Psychic Warrior

by Bob Mayer

  Remembering Ranger School, Dalton's lips curled in a slight smile inside the TACPAD and around the tube shoved into his mouth as he followed the instructions of Dr. Hammond. It was the same routine he’d done the first time: focusing on the white dot, followed by moving along the grid line. What would his grizzled Ranger instructors have thought of this new form of soldiering? Floating in a freezing tank, connected to a computer? They would have liked the freezing-tank part. It seemed like every military school Dalton had gone through had immersion into cold water as part of the curriculum.

  "Now we fit you to your basic avatar," Hammond said, her voice filtered through Sybyl. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes." Dalton found this talking inside his own head to Hammond very strange.

  The grid lines disappeared. A stick figure replaced them after a brief blackout.

  "This is you."

  "Lost some weight," Dalton said.

  "This form has no mass at present, although once projected out of the virtual and into the real world, it will have mass out of the energy we will send using Sybyl."

  “It was a joke," Dalton said.

  There was a long pause.

  "We will proceed. Sybyl will run you through a series of maneuvers to familiarize you with your avatar."

  Dalton waited patiently. He had no idea how much time had already elapsed. That was something he was going to have to ask Hammond-how could one keep track of time in the virtual world?

  "Move your left arm," Sybyl commanded.

  Dalton tried to do as he was told, but he could feel nothing from his left arm.

  "Again."

  They went through this how many times Dalton didn't know, until suddenly he felt a painful twinge in his arm. “Hey!" Dalton yelled.

  "You’re getting feedback?" Hammond asked.

  "I can feel my arm."

  "You feel your virtual arm," Hammond said. "Now you can move it. I’ve had to make sure you have feedback before we allow movement. Now we’ll allow your nervous system to interact more fully with the form."

  Dalton focused on moving his arm forward. The stick figure in front of him slowly moved its right arm forward. Dalton felt his arm move at the same time. It was very confusing, since he knew that his arm had not moved in reality.

  "Experiment," Sybyl told him. "Practice."

  Dalton did just that for a while before he noticed something. "What about my hands?"

  "We start with the basics," Hammond said. "This form is the barest outline of the avatar you’ll eventually employ. Try the other arm."

  Soon Dalton could move all of his limbs individually. Sybyl then tested him in much the same manner that she had with the grid lines. A light would flash next to one of the limbs and he had to move in the direction of the light. The computer would also rotate the figure left and right, so that he had to move forward and back.

  As the practice went on, Sybyl started flashing lights in combination and at a faster pace. Dalton found himself totally immersed in trying to keep up. It was like when he had first learned martial arts, the practice at making all movements a routine, an instinct.

  Hammond's voice came back “The goal is so that you can move the avatar as naturally as you move your own body. For example, if you were to do a forward roll, you wouldn’t be thinking how each of your arms and legs moved. You would do the roll. The avatar needs to be as much a part of you, so that you can move in combination in an unconscious mode. The major thing keeping you from that right now is the belief in your mind that you aren’t really the form you see. You must suspend your disbelief and believe you’re looking into a mirror. But focus on what you feel, not what you see."

  Dalton did as she instructed and found that his action became more natural. It felt as if he were floating in the tank at scuba school, weightless and free. He rolled forward.

  "Whoa!" Dalton yelled. The figure in front of him was tumbling and he felt like he was spinning out of control. With great effort he brought himself to a halt.

  "How do I know which way is up?" Dalton said. "I've got no feeling of weight. Even in water, I can tell direction by checking out my air bubbles. Here there’s nothing."

  A red line appeared next to the figure, arrows on it slowly going by pointing up. "Orient on the arrows," Hammond suggested.

  Dalton did the roll again, but this time he focused on the red arrows. He did two complete revolutions, then halted himself.

  “Very good."

  Dalton felt like he was gasping for breath, but he knew now that it was only a part of the virtual feedback.

  "Now feet and hands," Sybyl said.

  Dalton found that more difficult. He had never truly realized how complex the human hand was and how many moving parts it had. The foot was also hard to master.

  Soon Sybyl had him mimicking the act of walking, the stick figure moving jerkily along. One thing Dalton found disconcerting was the lack of resistance, particularly to his feet.

  "Right now you might consider what you’re doing walking in space, much like an astronaut, "Hammond said. "As you may have noted you have no weight. You’re acting against no object. You’re totally free. It’s important to learn this type of movement, first because it is the most strange for you and also because it’s the way you will feel while you travel on the virtual plane."

  "Can I go somewhere?" Dalton asked.

  There was a pause. “I’ll check with Raisor."

  "Why?"

  There was another pause. "Because he's in charge."

  "Forget it," Dalton said.

  "You’ve completed this phase of training " Hammond said. “We’re pulling you out."

  *****

  "The fools will never succeed," Feteror's grandfather said as he stood at the edge of their glade, peering in the direction of the open fields. There was the distant heavy coughing sound of the Combine's tractors working the land. Even in the virtual world, the State intruded, Feteror thought wryly. He knew he could delete the sound, but it was that way the last time he’d been in the glade.

