Scouts

by Nobilis Reed

  “Shirley. Do this with me. Please. I want us to be more than business partners.”

  She blinked and swallowed, poised between jumping away and giving in.

  In a whisper, she said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “So tell me.”

  Her gaze flicked back and forth between my eyes, as if she were searching for something behind them.

  “Shirley. Tell me.”

  “No.” She stood, pulling away from my grasp, almost shaking with emotion. “No, I can’t.”

  What was it? Fear? What could she be afraid of? What was it that put her in such terror?

  I put out my hand to comfort her, but she spun away from it, took a step, and then stopped. She put her hands at her sides, unclenched her fists, and took a deep breath. The armor that had seemed ready to crack solidified again, and when she turned back, the vulnerability was gone.

  No, not gone. Hidden. She had buried it again, buried it where she thought I would never see it again.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “To us?”

  She looked away. “Challers, I have a confession. You will be my fourth ship-partner since I joined the Scouts. That was almost ten years ago. Every one of them, when we were having sex, I would . . .”

  She took a deep breath. “I would imagine that he was Robert. It was the only way I could do it.”

  “But everything you said about . . .”

  “Yes, Challers, yes, I’m a hypocrite and liar. I never really believed any of it.”

  I put my arms around her, pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged this out of you.”

  I had no idea her façade was so thin. Before, she seemed made of iron, and now she was crumbling right there in my arms. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed there, holding her. It seemed so funny, me comforting her, after all the times she had done the same thing for me.

  After we stood there in each other’s arms for a few minutes, I asked, “So what do we do now?”

  “We? We don’t do anything.” She pulled away again and took her tablet out of its carry-pouch. “I send in my resignation. The Service will find you a mentor who can actually do the job.”

  “What? No, not again. Listen, everyone I know is disappearing. Everyone I care about. Valka. Grecca.” I almost blurted out “Trace” but stopped myself in time. “Now you.”

  She set the tablet on a stand near the door and activated it. “Challers, I’ve done you a terrible disservice. Unforgivable. You don’t care about me; you’re just well-conditioned.”

  I put my hand over hers, preventing her from entering commands on the tablet. “I forgive you.”

  Her eyes finally met mine. Something there told me I had gotten through to her, but it was like looking through a wall of ice.

  She turned off her tablet and smiled. I could see the ice melting, just a bit, though there was still a good deal left to go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I hoped that the revelation the night before would change things. I had hoped that we could sit the way Grecca and I had, nose to nose, eyes to eyes, minute upon minute, building a sense of intimacy that could be the beginning of something more. I realized that Grecca had shown me the technique not because she wanted to form that kind of relationship with me, but because she knew how valuable it would be to have an emotionally close bond with Shirley.

  What she didn’t realize was how difficult it would be. If anything, Shirley became even colder, even more distant. She spoke hardly at all, except as needed, and would not look me in the eye.

  In the morning, I awoke to the sound of Shirley sitting at the desk, talking quietly into her tablet. I propped myself up on my elbows and listened.

  “. . . I’d like to say you’d like him, if you got to know him in person, but I don’t know. Maybe you wouldn’t. He’s still got some emotional rough edges to smooth off, and I know you don’t like that. But even though he’s sleeping behind me, right now, I still miss you, my love. I can’t wait to see you again. Send a message as soon as you get this.”

  She touched the screen, the tablet beeped, and the pale glow from its screen flickered.

  “A message for Robert?” I asked.

  Her breath caught and she turned quickly. “You heard that?”

  “Just the last part. Rough edges?”

  “Maybe it took a rough edge to cut me deep enough that I’d feel it.”

  “I never wanted to cause you pain.” I rolled up to sit facing her. “So what do we do now?”

  “We go on with your classes.”

  “Like nothing happened?”

  She put her hand on my knee. “We both know something happened. But you’re so young in some ways, Challers.”

  “I’m not too young to understand. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me why you’re holding back.”

  She turned away.

  When we arrived at morning Physicality class, Shirley went to a secure storage locker for a pair of bulky white pistols.

  “Based on your stellar performance in wrestling, we’re going to jump ahead to the next section. Marksmanship.” She held one out to me, butt end first.

  I took it by the handle and frowned at it, disappointed that we would not be wrestling again. This was, I was sure, another way to push me away. “I thought the Marines took care of the fighting.”

  “There isn’t always a Marine handy and they aren’t always cooperative.”

  “I remember the Marines on Stakroya.” It occurred to me that the next time I met a Marine, things would be quite different. “Were you armed when you met them there? I don’t remember seeing you carrying one of these.”

  “I didn’t have time to retrieve it, but it doesn’t matter. If it had gotten to a fight, the situation would have been pretty badly handled anyway—which brings up a good point. The reason you’re learning how to use this weapon is not because the Service ever expects you to use it. But people will treat you differently if they know you’re armed, and if they sense that you’re confident with its use. It’s a tool for taking control of a difficult situation. Hopefully, you’ll never have to use it.”

  “Have you ever had to use yours?”

