I stepped back. His first shot was stiff and wide, but he handled the recoil. Standard MP firearms have little recoil in comparison. His second attempt was smoother but still off.
Smith approached. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Corporal. My next bit of advice was on how to clobber your target with the butt.”
“As heavy as this thing is,” O’Vorley said, “I’m sure it’d be enough.”
While Smith instructed O’Vorley, I returned to the bench and pulled out the old double-barrel. “Ever seen one of these, Yizardo?” I tossed it to him.
“On flat-screen westerns. Doc Holiday had one.” He broke it open and peered down the barrels. “Is this what you carry on duty?”
“No. I’m a little more modern than that.” I winked, handing him two boxes of 12-gauge shells. “Fifty number four shot. Good for small game, and okay for target.” I stood up and caught a glimpse of Ringsar watching from a distance. “Yizardo, do you think you and your friend can figure it out while I check to see how much Smith has screwed up my trainee?”
“We’re Marines,” Yizardo said, turning to DeLark. “Punch up some small game targets.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never hunted small game with a shotgun before. How ’bout a duck?”
“Is that small enough?” asked DeLark. “Says quail on the screen. What’s quail?”
I ignored their little debate. Smith was supervising O’Vorley in reloading the Dragoon. “How’d he do?”
“Pretty rough. Maybe above average for a security specialist.”
“Does he have potential, Corporal?”
“Not as an expert marksman, but with training and practice, and a real weapon, he’d be competent.”
I looked at Smith. “Problem is, his corporation sent him here with no training. From what I’ve seen he isn’t likely to get it. You can learn only so much from holographic instruction.” I shook my head. “It’s the best he’s likely to get. You’ve seen things around here.”
“Not really. I’m on a short layover. Been assigned with DeLark and a few other marines for a transport coming in tomorrow.”
“The Kalavar?”
“Yes,” said Smith. He examined my company logo. “You mean I’m going to have to share air with a true hard-core R-Tech?”
“That could be the case.” I watched DeLark and Yizardo blasting away. Shifting my focus down range, I spotted a holographic pile of birds and other vermin. “Good shots,” I said to no one in particular before looking back at Smith. “I saw Yizardo on duty in Green Sector. Like all Marines, I’m sure he’s good man. You think he might be willing to work with O’Vorley here?”
“Maybe,” said Smith. “What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing really. I nearly got killed in a crossfire today.” I nodded toward the listening O’Vorley. “If he’d been in my place, he’d be dead. His sponsor won’t even issue him a sidearm yet.”
Smith leaned back, evaluating what I’d said.
“I’d train him myself,” I explained, “if I had time. But I have orders like you.”
“So all this old firearm demonstration and friendliness was meant to sucker us in?”
“Corporal,” I said, “do you really believe I think that little of the Colonial Marines?” I pointed to the Dragoon and looked over at the other two marines having a good time. “But if I hadn’t caught your interest with this stuff, would you have even exchanged pleasantries with us?” I pressed on before Smith could respond. “And even if nobody was here, or interested, O’Vorley would’ve gotten some range time under his belt.”
“No,” agreed Smith, “we’d never have learned what wonderful fellows you two security types are.” Then he shook his head, grinning. “Well, maybe you, Keesay. Yizardo told us about your morning.”
I looked to O’Vorley with eyebrows raised.
“Do you think,” O’Vorley asked, “maybe Private Yizardo would take the time to train me in firearm proficiency?” His voice was quiet. “Our current schedules would seem to permit it. I couldn’t pay him much—but I’m well trained in routine network systems and report filing. Our duty report formatting is almost identical.”
“You’ll have to speak up if you ever want to get noticed,” Smith said. “It ain’t up to me, but you guessed it, O’Vorley. Yizardo hates report filing. Maybe despises.”
“If you’re just passing through here, how do you know him?” I asked.
