Jake Stockton held the cards in his hand, folded up. He hadn’t even looked at the one he’d just drawn. He just stared across the table, with the same non-committal look he’d worn on his face since he’d sat down two hours before.

The Siren’s Call was a bar typical of the sort that lined the area around the naval base. It was large, and a little rougher looking than the average watering hole, the kind of place where half the tables and chairs had been patched together after being used as clubs in one brawl or another. It was also a place where a spacer or Marine on shore leave could find a poker game. Not just cards, but the kind of hard core game where real money exchanged hands.

Stockton had a huge pile of chips in front of him, at least ten times what he’d started with. The players around the table had changed, three of the originals busted and replaced by others, but the giant directly across from Stockton was still there. He’d been the big winner, at least before Dauntless’s resident shark had arrived, and he stared back at Stockton with undisguised rage.

“Aren’t you gonna look at your cards?” The man’s accent was thick, a drawl Stockton figured came from someplace like Cavenaugh or Blackton, one of the coreward provincial worlds.

Stockton was a seasoned gambler, the only thing of value he’d inherited—or learned—from his father, and for all the bravado and cockiness he showed in the cockpit, he tended to keep as low a profile as possible at the poker table. But it didn’t look like it was working this time. The big man was clearly getting hot. His uniform was filthy and stained with the local ale, but there was no mistaking the Marine grays. And Stockton had long ago learned to tread carefully around the Confederation’s Marines. Especially big ones. Drunk big ones.

“No need, friend.” Stockton’s tone was cool, exuding confidence. He reached out and shoved a pile of chips toward the center of the table. “Five hundred.” He held the Marine’s stare, trying to push away the thoughts on just how easily the massive ground-pounder could snap him in half. Stockton was death personified in his fighter, but in a bar facing a Marine who outweighed him by at least fifty kilos, he suspected his prospects were less than rosy.

Play moved around the table, each player throwing in his cards. Until it got to the Marine. He stared back at Stockton as he pushed a stack of chips forward. “See your five hundred…and raise you another five hundred.”