  “I’ve never fired in anger. I expect no less of you.” Next, she produced a light helmet for each of us. “This is to protect your vision and hearing, and to allow us to communicate. Ideally, you should wear one whenever you expect you might need to use your sidearm. That doesn’t always happen.”

  The helmets had visors and ear protectors built in, and a headset radio to allow us to talk to each other. We put them on and checked to make sure they were working.

  “Computer, display standard targets, please.”

  The lights dimmed and a set of silhouettes appeared on the wall opposite us.

  “Your weapon is a mass driver powered by crisis orgone. We’ll cover the details of its operation and maintenance in Technology class. For now, it’s enough to know that we’re remaining calm during this exercise in order to keep from punching holes in the walls.”

  She turned, took up a firing stance, and pulled the trigger. Three sharp cracks echoed against the walls in rapid succession and three spots lit up on the silhouette. Numbers appeared above it—ninety-eight in yellow and eighty-four in red.

  “The yellow number indicates the chance that the target has been stopped. The red number, the chance of death. Depending on the circumstance, you might want that last number to be low, or high. Computer, display training targets.”

  Shapes lit up on the silhouettes: red areas on places like the head, neck, and torso; yellow on the knees, lower abdomen, and shoulders.

  “You will remember from our anatomy studies about the location of sensitive and vital areas of the body. These are your primary targets. Don’t worry about shooting to disable yet; the surest way to keep someone from killing you is to kill him first.”

  I looked down at the weapon in my hand.

  An instrument of death. I felt unstea
dy.

  “Challers?”

  “I’m sorry. Just . . .”

  I took a deep breath and imitated Shirley’s stance.

  “By your right thumb, there’s a switch. Hit it once to take off the safety. That will put it in burst mode. Touch it again for single shot.”

  I did as she said and a tiny indicator lit up with three blue lights, and then just one.

  “Good. Now give it a try. Squeeze the trigger slowly. If you jerk it back, you’ll spoil your aim.”

  I lined up the sights on the silhouette and fired. The shot struck a bit below the neck. The numbers above the silhouette both said seventy-five percent.

  Dizziness surged in my head. My stomach heaved and I had to swallow hard to keep the contents inside. I dropped the gun and put my hands over my face. The idea that I could have the power to take someone’s life seemed alien, sick, wrong.

  Shirley put her arm around me. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I pushed a little too quickly. Let’s take it a little slower. Computer, circle targets please.”

  The silhouettes disappeared, replaced by a simple red spot.

  She picked up the pistol and put it back in my hand. “Give it another try, Challers.”

  I shook my head, too confused and scared to even speak.

  “Challers.” She turned me around and looked into my eyes. “If you let this get a hold on you, you’re going to have a much harder time breaking it. Now hold up that weapon and shoot the circle. Just a test of coordination. Nothing more than that, not even symbolically. Now deep breaths. Remember your training. Remember your meditation.”

  She turned me around, took my wrist, and pointed it at the dot. “Shoot, Challers.”

  I felt queasy and my head hurt. Anywhere but there, I wanted to be anywhere but there with a death-spitting weapon at the end of my arm and no good purpose for it. I could imagine its orgone collector lurking inside it, eating my fear and pain.

  Shirley persisted. “Come on. Deep breaths. Calm your mind. Squeeze the trigger.”

  I squeezed. The weapon bucked in my hand and a blue spot appeared on the wall, about a meter away from the circle.

  “Good! Now this time, open your eyes, and aim.”

  I opened my eyes, again, just then realizing that I had closed them. My hands trembled too much to hold the pistol straight. “I can’t do it.”

  “Nonsense,” said Shirley. “You just did. Now try it again.”

  Deep breaths. Calm mind. Squeeze.

  Dead center.

  “Excellent!” She took her hand from my arm and stepped back. “Now again, on your own.”

  Another deep breath. Crack! Crack!

  Deep breath. Crack! Crack!

  Swallow. Crack! Crack!

  One by one, lights appeared in the red circle, showing where I had hit.

  “Nice grouping, Challers. You really are good at this, when you let yourself.”

  “Shirley, believe me. I don’t think I could ever use one of these things on a human being.”

  “Whether that’s true or not, you won’t know unless the time comes to test it. And if it does, you’ll be in much better shape to handle the situation if you have the skills to use this weapon effectively. Keep shooting. Empty it.”

  I held it on target and fired, thirty times or so, until the lights on the back turned red and it wouldn’t fire again.

  “Good.” Shirley handed me a small block of metal and used her own weapon to demonstrate. “Here’s how you reload. The port here opens when you’ve fired the last flechette. Slide the ammo in, close the port. That simple.” She took up a new firing stance, this time down on one knee. “This stance gives you more stability, but it’s not as quick if you have to dodge out of the way or engage hand to hand. Use this for ranges of twenty meters or so. Computer, reduce target circles by ten percent.”

  I looked at the “ammunition” in my hand. It was a flat block of metal, no bigger than the palm of my hand. I copied what she had done and the weapon accepted it.

  In the new stance, after Shirley positioned me correctly, I squeezed off another thirty shots. It was getting easier. I was getting used to the feel of the weapon, but the shock of my first reaction remained, waiting for me. I could feel my nerves unraveling and I wanted to be done with this, to put these terrible machines away.

