were outnumbered three to one, and it was looking bad for them. Unfortunately for Carvalho, the initial fight off to the side near where he’d lost HeyHey had merged with his, and suddenly what had initially been nothing more than a small tussle turned into a full-on Category 5 free-for-all, the sort that would probably go down in legend.

The next five minutes were nothing but a blur as Carvalho did everything he could to simply remain on his feet as more and more sailors joined in. Legionnaires, clearly afraid they were going to miss out on all the fun, were surrounding him and trying to get in some freebies as well. Fortunately, Briggs was making it clear to the new arrivals whose side Carvalho was on so he didn’t have to worry about being outnumbered ten to one.

Someone tried wrapping their arms around him from behind. That mystery individual was rewarded with the back of Carvalho’s skull being driven into his face. A crunch, a cry of pain, and then suspicious silence. He turned around as the arms released him and saw Briggs standing there, holding the offending sailor in the air with both hands. The scarred face of the older legionnaire was filled with bemusement. The sailor’s? No amusement could be seen anywhere.

“Navy balaras seem to like it from the back, ke?” He shook the sailor like a chew toy as his Passovan accent grew thicker. Carvalho could see the terrified look on the sailor’s face and almost wanted to say something before deciding to let Briggs have his fun. The guy was a war hero, after all. Who was he, a lowly Crow, to interrupt someone like that? “Let me show you how Legion does it!”

“No permanent injuries!” Carvalho managed to get out before the offending Navy guy was heaved into the nearby waters. Hooting laughter erupted from Briggs’ throat as more sailors were tossed into the shallow, smelly waters.

“You like water, Navy fechs?”

It quickly became evident that no, they did not. Laughter erupted as more sailors ended up in the drink. Carvalho smiled grimly at the sight of sailors sputtering as they climbed out of the marshy waters along the beach. At least he wasn’t the only one who would be returning to his command smelling like the musky brinewater of Yortugan Bay.

His moment of gratification passed rather abruptly as his original attacker came back for a second go. And this time he brought friends.

Five chaotic minutes of sheer, unadulterated fun later, Carvalho stood panting over the last sailor, his knuckles hurting something fierce. It was one thing to throw a punch, but another entirely to throw a good one. He’d landed a few solid jabs but for the most part, the only real good one that had landed had flattened the offending sailor. When he woke up, he was going to have one doozy of a headache. The other three who’d joined their Navy buddy had run into the proverbial chainsaw of one Master Sergeant Briggs, 1st Squad, Bravo Company.

Briggs looked no worse for wear, a broken smile on his ruined face, blood smeared on his cheek. Carvalho didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s, and didn’t bother to ask. Two hulking legionnaires were flanking the big man. They’d come running the moment the fight between the Navy and the Legion had really broken out, it seemed, and had formed a protective ring around Carvalho and his assailants.

Legionnaires always looked out for their Crows.

Each and every one looked as though they’d just had the time of their life. The same could not be said about the sailors, though.

Roughly two dozen were down in the sand in various degrees of pain. None appeared to have been permanently damaged, which made Carvalho feel a little better about the brawl in general. The sailor who’d puffed up on him was still on his ass, moaning about his nose being broken a second time. The little prick had deserved it, but Carvalho ignored him as he continued to survey the area. The fight had clearly been a long time coming, judging by the complete lack of locals or legionnaires on the ground.

“Shit,” he growled as he remembered the reason he’d come to Toadies in the first place. “HeyHey.”

It was slow going through the crowd as it began to disperse. His prosthetic slipped more than once on a sandy dune, a painful reminder of why he’d been pulled out of active duty Legion and rotated over to being a crew chief and loadmaster on a dropship after the training accident four years prior. Even the best prosthetics the Legion could buy weren’t as good as the real thing.

There were a few legionnaires sitting on the sand, still drinking, but only one or two sported any indications there’d been a massive brawl not ten minutes prior. Plausible deniability was still a thing in the Legion. Nobody wanted to report back to their command with evidence they not only had been in a fight, but lost it as well. He wanted to nod in satisfaction and have a drink with the victorious warriors, but HeyHey was still missing. His search continued.

Eventually he stumbled across their initial target, poor Corporal McDowell. The gunner lay on the sandy dune, groaning through his split lips. He’d clearly taken more punishment than he had given, but at least he was conscious. Mostly. His buddies were with him, trying to get him to his feet.

