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do remember being brought before a magistrate. The essence of what he said was this: There was no proof that I had either instigated the riot or done any of the damage, but I had certainly been involved. I was henceforth barred from the privilege of performing migrant labor.
    Privilege? “But my ID replacement never came through!” I protested. “I can't get other work!”
    "We are aware of that. Therefore, your options are limited. You are a resident alien of uncertain status.
    You must choose between deportation to your planet of origin or induction into the Jupiter Navy as a recruit."
    “But I'm underage,” I said, though I wanted no part of deportation to Callisto, where at best I would face indefinite prison. If the Halfcal bureaucracy was as inefficient as that of Jupiter, they probably would not be able to identify me, and that could save my life; but still there was no future for me there. Yet I had tried to join the Navy before and learned that seventeen was their minimum enlistment age. I lacked six months.
    “We have two affidavits attesting to your age as seventeen,” he said tiredly, as if accustomed to the prevarications of migrant scum. “You are eligible for induction.”
    “Two?” I was amazed by this detail. “Who?”
    He checked the papers on his desk impatiently. “Rivers, half-brother of the deceased, who testifies that the deceased informed him you were of age, and that the deceased was in a position to know.”
    Rivers! Now I remembered that he had said he owed me one. It seemed this was his way of paying. Joe might have told him I had tried to enlist in the Navy; Joe would not have lied about my age. All the migrants knew I faced trouble on Callisto, for I had told my story in full detail several times.
    “He also testified that you had no part in the incitement to riot, though the deceased was a friend of yours. That you had been ill. A blood test confirmed mild contamination in your system, evidently from defective food. Rivers will be put on trial for riot, but we seem to have no reason to doubt his statements concerning you.” He leafed through more pages. “The other statement is by your uncle Worry, confirming your age.”
    Worry! So he had been true to the brotherhood of the song!
    “Nothing I can say would convince you that I am underage for induction?” I asked.
    “We have the affidavits,” he repeated firmly.
    I sighed. Please don't throw me in that briar patch! I had tried to tell the truth, and they wouldn't listen. “Then you had better draft me.”
    And that was the manner of my enlistment as a common soldier in the Jupiter Navy, at age sixteen and a half. My career as an alien mercenary had begun.

Bio of a Space Tyrant 2 - Mercenary
    Chapter 2 — BASIC TRAINING
    It would be tedious to describe in detail the whole of basic training, surely already familiar to the twenty-seventh-century citizen. The initial stage was a jumble of hurry-up-and-waits, of stripping and being reclothed completely, of taking batteries of tests for intelligence and aptitudes and skills, after a night with four hours sleep in a recalcitrant hammock. Hammocks are handy in space, because they adapt automatically to changes of thrust, but sleeping in them is an art that is not mastered instantly. I managed to make up the loss by sleeping through parts of several tests, by punching computer terminal buttons randomly in rapid order so as to finish early. I was a survivor. I was assigned to a barracks ship similar in certain respects to the migrant-labor ships I had been in before. That housing made it easy to ferry our company to any part of the base or nearby space for the various training exercises; in fact, sometimes we were moved while we slept. We never knew what new hazard we would emerge to, and perhaps that was best.
    I was part of the 666th Training Battalion, nicknamed “Hell's Rejects,” for reasons relating to occidental mythology or numerology and the supposed savagery of the