  We practiced one more firing stance, on our bellies, and when that was done, I stood up and walked to the cabinet to put the pistol back where it had come from.

  “Challers?”

  “I’m done for today. I can come back tomorrow, but I’m getting jumpy. I feel sick. I need to move, to work some of this off.”

  “That’s fair. Let’s do some stretches, warm up, and then we’ll check out your wrestling moves. Let’s see if Grecca taught you anything while I was away.”

  I smiled, glad that she was agreeing, but still dreading the next time I would have to pick up a gun. “Same penalty for losing? You know I fight harder when something is at stake.”

  “Mmm, you do. All right. Same penalty.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The anticipation built while we did some calisthenics. I still didn’t feel entirely well, and I needed the activity to burn it off. Once we got our blood moving, Shirley stepped to the edge of the wrestling circle.

  “Ready?”

  Shirley waited until the moment I spoke to rush across the circle, forcing me to either dodge her or immediately accept her grapple. Ten days before, this tactic was enough to throw me off balance and give her the upper hand. I had picked up a trick from Grecca, however, and I was ready. I spun and grabbed her arm, pulling it across my back. Her momentum carried her around in a tight arc. She tried to shift and catch me, but she was going too fast and landed on the mat with her arm twisted in my grip.

  She blinked, stunned momentarily by the impact, then smiled up at me. “Nice throw, but you haven’t got me yet.” She lifted one leg up onto my shoulder and shoved with a grunt, yanking her arm out of my grasp.

  I leapt on top of her before she could roll back to her feet, but she caught my ankle between her legs and scissored me onto my back with a powerful wrench of her legs. It was my turn to see stars. She wrapped herself around my body, pinning one arm under her chest and gripping my thighs between her legs. With only one hand free my options were limited, and I could feel her maneuvering to put me in the double arm-lock that would put me at her mercy.

  I growled and strained, resisting the slow progress of her hold. In spite of my twenty kilos of mass advantage, our strength was equal and she had the advantage.

  Power wasn’t going to do it for me, so I reached down to where her knee crossed in front of my thigh and gripped the area just above her knee between my thumb and fingers. I squeezed, hard, and felt spasms loosen her grip. I kicked my legs and got them free of her encircling thighs. I let my captive arm go limp and rolled up onto my knees, pulling Shirley up with me. She was strong, but not terribly heavy. Before I could reverse the hold on her, she let go and sprang away.

  “Did Grecca teach you that knee trick?”

  “Yep.”

  “That girl really loves to—wowf!”

  Without warning, I’d lunged and grabbed for her wrist. She pulled away, but I had placed my foot behind her ankle where I knew she would move and she stumbled. I hooked another foot while she tried to recover and we both went down, legs tangled. I was ready, though, and as she tried to recover, I grabbed her arm and pulled her in, maneuvering her into the same behind-the-neck arm lock that was her favorite hold. Kneeling astride her hips, with one arm pinning her raised arms to my shoulder, I had her helpless.

  “And she knows a few moves you don’t know.”

  Shirley grunted, trying to pull free, but she was caught. Unfortunately, bent over her the way I was, I couldn’t reach her very ticklish feet. I pulled her shirt up over her tits and tickled her ribs and the parts of her belly I could reach, but I couldn’t get much more than a twitch here and there.

  “Hmm, I
seem to be in a bit of a predicament.”

  “Forgive me if I withhold my sympathy,” Shirley growled between struggles.

  “I think I’m just going to have to hunt around for someplace else.”

  I explored the parts of her body within reach, letting my touch go soft or heavy as the mood struck me, carefully monitoring her reactions for any sign of ticklishness. The only tension at all seemed to come when I moved over her breasts, and I knew it wasn’t laughter she was holding in.

  It wasn’t working. She just wasn’t ticklish anywhere but her feet. If I was going to get hold of them, I would have to let her out of the shoulder lock, and she was struggling too hard to make that easy. I paused to consider my options.

  Something came to mind, but it would definitely be taking this exercise to a new level.

  “How dirty are we fighting?” I asked.

  “Try not to do anything that’ll put me in a gentank,” she said. “But aside from that . . .”

  “Good.” I reached around in front of her and tweaked one of her nipples as hard as I could.

  She shrieked in pain, and when I let go of her arms, her hands immediately moved to cradle her breast. In the moment her hands were occupied, I spun around and sat on her thighs, gripping her hips between my knees. I took her slender ankles in one hand and pressed them to the mat. With my weight on her legs, she couldn’t move much except to thrash her arms; she had no leverage to throw me off or twist out of my hold.

  “You’re going to pay for that next time, Challers.”

  “Next time isn’t this time.”

  I went to work on her feet, and her threats disappeared in a wave of laughter. The little cruelty of the pinched nipple felt good and I tickled her mercilessly. The last time I had done this, I gave her breaks to catch her breath, but something made me make the most of this opportunity. Even when she started gasping, “No,” “Stop,” “Please,” in between desperate gulps of air, I kept it up.