Carvalho decided to be “chivalrous” and helped them, gripping McDowell by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet by sheer frustration alone. He shook the dazed gunner until a flicker of awareness appeared in his eyes.

“Son, I’m only going to ask you this once.” He leaned closer, noting the exact moment McDowell realized who he was. “Where the fuck are my gunners?”

“Don’t know, Sergeant.” McDowell turned his head and spat blood on the sand. “Got them clear of the fight, but we got swept up in it before we could follow.”

Curling his lip in disgust, Carvalho let him go, not caring if he stayed on his feet or not. He had to find HeyHey before things really went south.

Somewhere in the distance, the shrill whistle of shore patrol announcing that it was on its way cut through the cheering and celebrating. A gong rang three times and people began to rapidly disperse in a practiced manner. A large, motorized trike with booze attached to a trailer and a gnarly sound system was expertly packed and ready to leave in less than two minutes. Toadies, it seemed, was closed for the rest of the evening.

Unfortunately for Carvalho, HeyHey were nowhere to be found.

Neither was his shirt, for that matter.

“Fuck my life . . .”

#

HeyHey staggered down the center of the brightly lit street. Bars lined either side with plenty of patrons spilling out into the road, all of them having a great time judging by the drunken shouts and laughter.

Hayashi and Hekekia were not having a great time.

“I can’t believe we lost him,” Hayashi said mournfully and hiccupped. Hekekia grabbed her arm and hauled her upright when she listed a little too far to the left. She hiccupped again and slung her arm around her bestie’s waist and held up her other hand with her thumb and pointer finger almost touching. “We were this close to finally catching a Crow, and we lost him!”

“Yeah, I know.” Hekekia wrinkled her nose. “To be fair, we may have judged Asshole McDreamy a little too harshly. Or he matured a bit since gunner school. He took a hit for you. I’m pretty sure he could’ve made it out of that brawl if he hadn’t.”

“Both things can be true—” Hayashi tripped over an empty beer bottle and nearly dragged Hekekia down with her. “Whoops! Anyways, we had McDreamy right where we wanted him, and now he’s gone, and Carvalho’s gonna be big mad at us when he catches up and . . . and . . .” She paused, frowned, and tilted her head. “What was I talking about?”

“One, don’t say his name or he’ll definitely find us! And two . . .” Hekekia pointed at a tropical-themed bar promising the “Biggest Mudslides in Yortugan Bay” and grinned. “If he’s gonna be big mad at us, we might as well end on a high note!”

“Girl, yes!” Hayashi danced in place, nearly taking them both out again when she bounced off an equally inebriated local. “Dessert and alcohol all in one glass. I’m so in!”

Together, they tripped into the bar, pounced on a table as a trio of local girls were abandoning it, and giggled their way through two of the biggest mudslides they’d ever seen in their short lives.

“I think I’m going into a drunken sugar coma,” Hayashi slurred as she slurped up the last of the alcoholic ice cream and chocolate.

“I think this is the best consolation prize ever. You think we need one more?” When Hayashi didn’t answer, too busy chasing the last dregs of her drink, Hekekia nodded solemnly. “You think we need one more. I’m on it, bestie!”

Hekekia signaled their exasperated waiter for another round, nearly smacking him in the face with her exuberant waving. With a long-suffering sigh and a muttered plea for a good tip, he deposited a second round of enormous mudslides on their table and stalked away. Hayashi stared after him, nearly falling off her chair as she twisted around to keep staring at him. To be fair, he was worth staring at. The young man wore nothing more than surfer shorts and his own gloriously tanned skin—the bar’s official dress code for the all-male staff members. He was almost as hot as McDowell.

Hekekia hauled Hayashi upright before she could hit the floor. “Plan now, stare later!”

“Plan?” Hayashi shook her head sharply before taking an eager sip of her new drink. “Plan what?”

Hekekia waved her arms again. “We need to plan—hiccup—on how to get McAsshole . . . Dreamy . . . Fuckface Andrew! We’ll catch a Crow yet—hiccup—just you wait.”

“I think you ladies have had enough fun for one night.”

A heavy hand landed on each of their shoulders, and they turned bleary eyes up to their assailant.

