This is hardcore military SF, with the emphasis firmly on the military, but the SF is sharp, original, and intriguing. David Gunn is writing from a mixture of experience and imagination, and I would bet that the strangest scenes derive from experience. His descriptions of politicking at all levels, within units, within prison, social, governmental, and galactic, indicate that he is observant and no fool. The writing style struck me as a cross between Jarhead and Melville’s satire The Confidence-Man. Gunn writes in a high testosterone voice, but articulately and with a vastly greater vocabulary than say, Hemingway.

The protagonist, Sven, besides having a metal arm that replaced the one he lost in a fight, is 98.2% human and 1.8% some unspecified other, and he proves to be capable of pain-induced telepathy, at least with the telepathic alien ferox. He has another, crucial genetic gift: regeneration. With these 3 advantages, he is equipped to survive situations that spell death to others, and that makes him … useful.

The ferox are desert dwelling telepathic nomads, and since humans are not ordinarily telepathic, they regard humans much the way we regard cows with guns. When ferox overrun a desert fort, they find wet-behind-the-ears soldiers who die quickly, and Sven, tied up to a whipping post for execution, because he and the NCO in charge didn’t exactly get along. Sven responds to their mental queries, so they take him along; and he becomes a sort of mascot, until near starvation and a flamefire attack destroy the ferox base. Sven is rescued by the elite fighting force known as the Death’s Head, but being the sole survivor of a ferox attack makes him smell like a traitor, so he is sent to a prison planet.

What is really going on is that he is being assessed for possible recruitment by none other than Emperor OctoV himself. As a prisoner, Sven leads his group of political prisoners and derelicts to a position of relative power within the system. In the process, he comes to genuinely respect two of the prisoners, and when one of them asks him for a favor, he makes a promise that will supersede all subsequent mere orders by officers or emperors. On his first assignment, these conflicting loyalties are put to the test.

As he proves his worth to the Death’s Head chain of command, his missions become increasingly galactic in scope, as the Emperor sends his cannon fodder to grab planets held by the Uplifted, a civilization of humans ruled by cyborgs. These wars are overseen, and occasionally mediated, by the U/Free civilization, which has sufficiently advanced technology that neither the Emperor nor the Uplifted will openly defy it. As Sven observes, the U/Free carry such a big stick they can afford to speak very softly.

Along the way Sven forms his own indispensable cadre of Death’s Head auxiliaries, who are as irreverent as he and almost as focused on getting the job done, in spite of being young, or borderline psychotic, or infected by the Uplift virus. He also acquires the best sidekick since the Carrie/Robin character in Frank Miller’s mind-blowing Batman mini-series The Dark Knight: a smart handgun that imprints on Sven and then responds empathically to his read of a situation, making snide commentaries. Yes, the sidearm is the sidekick.

Here’s a small quote, so you can get a sense of the writing. This is from page 13 (advanced reader’s copy), when Sven is still tied to the whipping post and a ferox is folding him by the throat.

“The ferox follows my glance. Then his other hand moves to the broken flesh of my back as he dips his fingers into my blood and carries it to his mouth. Seconds later, he spits and keeps spitting. I could have told him.

Bad blood, my father always said.” – Chris Paige