“We came up through basic together,” Smith replied before looking back at O’Vorley. “Kid, I’ll soften him up for you, but you’ll have to make your own pitch.” He took the Dragoon from O’Vorley’s hand. “And if you screw up his reports, my fellow marine will let you know it.”
“In other words, it’ll take weeks before O’Vorley’s face gets back to looking as good as mine?” I asked, turning to present a profile view.
Smith patted O’Vorley on the shoulder. “Your friend’s got the gist of it.” He prepared to join his friends.
“Smith, before you have your fun,” I interrupted, “do you know anything about that marine, Ringsar out there. Seems like someone stitched his undershorts a little tight.”
Smith glanced through the barrier. “Don’t know him. Looks pretty big. I’d avoid letting him work out his problem on me.”
“Thanks for the helpful advice.” I turned back to O’Vorley and handed him my duty revolver. “Let’s see what you can do.”
After thirty rounds, O’Vorley showed some progress. After a dozen more, I gave O’Vorley my backup .38 and a box of shells. “See what you can do with Yizardo. And make sure there aren’t any shotgun shells to carry back.”
“Thanks, Kra,” he said quietly before heading over.
I reloaded my duty revolver and holstered it before leaning back on a bench to relax. My eyes hadn’t closed for more than thirty seconds when I felt a thumping on the transparent barrier behind my head. Ringsar stood looming with a less than delighted look on his face. I checked my watch. We still had at least ten minutes on the range. He signaled me to step out. Not good, but I didn’t seem to have much choice. My lip began to throb as my heart rate stepped up, just a bit.
Chapter 13
Shortly after the Silicate War ended, humanity negotiated its way into the Intragalactic Frontier. As with all interstellar species, a treaty zone was established around the homeworld. The purpose is to provide a secured area of expansion, ensuring an initial buffer from the more advanced, aggressive interstellar explorers. Just before negotiations commenced, the Umbelgarri shared surveys that indicated a comparatively large number of potentially habitable planets and moons existing near the outer edges of a 100 light year radius from Earth. This was especially pertinent due to the sparse potential identified closer to Earth.
Regrettably for humanity, the diplomats sent to negotiate were intragalactically inexperienced and overconfident. Prideful in the belief that humanity did not need to hold the hand of another species to find its way, they brashly rebuffed Umbelgarri assistance. And forgetting to dispense with humanity’s egocentric view, they hastily signed the finalized version of the treaty. To their credit, the human representatives did establish 102 light years radiating from Earth’s sun as sovereign territory. Citing historical precedent they boasted over a third of a million cubic light years better than the average negotiated treaty. Unfortunately, the treaty arbitrators were the Troh-gots, and the arbiters were the Primus Crax. Each of their primary manipulative appendages has only four digits. They count in base 8.
I stepped out to confront Private Ringsar. His three companions stood a short way off, watching with interest as the door slid closed behind me. “We’ve still got fifteen minutes scheduled,” I said, looking up into his narrowing glare.
“I’m not interested in range time,” he said, moving closer. “I want to know why you’re putting on a good time for those marines and not for me and my friends?”
Ringsar was so close his muscular frame bloc
ked my view of his friends, but I stood my ground knowing where this was going. I couldn’t afford being laid up in the infirmary with the Kalavar due to arrive. It could void my contract, leaving me stranded and without a corporate sponsor. “If you recall, Private Ringsar,” I said calmly, “it was you who clearly pointed out you did not desire my company.”
“It was a joke, Specialist.”
“It didn’t sound like one to me and it’s been my experience to give a marine his space if he requests it.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have a sense of humor, R-Tech?”
While looking for some sign that Smith, Yizardo, or even O’Vorley had taken notice of my predicament, I kept my voice even. “I’m saying that I take a Colonial Marine at his word.” I felt his breath. Maybe they’d pull him off while I was still in one piece.
“Pardon me, Marine,” came a voice from behind Ringsar. “I would— ”
The marine half turned to scrutinize the speaker. It was the attendant holding two boxes. He apparently didn’t realize I was talking to the huge marine. “You would what?” Ringsar said with a snarl.