“Oh,” Hayashi said faintly.

“Well . . . fuck,” Hekekia muttered. She raised her glass with a hopeful grin. “Care for a drink?”

#

Carvalho was almost at wit’s end. He’d searched everywhere he thought the duo might turn up at—places that were loud, boisterous, and still had free-flowing taps despite the hour.

Duffy’s? No sign of either.

The Red Dog Ale Yard? Nobody had seen them.

Liquor Up Quicker? He’d been almost certain they would have ended up there at some point in the evening because of the name alone, but he’d been wrong.

He checked his comms to see if perhaps someone had actually caught a Crow—two of them, in fact—but he had no outstanding messages. His eyes did catch that it was close to 0330, which was later than he’d expected it to be. The last shuttle back up to the Perseverance was at 0430, and he definitely did not want to ride that. The last shuttle was usually reserved for the drunkest of sailors and legionnaires, and had the distinction of being called the Vomit Comet for a very specific reason.

As he continued to walk through the smaller streets of Yortugan Bay at a loss where to search next for his door gunners, a sign caught his eye which brought him up short.

BIGGEST MUDSLIDES IN YORTUGAN BAY, it proclaimed.

“No . . .” he let the last syllable draw itself out as horrific suspicion dawned. Surely the two diminutive psychopaths had learned their lesson with mudslides after the incident at West Keys back on Mars Primus.

Right?

Before he could muster the fortitude to venture inside and see if his horrified suspicions were correct, a familiar legionnaire marched out the open double doors. Over each shoulder was an equally familiar, if smaller, member of the dastardly drunken duo.

“Where . . . how . . . what the hell, man?” Carvalho sputtered as he stared at Ord, uncomprehending. The two little troublemaking psychopaths were hiccupping between laughs. Hekekia was draped over his right shoulder, while Hayashi was on Ord’s left.

“You owe me,” Ord said as he shifted slightly, which elicited a loud belch from Hayashi. Hekekia laughed harder, and promptly threw up. Groaning, she tried to roll over but Ord kept her firmly in place over his right shoulder with his grip.

“Girl, gross,” Hayashi muttered. “That sounded chunky.”

“I think that was the blue drink,” Hekekia replied. The tiny gunners fist-bumped and started giggling anew, showing off impressive hand-eye coordination for as drunk as they were, as well as being upside down. “Or the red one? Maybe the swirly pink? Definitely nooot the mudslides. Noper McNoperson!”

“Almost caught ’im.” A dreamy smile spread across Hayashi’s face. “Almost caught our first Crow.”

“Almost . . .” Hekekia trailed off with a pouty scowl. “Aw, hell. Carvalho’s here.”

“You’re damn right I’m here.”

“I think he’s mad at us.”

“Mad at you, maybe. At least I didn’t puke on Ordo—” The retching this time was worse than previous. “. . . urk. That tasted better the first time. Oops. I think that got on his pants.”

“You puked on Ordo’s pants? Oh fuuuuuuu—” Another vomiting sound erupted.

“You owe me.”

“Fuck my life . . .”

#

With Ord’s assistance, Carvalho managed to get HeyHey onto the shuttle back up to the PNV Perseverance without too much trouble. The sergeant remained on the planet to ensure all his legionnaires made it to muster on time, which gave Carvalho the entire ride up to their ship to chastise HeyHey.

Not that it did any good. Without stims to bring them out of their drunken stupor, everything he said to them bounced off like rubber, every part of his lecture about responsibility was summarily ignored. Fortunately, they’d puked almost everything in their stomachs out on-planet, so they didn’t get sick during the docking procedures. In the end, he admitted defeat and quit trying to teach them a valuable life lesson, deciding instead to simply help get them to their quarters. There, a bemused Bronze Raven 5 gunner took custody of them, though she didn’t hesitate to give him an openly appreciative look.

Carvalho gave Corporal Collier credit for keeping her mouth shut.

Mostly.

“Daaaaamn, Sarge . . . nice,” and a very feminine cackle followed him down the hall as he headed to his berthing space as fast as dignity would allow.

Fuck my life . . .

He most assuredly did not blush at the comment, despite the reddening of skin. This was due to the cold in the corridors of the Navy vessel, nothing more. There was no one else to try to prove him otherwise, either.

