“I know we just came off the border…and I know we were all under a lot of stress. I know you had your leaves ripped out from under you…but I need you all to be razor sharp now. As dangerous as it was waiting for the Union attack, at least we had the fleet behind us there. We’re alone out here—weeks, even months, away from any possible help. Whatever’s out here, it’s Dauntless’s problem. And that means it’s our problem.”

He sighed softly, watching as the three officers nodded. He knew his people would be there, that they would do whatever he needed them to do. He was proud of the job he’d done molding them into what he—and Captain Barron too—considered the finest fighter wing in the Confederation.

No, the problem won’t be my people.

It will be whatever is out there waiting for us…

*   *   *

“Again, Rodrigues. Maybe I didn’t mention it, but this isn’t a fucking picnic. Now do it once like you give a shit!” Sergeant Ernesto Billos stood along the edge of the small gymnasium, scowling at the three men and one woman standing in front of him. “You all looked like crap, but congratulations, Rodrigues…you were the worst. I wouldn’t even give a shit, but when you bring that piss poor effort into battle and get yourself scragged, I gotta fill out the forms…and the captain’s got to write the letter to your folks, so save us both the hassle and just pay fucking attention.”

Billos was a Marine. Career. Every word that came out of his mouth, the way he stood, his bearing…it all screamed Marine. And he knew there was only one way to handle the men and women in his charge. Push them. Harder than last time.

The Confederation had been at peace for most of the last generation…and that meant the Marines had one job. Getting ready for the next war. The one that could come. The one that would come. And he wasn’t about to let anybody coast…and especially not now, when Dauntless was racing out to the frontier to deal with some kind of crisis. If whatever was out there was on the ground then the Marines would earn their pay.