Sten s-1

by Allan Cole

  "Appreciate the thought," Bjhalstred said. "Glad you two fleet admirals decided to split a beer with an ol' scrunchie like me."

  "That's not what I mean," Gregor said irritably. "Sten and I are the only two who're aware how much your whole military career depends on what happens right here in training."

  "Military career," Morghhan said as he came back to the table. "Whoo. Things getting serious around here."

  "Let 'im finish," Sten said.

  "So I told my father to go straight to the Imperial Court. Get an investigation. Why is the Guard wasting its finest potential because the instructors couldn't pour piss out of a spaceboot unless there was a printout on the heel?"

  "Come on, Gregor. You mentioned my name. What's this got to do with me?"

  "I'll use you as an example. You only got two stripes. You ought to have been trainee platoon leader. Or better. If I hadn't had training already, I got to admit you'd be almost as good a troop as me."

  "Yuh."

  "So I'm gonna mention you in my letter. Make a stronger case, and when my father takes care of things, it'll do you some good too."

  Sten started to say something, then decided to spend a few seconds unhooking Morghhan's fingers from the spare mug and inhaling it Then he put the mug down.

  "I don't think I want that," he said, just as quietly as he could manage. "I'll make my own way, thanks."

  "But—"

  "Gregor. That's what it is, like you say. End program."

  Gregor stared at Sten, then nodded. "Whatever you want. But you're making a mistake."

  "My mistake."

  Gregor got to his feet. "Anyway. I got a letter to write." And he was gone.

  "Trainee Corporal Sten?"

  Sten looked back from the doorway at Bjhalstred, who had snapped to rigid attention.

  "You have my permission to speak, Trainee Bunghole Bjhalstred."

  "Request plus or minus reading on that last, over."

  "Stand by. Computing. Prog 1—somebody's either gonna be trainee fleet general or Guard cesspool orderly with thirty years' time in grade. I dunno. Prog 2—I'm gonna get imploded. Halstead said training was really gonna start tomorrow mornin', an' that's more than I can face without a hangover."

  Three mugs clanked solemnly.

  "Awright," Carruthers said in what were almost human tones. "What you're about to get is the most carefully engineered way of killing someone known to man. Imperial engineers designed it so not even maggotbrains like you could screw it up. Which is almost unbelievable.

  "I need one idiot volunteer. You." She waved at Sten. "Post."

  Sten slid out of the bleacher bench, double-timed to a position in front of the low stand, and waited at attention.

  In the distance, behind Carruthers, ran the thousand-meter tree- and bush-studded emptiness of a firing range, lane-marked at its far end.

  Carruthers opened the top of the lecture stand and took out a weapon. A smooth black triangle formed the stock/pistol grip, and a stubby inverted cone ended the seventy-centimeter-long barrel.

  Carruthers handled the rifle reverently.

  "You probably seen this, and handled it in the livees. This is the assault rifle Mark XI. We call it the willygun. Tell you something strange about this. This was invented more'n a thousand years ago, on Terra, by a designer named Robert Willy.

  "It was a fine design," Carruthers said. "On'y problem was that lasers weren't that good and nobody knew for sure how to handle hunks of antimatter, which is what makes this piece so deadly."

  She touched a stud, and a long tube slid out of the rifle's butt. "This is the ammunition. Antimatter Two—AM2—the same stuff that powers spaceships. One tube contains fourteen hundred rounds. The bullet's a one-millimeter ball of AM2, which is inside an Imperium shield, which is the only thing that keeps the whole magazine from exploding when it touches conventional matter.

  "We once calculated, as a matter of interest, that one of these tubes has enough energy to power a scoutship all the way around this system at full drive level.

  "Ain't that interesting, Bjhalstred?"

  Bjhalstred jumped awake.

  "You wasn't sleeping on me, was you, Bjhalstred?"

  "NO, CORPORAL."

  "That's good. That's very good. But why don't you come on out here and get down in pushup position to make sure you don't get sleepy.

  "Anyway. Fourteen hundred rounds. If the Empire ever sold these guns on the open market, which of course they never will, each little tiny AM2 ball would cost a guardsman three weeks' salary. You see how good the Empire is to us?"