The familiar halls of the Perseverance were mostly empty. As usual, the majority of the legionnaires who’d taken liberty down to the planet were waiting until the very last minute for their ride back up—excluding those who were already down for their training workups. Thus, there was nobody around to comment on his lack of shirt, wonder why his boots were making a squishing sound with every step, or ask why he smelled so horrible.

Just another night on the town for a Crow cursed with tiny miscreants for gunners.

Once back to his berthing space, he stripped out of his still-damp pants and tossed them into a sealed bag. Eventually he’d take them down to be laundered and cleaned, but he’d worry about that after a hot shower. He glanced at his immaculately made bed longingly before sternly reminding himself that he desperately needed to get clean, and trudged across the hall to the men’s shower.

Thanks to the recyclers, water wasn’t a huge deal, so he took his time luxuriating in the steaming hot water. Once he was done, he quickly toweled off and grabbed a pair of clean coveralls. There was still time for him to get some decent sleep before muster and late chow, and he could save some time by sleeping fully dressed and ready for the coming day.

The corridor was still quiet, the hour late. Yawning, Carvalho toweled his hair dry and entered his berthing space once more. Tossing the towel into the sealed bag to join his nearly ruined pants, he stopped and stared as a strange sight greeted him.

On his immaculately made bed was a single, unadorned container roughly the size of a shoebox. It had definitely not been there when he’d first arrived in his space. He would have seen it. Because unlike almost all of Bravo Company, he hadn’t been drinking tonight. Rubbing his eyes, he picked it up. It had some weight to it. He sniffed. It smelled . . . vaguely good, and familiar. It was also warm.

Cautiously, he opened the box. A tantalizing aroma slapped him in the face. Peering down, he gasped.

Inside was a perfectly grilled, gorgeously marbled Grade 1A ribeye steak from Gunrunner’s, complete with a side of baby carrots and asparagus. There was also a fork and steak knife inside. Blinking his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, Carvalho reached inside and touched the steak. It was still hot, as were the carrots and asparagus.

He glanced at his door. It was locked and biocoded for him and him alone. Only a senior NCO or officer could access his quarters without permission . . . and he was absolutely certain that he had rank on the one person who was the primary suspect for the unexpected gift. There was no way the legionnaire could have gotten into his berthing space without him knowing, or approving.

But the steak suggested that Bronze Legion Sergeant Emmett “Ordo” Ord had indeed found a way . . .

“How the fuck did he pull that off?” Carvalho wondered as he eyeballed the gorgeous slab of perfectly cooked meat. He glanced at his comms and saw that he still had four hours to eat and catch a quick nap before muster. The ride up in the shuttle had been faster than expected. Conversely, he could sleep now and eat the steak later. That would give him almost four and a half hours of sleep.

The decision was an easy one for him to make.

Lose thirty minutes of sleep? Worth it, he decided as he shoveled the first slice of still-hot steak into his mouth.

END

Copyright © 2025 by Jason Cordova and Melissa Olthoff

Jason Cordova is both a John W. Campbell Award and Dragon Award finalist. He edited his first anthology, Chicks in Tank Tops, coauthored Monster Hunter Memoirs: Fever with Larry Correia, and wrote Mountain of Fire in the Black Tide Rising universe, all with Baen Books. He has 28 novels currently in print and has been featured in numerous anthologies. A Navy veteran, he is also a former middle school teacher. Though Californian by birth, he has since relocated to the South, where he swears at the humidity on a thrice-daily basis. He can be found at www.jasoncordova.com.

Melissa Olthoff is a science fiction and fantasy author who delights in sneaking in romance wherever she can. She is a lifelong geek and a veteran of the United States Air Force, both of which are incredibly useful when writing. Her degrees in meteorology and accounting are slightly less applicable to writing but absolutely useful when it comes to supporting her family. In 2023, she took second place in the annual Baen Fantasy Adventure Award Contest with her story “Fall from Grace” and won the Imadjinn Award Best Short Story in 2023 and 2024. She is published by Baen, Chris Kennedy Publishing, Hit World Press, and Three Ravens Publishing, and is best known for her novel of the Griffin Corps, Rise from Ruin, and novels in the Four Horsemen Universe, the Blood & Armor Series, the Salvage Title Universe, and Hit World Valkyries, as well as numerous short stories.