“I ahh...” said the attendant. Looking quickly, he handed me the two boxes of .38s. “I brought you these. Thought you might want them.” Without glancing up he retreated.
“Thanks,” I said, setting the boxes on a ledge behind me.
“Pillar,” called one of the observing marines, “what’s the relic got to say for himself?”
With nonchalance Ringsar turned his head. “Nothing intelligent. I think his intention is to insult my honor.”
It was my chance to get in a first, and probably only, shot. I passed it up. My chances against a marine nicknamed Pillar weren’t good.
Ringsar looked back, surprise I didn’t try anything. His ears turned red. “You sure are cowardly, boy.”
“Let’s just say that if I’m going to get roughed up by a marine, the reason should be clear ahead of time.”
“I’d say I’m gonna more than rough your ass up,” he said, squaring up. “And the reason is you pissed me off.”
“And exactly how did I manage that, Marine?” I asked, trying to keep him talking. “By agreeing with you and doing as you requested?” He was going to have to throw the first punch. If I could make him miss, I might get to counter. At least it’d be on record. “I wouldn’t want to make the same mistake again.”
“Your mistake’ll be—”
“Private Ringsar,” barked an authoritative voice.
My adversary relaxed for a fraction of a second, then turned and stood at attention. “Sir.”
The range master, standing several paces back, asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No, sir, Lieutenant.”
“Of course not, Private. Specialist, is there a problem?”
“There might have been,” I replied. “I was just asking Private Ringsar what rule of etiquette I broke, sir.”
“Looking to bloody your knuckles again, Marine? How did the security specialist manage to offend you?” The lieutenant didn’t wait for an answer. “If you gentlemen have a dispute, settle it on the target range or take it elsewhere.”
Ringsar saluted as the lieutenant turned and left. Then he looked at me. His companions approached as the door behind me slid open. “How would you recommend we settle this, R-Tech?”
“I’m still unclear on how I managed to offend you,” I said and glanced over my shoulder. Smith, and DeLark were right behind me. A little late. I didn’t figure they’d back me, but maybe they could’ve cooled him off. “But you apparently wanted a chance to fire my old-style weapons. Why not settle it with them?”
“What are you getting at?” he asked with a skeptical glare.
“I’m simply saying that we settle our dispute as the lieutenant suggested, with a little competition using the exact firearms you’re implying I snubbed you with.”
“I told you earlier, R-Tech. Due to your presence, advanced targeting and combat programming is no longer supported.”
Ringsar’s associates crowded up behind him. I stood aside as Smith and his friends stepped out of the range, followed by O’Vorley.
“I wouldn’t expect you to compete with me on a security training program,” I said as Ringsar’s arms dropped to his hips. “It comes down to training. A colonial marine is trained to hunt and kill. A security specialist is trained to observe and react.”
“So what’re you getting at, R-Tech?”
If he was expecting his repeated use of R-Tech to get under my skin, he was wrong. But I could also see his mind was at work. “What I am saying, Marine, is that with my old-style firearms we should compete on a neutral targeting program.”
“You pick the weapons,” he said. “I pick the program.” One of his buddies tapped his shoulder. “Yeah, and my friends here wanted to shoot, too.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Two shooters. We’ll use my revolver and the double-barrel.”
“Good, you and your fellow Sec-Spec.”
Nice try, I thought. “You indicated the dispute is between you and me…”
“Backin’ out?” he interrupted.
“As I said, the dispute is between you and me. I’d say that one marine for you and one shooting with me wouldn’t tip the scales. Unless you need someone to pick up your slack.” I again observed his ears reddening. “And you can choose the targeting program, if my shooting partner agrees that it’s neutral.” I glanced quickly at Smith, hoping it was a smile that he was working to suppress. I figured on asking him. He knew about old-style weapons. Yizardo was stationed with Ringsar and his pals and his eyes were wide during the exchange so I didn’t know how that would play out. DeLark was a good shot, young and brash enough. But I trusted Smith more.