  Carruthers waited.

  "YES, CORPORAL," came the shout.

  "Aren't you all glad you went and joined up?"

  "YES, CORPORAL."

  "You sounded a little weak on that one," Carruthers growled. "Assault rifle Mark XI. You got two controls. One is for your safety/single-shot/automatic fire mode selection, the other is the trigger. You got one dial, here on the butt, which shows you the state of battery charge. Each battery will give the laser enough energy for about ten thousand rounds, depending on atmospheric pressure, if any, and conditions.

  "The laser is what is used to fire the particles. This means the only sight you got is this crosshair. You don't have to worry about trajectory or bullet drop or any of that other dust that's important with a conventional weapon.

  "Which is what is special about the willygun. If you can point it at something, you hit that something.

  "Demonstrator!"

  Sten mounted the platform. Carruthers handed him the rifle. Sten handled it curiously. Light. Almost too light, like a toy. Carruthers grinned at him. "That ain't nothing you'd give your kid brother on Empire Day," she said, seeming to read Sten's thoughts.

  Curruthers opened the stand again and took out an object wrapped in plastic and about fifty centimeters to a side. She jumped down from the stand and walked ten meters to a low table. Carruthers unwrapped the parcel.

  "This here is meat," she said. "The stuff that soyacrap in the messhall is supposed to taste like. It's got about the same consistency as a humanoid."

  Carruthers set the blood-oozing meat on the table and walked back to the stand. "Shoot me that deadly charging chunk of beef, trainee," she said.

  Sten raised the weapon awkwardly to his shoulder, and aimed through the sight He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  "Helps if you take the safety off first," Carruthers snarled.

  Sten flipped the switch just above the trigger, reaimed, and fired. There was the low crackle as air ionized.

  His eyes jumped open, and the recruits semidozing through the lecture snapped awake. The minute particle hit the meat. It looked as if the beef exploded, blood spattering for several meters to the side.

  "Go take a close look, trainee," Carruthers invited.

  Sten climbed down from the stand and walked to the table. There were only a few chunks of the meat left. Sten stared at the spattered table and ground, then came back to the stand.

  "Makes you think," Carruthers said, "just how healthy anybody on the receiving end of that round would be. The answer is," she said, raising her voice, "they wouldn't be. You hit anything humanoid or even anything close to it with one of those anywhere and they're dead. If the round don't make a hole big enough to stick your fist through, the shock will."

  Carruthers stood silently, letting the idea sink in.

  "Something to think about, isn't it?" she said soberly.

  "AWRIGHT, SLUGS, YOU SAT ON IT LONG ENOUGH. NOW UNASS THOSE BLEACHERS AND GIMME A COMPANY FORMATION. We're gonna let you kill some targets today."

  Carruthers waited until the recruits were on line, then added softly, "So far we dumped less'n a third of you skeeks back to your home cesspits. Here's where we cut some more dead tissue out.

  "Children, there ain't never been a soldier who couldn't shoot. If there was an army that'd let him, that army wasn't around long—and the Guard has been around for a thousand years. This is wher
e we start cuttin' clean.

  "You either qualify on the willygun or you're out. Simple as that. If you more'n just qualify, there's bennies for that. More pay and better training.

  "But first you best qualify. 'Cause I hear they're jumpin' those duty battalions into terraforming these days. I'd ruther be making a first-wave drop myself. Figure the chances are better.

  "Now. FIRST RANK, 'TEN-HUT. ONE MAN PER POST. AT A RUN. MOVE OUT!"

  Ten recruits, in spite of extensive individual attention and minor batterings, failed to qualify. Their bunks were rolled and empty the next day.

  Sten couldn't understand why anybody had problems. Carruthers had been right. Point the willygun, and you hit. Every time.

  When the rifle course ended, Sten was qualified for the next stage: SNIPER-RATED.

  It got him ten more credits a month, his first ribbon, and more training.

  Carruthers thunked down beside him.

  "You got the target?"

