Death World (Undying Mercenaries Series Book 5) by B. V. Larson Page A

it back on again.
    “All right,” he said. “Have it your way, kid. As the challenged, I choose the ground and the rules. I choose the mud-pit—with knives, nothing else.”
    I blinked. That hadn’t been part of my plan. I’d envisioned a straight-up shooting contest. Most Varus full-contact exercises went that way. We were accustomed to stalking one another in the rugged greenery, playing capture the flag or last-man-standing. Usually, scores were kept with automated equipment that incapacitated “dead” soldiers. But this time, it was going to be for real.
    “Knives?” I asked. Part of me began to question the wisdom of my challenge—but it was too late for regrets now.
    “You chicken?” Harris demanded angrily.
    “Nope. We accept. When do we go?”
    “How about right fucking now , farm-boy?”
    That was it. Negotiations had been concluded. Both squads began to hoot and rip off their clothes. We walked in two loose knots toward the mud-pit, which was located in the swampiest corner of Green Deck.
    The mud-pit was about forty meters across and one meter deep at the center. In the deep section in the middle of the pit, every step a man took threatened to suck off his shoes. The effort was quickly exhausting.
    “Strip down to your shorts,” I ordered my squaddies. “No tops. Don’t give them anything to hold onto. And try to stay out of the center of the pit.”
    My team shed their clothes and soon stood in camo shorts. They looked nervous, but game. I felt a surge of pride at that and also a pang of remorse. Not all of them would make it out of this alive. Their willingness to die at my orders gave me pause. Was my personal anger at the universe worthy of the pain and sacrifice they were about to experience?
    As soon as these debilitating thoughts entered my head, I did my best to push them away. They wouldn’t help me now. We were committed. Honor had to be served, and the best thing I could do for my squad was lead them to victory.
    Lining up on the shore, both squads stood with knives drawn. Some were snarling, some were staring with determined expressions.
    Experienced Varus legionnaires aren’t like normal folk. We’re killers. Everyone present had died at least a dozen times, and we’d killed many times our weight in enemies.
    There’s something different about a soldier who’s seen so much death, but you can’t understand the difference until you’ve see an experienced legionnaire face combat. Sure, we knew we’d catch a revive when this was over. But that didn’t mean shit to our bodies or our minds. A revive was a copy, nothing more. This flesh we stood in right now—that was going to be torn up and spit out. That’s what mattered to us, and we knew it was all too real. Our guts and our minds were churning.
    Before we started, I noticed there were drones floating overhead. A few knots of officers and troops from other units had come out to watch in person as well. Word had traveled fast. We were about to put on a show, and I had the feeling the entire complement of Minotaur would be watching tonight.
    Harris lifted his blade. It glittered, catching the gleam of a passing star that shone through the dome above. The heavens were displayed on that dome along with an added artificial sun that matched the one nearest to us in actual space. It was like standing in pale daylight—even though it was an illusion.
    Harris held his blade higher, urging me to get started.
    I looked over my troops. They were breathing hard and wearing grim expressions. Most of them were splashing mud over their bodies to provide less grip for our opponents. The women were bare-breasted, but nobody gave a damn about that now—we were about to fight to the death.
    None of them needed encouragement or correction from me, so I turned back to face my enemy. That’s what Harris and his crew were now—the enemy.
    My knife rose into the air, matching Harris’ blade and signaling we were ready. A roar left my throat, and