  Feteror frowned. He’d told his grandfather his entire plan and this was his response?

  "Did you hear me, Opa?"

  "I heard you. I know little of such matters, so you must do what you deem is best." His grandfather shook his head, his heavy gray beard slowly swinging back and forth. "They think the group is stronger than the individual, but it is not so. Because the group is only as strong as the weakest individual. A good person can beat any group."

  "Then you believe I will succeed?" Feteror asked.

  "Even in the war," the old man went on as if he had not heard a word. "The generals used us as if none of us mattered. They threw us against the Germans like so many pieces of garbage to be tossed onto the scrap heap. They'd keep our artillery fire so close that we lost as many of our own as the Germans did to our shells. But what did the generals care about us? We weren't them. More importantly, from their perspective, they weren't us. They had a goal and we were the means to achieve that goal."

  Feteror stared at the construct of his grandfather. Zivon had developed this persona out of the memories that Feteror had poured into the computer, but in the past year or so, Feteror had slowly become aware that the persona had grown beyond the memories. It used words his grandfather had never known, but underneath, Feteror still felt that the essence of the construct was his grandfather.

  "And we did win," Opa continued. "But what did we win?"

  "You defeated the Nazis," Feteror said.

  "Yes, we won that," the old man acknowledged. "But what was the total result? The entirety? We thought we were fighting for good." His withered hand swept around, taking in what Feteror knew was supposed to be the farm. "We produce less now than we did when we worked the land, our land, with just a sickle and horses to pull the carts. Sometimes you can think you win but actually lose if the price you pay for winning is too high. You can lose your soul."

  "What-" Feteror began, but the old man cut him off.

  "I want
to know what happened to you, grandson. Tell me of your last battle." He waved the hand about. "I don’t understand all this. I must know where you have come from."

  That memory was in Zivon also, a recollection that Feteror was loath to go into. Feteror felt a spasm pass through a nonexistent stomach, his mind reacting.

  The glade faded and he and Opa were over a village set in the mountains. Feteror knew the when and where: Afghanistan, August 29, 1986. Feteror realized he didn't have control over this playback and that his grandfather would see the true extent of what had happened:

  *****

  A dry wind blew dawn off the mountain peaks that surrounded the valley, kicking up small dust storms. Feteror pulled the cloth tighter aver his face and narrowed his eyes as his men drew closer, stepping onto the dirt road that served as the village's main thoroughfare.

  Feteror knew that because of the war, the people of the village had seen much pain and suffering but to them that was simply the way life was. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan seven years ago and still the war dragged on, but he’d learned that it was not of much concern, since if it was not the Russians, then the people would be fighting another village or some other foreign power. War was an integral part of life for the mujahidin who controlled the countryside, and it mattered little to them who claimed rulership of the country in Kabul.

  The mujahidin did, however, enjoy the new weapons that the Americans were sending in through Pakistan, especially the Stinger missiles. Just a week ago, a passing band of mujahidin had downed a Russian helicopter flying by low in the valley. When the villagers had come upon the crash site, they’d found eight dead Russians. Feteror had a good idea of what had happened next from other villages he’d raided. The Afghanis had cut the heads off and brought them back to the village to be used later when playing the Afghani version of polo, the heads replacing the ball. The game, of course, would have to wait until the men of the village returned. Most of the men were gone, either dead or off fighting. Feteror knew there was little concern in the village about the Russians or their Afghani Army lackeys because the village didn't sit astride any route of communication nor did it have any resource of great value. The war had been going on for long enough now that the Soviets no longer sought out conflict, but stayed inside their fortified positions, fighting only when forced to. Feteror was counting on the villagers' complacent attitude to get his disguised band of men into their midst.

  Thus, when the small group of eight men was spotted walking up the valley floor toward the village in the early morning light by a young boy tending his flock, there was not much concern. The elder, summoned out of his house, could see that the men coming up the valley were dressed in the traditional robes and turban of the mujahidin fighter and that they were moving openly. As they approached, he ordered the eleven remaining families to contribute some food so that the fighters might be nourished as they passed through.

  It was too late when the elder turned to yell for his youngest son to get his weapon, as Feteror's men whipped aside their robes. AK-74 assault rifles began firing killing the few villagers who had weapons. Resistance was destroyed in less than thirty seconds.

  The elder had not moved throughout the entire time. To do so would invite death and his duty was to the village and the people as a whole. Feteror's men spread out, mopping up.

  Feteror walked directly toward the elder, his rifle held loosely in strong hands, while yelling commands to his men in Russian. With one hand, he ripped off the turban he had been wearing. He pulled a pale blue beret out of his robe and set it on his head. The other men did the same.

  The elder raised his hands wide apart. Feteror brought the weapon up and fired, the round ripping through the elder's right leg, knocking him to the ground.

  "Any other men?" Feteror asked in Pashto, the language of the mujahidin, which surprised the elder.

  "No."

  "Order everyone into the street. You have ten seconds. I will kill anyone who hides or runs."

  Ignoring his pain, the elder yelled at the top of his lungs, ordering all into the street.