  Sten peered through the sights of the rifle. "Yes, corporal."

  Carruthers touched the control box beside him. The target shot sideways, out of sight behind the stone wall a thousand meters from Sten.

  "Awright. Now. Focus on the wall. The crosshairs go out of focus, right? Use the first knob on your sight. Twist until you get the sight focused."

  Sten followed instructions.

  "Got it? Now use the knob below your sight, and turn until the crosshairs are about where you think that target is, even though you can't see it Got it? Fire one."

  Sten touched the trigger.

  Sten's fortieth-century sniper rifle was, in essence, quite simple. The round was still the AM2 shielded particle. But instead of using a laser as propellant, a modified linear accelerator hung around the barrel. The sight was used to give exact range to the target, then, when the scope was twisted to fix on the out-of-sight target, the accelerator "spun" the round so that it could execute up to a ninety-degree angle if necessary.

  A gun that could shoot around corners.

  Sten heard the explosion and saw the wall crumble.

  "Hit."

  Carruthers slammed Sten on the back.

  "Y'know, troop, you keep up like this and Guard's First may get themselves a trooper."

  And for some reason, Sten felt very proud of himself.

  Sten crashed the garbage bin down on the dump, then upended it. Clean enough. He shoved the nozzle of the ultrasonic cleaner to the bottom and touched the trigger. Then banged the can a few more times on the concrete and lugged it back into the messhall. Most of the Guard's menial jobs were handled either by civilians or by the time-servers of the duty battalions. Except for the real scutwork. The Guard reserved those chores for punishment detail. It didn't bother Sten that much. It was still better than any on-shift back on Vulcan.

  Besides, he didn't figure he could have gotten around the problem.

  He'd been quite happy, sitting there on the sand watching Halstead posture at Lanzotta's commands.

  "We are not building technicians," Lanzotta had said. "I've told you that. We're building killers. We want people who want to listen to the sound of their enemies' eyeballs pop, who want to see what happens when you rip somebody's throat out with your teeth."

  Sten looked around at the other trainees. Most of them looked mildly aghast. Sten blanked. He remembered quite well, thank you, sergeant.

  "We need a demonstrator."

  Silence. The company had learned by now what volunteering generally got you. And then somebody said, "Corp' Sten."

  Sten had a pretty good idea it was Gregor, but didn't worry about it. He was seriously into being invisible. Lanzotta heard the voice.

  "Sten. Post."

  Sten grunted, snapped to his feet and ran forward.

  "Yes, corporal."

  Halstead did another fast one-two move. Fair, Sten analyzed. He's open down low, though.

  "Recruit Corporal Sten. That man is your most dangerous enemy. Your mission is to close with and destroy him!"

  Sten ambled in. Held up his hands in what he hoped would look like an offensive move and went airborne. Sten rolled in midair, recovered, and held back as his feet touched. Allowed himself to crumple forward, face first in the sand.

  That should do it. And he heard Lanzotta's whisper in his ear.

  "You are faking it, recruit corporal. You know how to do it better. Now I want you to get back up, without letting your fellow skinks know what you're doing, and attack Corporal Halstead."

  Sten didn't move.

  "The alternative is three days on garbage detail."

  Sten sighed and picked himself up.

  Halstead moved in, hands grabbing. Poor, Sten flashed, and rolled toward the ground. Legs in the air, scissored about Halstead's hips.

  Halstead crashed, Sten locked, using Halstead's momentum to bring him back up. Halstead rolling up, Sten incoming, shoulder under Halstead's waist.

  Halstead went straight up in a curving flight. Sten had time enough to consider if he'd put a cadre into sub-orbital, then he was moving. Halstead slammed back down, still moving, and Sten slammed two toe kicks into his ribs.

  Halstead stayed down.

  Sten recovered and turned.

  There was awed silence from the trainees. Sten looked at Lanzotta, who heaved a sigh and jerked a thumb.

  "Hup; sergeant!"

  Sten picked up his cap and double-tuned toward the messhall.

  There it was. Spaced if you did, spaced if you didn't. Sten grabbed the other garbage can and lugged them back into the messhall.

