Indomitable (9 page)

“I know,” Halvorsen said. “Better to fail in training than on the battlefield. Defeat has a clarifying effect on a unit's state of readiness.” The colonel gave her a hard smile before storming out of the holotank and into the passageway. “We're going to break Victor Company down so we can build it back stronger.” The colonel paused at a fork in the passageway and looked up to get his bearings. “I hate navigating in a warship,” he muttered under his breath. Then he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

 

Eleven

APRIL 23
RD
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1435 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

MARINE CORPS CENTRAL MOBILIZATION COMMAND

RED FIRING RANGE (ENERGY WEAPONS ONLY)

Three silhouettes ghosted downrange
and stopped at the twenty-five-meter line. The circular morphing plates began to dance in a predetermined pattern, at an arm's length from each other, while hovering on a plane of countergrav. The leftmost disk suddenly leapfrogged up and over the center disk. Then the middle disk slid underneath and to the side. Now the first disk was into the middle position. Then the rightmost disk leapfrogged too. Back and forth they went.

Promise focused on the front sight of her pulse rifle with her naked eye, timed the next leap, and squeezed the trigger as the “morph” hung in the air before entering its downward arc. Her standard-issue Marine Corps, 3rd Evolution, Extended-Range Pulse Rifle, or MC
3
-ERP (pronounced McEerp), loosed a bolt of energy downrange. The morph's bull's-eye glowed bright yellow for a two-count before returning to its normal mat black.
Solid hit, P. Now, do it again.
She switched targets and quickly triple-tapped. Her pattern framed the bull's-eye in an equilateral triangle, from twelve o'clock down to the four and over to the eight. The McEerp hummed as it cycled. Several short bursts of directed heat warmed Promise's arms as energy vented along the length of the rifle's ported barrel. Promise switched targets and drilled the third morph on its upward arc. Switched again and tap, tap, tapped as the morph rose and fell, until it looked like a slotted spoon. When the weapon's trigger locked in the forward position, Promise pressed the bullet button just behind the trigger assembly, and let the cell drop free. She grasped another from her bench, heard the click of a fed-up pulse rifle, and seated the weapon against her shoulder.

“I hate frog-fire drills,” said Promise's guardian. Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart stood behind her at a parade rest, staring downrange, and her mouth was half full. “In a firefight, targets don't move like that.”

Promise gave her guardian one of those looks over her shoulder. Every company commander had a guardian to watch her six while she was watching everyone else's. If there was a beam or penetrator out there with Promise's name on it, Prichart's job was to kill the shooter or take the hit, and Kathy had taken more than a few for Promise in their short time together. It wasn't like Kathy to complain about range time.

“That's true, Kathy, but that's not the point of the exercise.” Promise turned back to her target. “Frog-firing teaches you to flash-sight moving targets. In battle, your targets don't stand still either, or say, ‘Hey—kill me first.' F-sighting is a critical skill, and one not easily mastered.”

Kathy raised a scoring optic to her eyes and nodded in approval. The optic was linked to the morphs and Promise's pulse rifle, and had recorded every hit and miss. “Not bad, Lieutenant. Tight groupings. Though we're in close and I know you can do better. Let's take the range out a bit, ma'am. Okay?”

Promise quick-locked a holographic scope to the rail of her rifle, and left the “irons” up to cowitness, and stabilized the rifle on the bench rest. Distance-to-target floated in her peripheral vision. When the targets hit fifty meters she raised her right hand over her shoulder and waved downrange. “Come on, Kathy, at least try to make it challenging for me.”

“All right, ma'am. How about seventy-five?”

“That will do.”

The pie plates retreated to their new positions and began to move in a line, more slowly this time as they shuffled in concert from side to side. Promise squeezed her right eye and her scope zoomed until the disks appeared to be no more than seven meters away. The plates morphed and stretched. Circles became squares and then rectangles with necks. Now three heads-on torsos floated before her reticule and each had a set of eyes glowing bright yellow.

“How about the cross-fire drill, ma'am?” Kathy raised two fingers to her temple and began outlining the exercise along the plane of her body as she spoke, top to bottom and shoulder to shoulder. “Noggin, nads, beater, breather. On my mark. Three, two, one…”

I hate this drill,
Promise thought as her trigger finger took up the slack.