  There was a burst of automatic fire as the middle son of the elder's brother ran out, firing an old rifle, and was cut down in a hail of bullets from the Russians, his body tumbling down the street like a rag doll. The old man's black eyes watched this, but he said nothing nor did he show any sign of the pain radiating up from his leg.

  Slowly the rest of the villagers came out until there were seventeen women, twenty-two children, and four other old men standing under the watchful guns of the invaders.

  “Is that everyone?" Feteror asked.

  “Yes."

  "The men are all away fighting.” Feteror made it a statement, not a question. "You thought yourself safe here, high in the mountains, didn't you?"

  The elder remained quiet, fighting the deep throb of pain from the wound on his leg.

  "My name is Major Feteror." He was a slight man, his body lean like a blade under the robes he wore. But it was his face that the elder focused on. There were scars running down the left side, and he had ice-blue eyes under straight blond hair. Those eyes worried the elder. Feteror reached up and touched the beret. “We are Spetsnatz. Your fighters call us the 'black soldiers.' You would do well to- "

  Feteror paused as there was a sudden consternation among the Russian soldiers. One of them came forward carrying a dirty burlap sack. He laid it at the feet of Feteror and opened it. Inside lay the battered heads of the eight Russian soldiers from the helicopter.

  The elder closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet, but seconds passed and he slowly opened them, to look into Feteror's. The major's face was expressionless, only the glint of the eyes showing his anger. He reached down and picked up one of the heads. The face was contorted, but it was easy to see that it had been a young man who had not yet reached his twentieth birthday. The elder had heard that the Soviets were sending younger and younger men to fight the war. He felt nothing about that. His brother's middle son had been only eleven. A man was a warrior when he was big enough to pick up a rifle.

  "It will not be that easy, old man." Feteror barked some commands in Russian as he placed the head back onto the bag. His men lined the villagers against the mud wall of the elder's house, then stepped back on the other side of the street. They put their weapons to their shoulder and aimed, waiting.

  The elder was proud that his people stood still, glaring back. There was no crying, no pleading. One woman spit, then the rest did the same, while also putting their children behind them. The four old men walked to the very front.

  Feteror yelled some more orders. The muzzles of the seven AK-74s moved back and forth, sighting in on one person, then moving to another. And another. But still no bullets came.

  "Tell me when, old man," Feteror said.

  The elder couldn't keep track of all seven weapons. He looked at his wife, whom he had been married to for thirty-two years. His four grandchildren. His two daughters.

  “Tell me when, old man, or they fire on full automatic. As it is now, they will each shoot only once at your command."

  The elder ran his tongue along his lips, feeling the dryness. He knew that in the long run it would not matter. "Now."

  Feteror yelled a single word and seven rifles fired in one sharp volley. Seven bodies slammed back under the impact of the bullets. The elder saw that one of the seven was his wife, and in a way he was grateful that she would be spared what more was to come.

  "You play well," Feteror noted.

  The Russian fired as the old man swung the knife he had slid out from under his robe. The round caught the elder in his upper right shoulder, knocking him back onto the ground, the knife falling harmlessly to the dirt.

  “But you don't fight so well." Feteror kicked the knife away. "So we’ll have to keep playing and not fight." Feteror leaned and smiled, revealing even teeth. "You are a disgrace and a coward. "As the elder struggled to rise up, he kicked him down with a heavy boot. "Watch my men pla
y, old man. It was what you were going to do with them," he said, pointing toward the heads. "You have your games, we have ours."

  While four of the Russians stood guard, the others dragged the women into one of the huts. The elder listened to the screams and curses of the women for several hours as the soldiers raped and sodomized them. When they were done with a woman, they slit her throat, throwing the body out the back onto the refuse pile. Halfway through, they simply killed the women, no longer able to force themselves on them. The old man noted Feteror took no part in that sport.

  While that was going on, Feteror had each of the children tied with a blue cord cinched tightly around their necks and made to stand in the center of the street under the bright sun, ignoring their cries for water.

  It was early afternoon by the time all the women were dead. Feteror had the old men executed, a bullet to the back of each head, and then only the children were left. The elder had watched the sun slowly climb across the horizon with a growing feeling of contentment.

  Feteror attached a small green plastic tube to the end of one of the blue cords and walked over to the elder, who was now weak and dizzy from the loss of blood.

  "I am being merciful, old man, "Feteror said as he handed the green tube to him. The elder slowly followed the cord; it was tied around the neck of his six-year-old grandson. He looked to the Russian in confusion.

  "Pull the ring," Feteror ordered.

  Still not comprehending, the elder did as he was told. The detonating cord ignited instantly, and with a flash and small pop, the elder's grandson's head lay in the street, the body still standing for a few seconds before slowly toppling aver.

  "I think sometimes that the heads can see their own bodies if they fall in the right direction," Feteror commented as he inserted the next length of blue cord into the green tube.

  "No!" the elder protested as Feteror held the tube out to him. "I will not!"

  "Ah, then I will not be so merciful." Feteror gestured to the guards. While two kept their rifles ready, the others drew knives out of scabbards and approached the closest child.