“You think there’s a marine on this dock that’ll shoot with you, R-Tech?”
Smith stepped forward. “I know of one. Choose a targeting routine.”
“What do I get when I win?” asked Ringsar.
“Respect, if you win,” said Smith. “Quit stalling.”
“What do you got to put up when you lose?” I asked.
Ringsar’s cohorts laughed. “What have you got to put up, Relic?” said the towering marine, again beginning to fume.
“Since you’re so fond of my old-style firearms, let’s say if you win you can have the double-barrel.”
“What about your revolver?” he taunted.
“It is my duty firearm. I could relinquish it no more than you could your marine-issued sidearm.” Ringsar seemed unfazed. “Okay then, if you—”
Corporal Smith cut me off. “It’s against regulations.”
I had to keep the pressure up. “Then what do you have to put up of equal value?”
“What’s that old hunk of steel worth?” he asked. “A week’s worth of field rations?”
“Obviously, you’re ignorant of antique firearm values. It’s probably worth two or three month’s pay for a Colonial Marine private. When you lose, I can arrange to have your wages transferred directly to my account.”
“What? For that?”
“Come on, Private,” said Smith. “Let’s get on with it. Come to terms and choose.”
The focus of Ringsar’s ire shifted. Two of his friends grabbed his shoulders. DeLark stepped up as Smith’s face released a long-retained smile.
I thought of O’Vorley stuck on this dock with Ringsar. “Loser pays for two Gourmet Line meals. I’ll settle for that. How about you, Smith?”
“Fine with me,” said Smith. “Now select if you can afford that, Private.”
“Fine,” growled Ringsar.
I saw Ringsar’s mind shifting gears. I handed O’Vorley my duty revolver. “Run a brush through this,” I said. “It’s loaded.” He took it. “And the shotgun too. There’s a brush with a telescopic rod in the bag.” I looked at Smith and then to Ringsar.
“Crax Com-Tower Approach,” said Ringsar. “Stegmar Mantis Primary Defense.”
Smith shook his head. “Requires assault
tactics, demolition knowledge to complete. Remember, Private, neutral parameters.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” replied Ringsar. “Diversion, Damaged Bunker Defense.”
I knew what the Stegmar Mantis were, but I hadn’t read much on them. They’re two-foot high aliens resembling a praying mantis. Small but strong enough to tear a man’s arm from its socket. Fortunately, the holographic programming couldn’t simulate that.
“Score based on targets eliminated and duration of diversion,” Ringsar said. “Good enough for you, Corporal?” The big marine seemed to be getting his head about him.
“DeLark, what’s left to shoot in my bag?” I asked.
“About a hundred 12-gauge shells,” he replied. “Three boxes of .357 shells.”
“Plus these .38s,” I said, grabbing the boxes from the ledge. “We’ll split them evenly. Who’s your shooter?”
“Hiroyuki is,” Ringsar said, mirroring Smith’s smile.
“Fine, but no advanced gear,” I said, tossing Hiroyuki the boxes of .38 specials. “Just what we’re wearing.”
“Program options allow for field equipment selection,” Ringsar said. “Whatever you take is deducted from your final score.”
“Defensive, fine.” I looked at DeLark. “Will you split up the ammo?” As he nodded I looked up. “You need any firearms instruction on these simple old relics, Colonial Marine Ringsar? I’ll be more than happy to provide it.”
DeLark went to get O’Vorley along with the firearms and ammunition. Yizardo volunteered to see the range master about the programming.
“Yizardo,” Smith said as he turned, “tell the range master to set programming to Marine Training Protocol with an additional four minutes between competition rounds to clean and prepare the old-style arms.” Then he looked at Ringsar. “Well, Private, Keesay here offered you remedial training. You need it or are you stalling again? I’m hungry for a gourmet meal.”
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