  The mess sergeant grinned at Sten as he came through the tiny office.

  "Guess you're glad to be goin' back to trainin' tomorrow, hey?"

  Sten shook his head.

  "Ya like it here?"

  "Negatory, sergeant."

  "What's the problem, 'cruit?"

  "Tomorrow we start knife training, sergeant."

  "So?"

  Yeah. So. Sten suddenly started laughing as he dragged the cans back toward their racks. So? It was still better than Vulcan.

  Even Sten felt a little sick as the medic worked swiftly on the gaping wounds. The body was riddled with shrapnel and gouting blood.

  "The procedure hasn't changed in thousands of years," the medic instructor said. "First get the casualty breathing again. Second, stop the bleeding. Third, treat for shock."

  He finished, covered the humanoid simulacrum with an insublanket, and stood up. Looked around the class.

  "Then you yell as loud as you can for a medic. Assuming some bork hasn't decided we're the most important target he can hit and there's any of us left."

  "What then?" Pech, the fat recruit, asked.

  "If there's no professional treatment, use your belt medpak. If the bleeding's stopped and the insides are more or less together, the antis in the kit should keep your buddy from getting the creeping crud."

  He laughed.

  "'Course if you're on some world where we don't know anything about the bugs, best you can do is try to leave a good-looking corpse." The medic looked over Pech's steadily diminishing chubbiness. "Which will be hard enough in your case, Pech."

  Sten and the others chuckled. The medic was the first instructor they'd had who'd treated them even vaguely like sentient beings.

  The medic opened a large cabinet and motioned to Sten, who helped him lift out another simulacrum. This one was dressed in a battle suit.

  "In a suit, things are different," the medic said. "The medpak should already be hooked up inside the suit and work automatically. Sometimes it does." Another snort of laughter from the medic.

  "But if the suit's holed, all you can do is seal it and get the casualty to a medshelter. You get more on that in suit drill. Now, I need a sucker—I mean a volunteer."

  He glanced around the audience, and his eyes lit on Pech. "Come on up, troop."

  Pech double-timed up to the stand and waited at attention. "Relax, relax. You make me nervous. Okay. This dummy here
is your best buddy. You went through training together. You chased. . ." He pretended to study Pech closely. ". . .uh—ameboids together. Now his arm has just been blown off. What are you going to do?"

  The medic stepped back. Pech shifted nervously.

  "Come on, soldier. Your best friend's bleeding to death. Move!"

  Pech took a tentative step forward as the medic pressed the switch concealed in his palm and the simulacrum's arm exploded. "Blood" sprayed across Pech and the stand.

  Pech froze. "Come on, man. Move."

  Pech fumbled for the medpak on his belt and moved closer. More pulsing "blood" dyed his face. Pech unclipped the pak's base and took a pressure bandage off.

  "Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. . .forget it, soldier."

  Pech seemed not to hear him and fought to get the bandage in position. Finally, the gout of "blood" stopped.

  "Your friend just died," the medic said harshly. "Now, on your feet."

  Pech clambered up, numb. The medic stared around at the trainees to make sure they got his point. Then he turned back to Pech.

  "The dye used in that blood won't wear off for two days. Maybe that'll help you think about how you'd feel if that dummy had really been your teammate."

  Pech never did recover from the incident. A few weeks later, after a series of foul-ups, he disappeared. Washed out.

  Sten blinked as the world came back into focus. He and the five other recruits stared at each other blankly. Halstead flipped up the flash visor on his shock helmet.

  "How long were you out?" he asked.

  Sten shrugged. "A second or two, corporal?"

  Halstead held out his watch finger. Two hours had passed. He unclipped another of the tiny bester grenades from his pocket.

  "Instant time loss. You don't know what's happened to you, and you don't think anything's gone wrong. These are some of the most effective infiltration weapons you'll use.

  "The company's out on the dexterity courser. Report to Corporal Carruthers."

  Sten saluted and the recruits ran off.

  Sten couldn't get the man out of his mind. There had been nothing unusual about the incident, but for some reason the officer's image kept poking up from his brain at odd moments.