“Mark!”

Just before Promise fired, her first target jerked to the left and her shot went wide. Promise could have sworn it ducked its head too … if that was even possible for a morph. She supposed it probably was, and then tapped out four follow-up shots.

“Three out of four isn't bad, ma'am.”

“Did you do that?”

“Do what?” Kathy cleared her throat. “Battle is unpredictable. The target ducked on its own.”

“Right. Let's go again.”

“Roger that. On three.”

Promise bounced from cutout to cutout, four quick taps apiece. She took a bit more time on the brain to guarantee the kill, and quickly blew through the beater, breather, and balls. Then she set the rifle down and pushed back from the bench, pleased with her work.

“Not bad, ma'am.” Kathy racked her hands on her hips. “Okay, say your rifle just jammed. You're pinned down with no way out.” The three silhouettes quickly shrank back into circles, canted forward like they'd dug in imaginary heels, and rushed Promise's position. Then they multiplied and three became nine. “Here they come, ma'am. They are returning fire. You're running solo. Help is three mikes out. What do you do?”

Promise didn't hesitate. She drew her backup, racked the slide, and sidestepped the bench as the plates hit sixty meters. She advanced on the targets at a quick step with both eyes open and locked on the front sight. When the range dropped below fifteen meters, she opened up from left to right. Each disk shattered upon impact. The booms shook the firing range and hammered Promise's eardrums. Then she realized she'd been had. She looked down at her senior in her hands and shook her head, partly because she found the humor in the situation and partly because she should have known better. And her ears were ringing. The slide was locked to the rear and small flecks of gold littered the ground. She turned around to find a newly assembled group of smiles and frowns, and kicked a stray shell out from underfoot before walking back to the line. The warning signs posted in multiple locations across the range could not have been clearer.
ENERGY WEAPONS ONLY.

“I hope y'all enjoyed the show?”
“Y'all”? My birth world is bleeding through.
It happened, just not often, and Promise intended to keep it that way.

Victor Company's platoon sergeants and senior noncoms had assembled at a respectable distance. They were early, which made Promise wonder if something was afoot. They were her aces in a house of flexi cards. She caught the eyes of her second-in-command, Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel, and shrugged her shoulders while mock-offing herself with her off hand. The gunny was leaning against a post underneath the range's portico, arms crossed, face wrapped in a look that was coldly aimed at Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart. Ears smoldering.

“Stunts like that get people killed, Lance Corporal,” Ramuel said as Promise walked up.

Kathy blanched but didn't break away. Nodded. “Gunny, I was only trying to have some—”

“Next time, don't. Understood?”

“Yes, Gunny.”

“Go easy, Tomas, I'm just as much at fault. I knew better,” Promise said as she stepped underneath the portico, racked the slide of her GLOCK, and holstered the weapon.

“Ma'am, at least get a mini pulser fixed to the rail of that … antique.” Emphasis on “antique.” It was not a real weapon in the gunny's estimation. He'd said so as diplomatically as a gunny could. “That thing is dangerously underpowered. It won't serve you in a stand-up fight.” The gunny went to say more but decided against it and clenched his jaw.

“Noted, Gunny. That's not a bad idea. I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to my GLOCK.” Promise pursed her lips. “I'll consider it. Okay?”

The gunny dipped his head.

Well, Tomas isn't too happy. I don't blame him either. I'm not too happy with myself. Or my guardian. Kathy and I didn't display proper range etiquette. Not by a long shot. This could go in my jacket.

Promise carried her senior whenever she could, which wasn't often, because of the Regs. For starters, her GLOCK-27 subcompact semiautomatic was about seven centuries out of date. It wasn't even considered a firearm by any modern definition of the term. It predated the Projectile and Pulse Weapon Proliferation Act of 2633, which meant her senior was exempt from most regulations. But it was still potentially lethal and it could still kill. Promise had no intention of ever testing the limits of that law, which meant she carried her senior on the range and in the privacy of her quarters and that was about it.

Her GLOCK was an old-world semiautomatic pistol made in pre-Diaspora times. It was a dirty weapon that fired bullets that blossomed, fueled by antiquated powder that stained the hands. Many generations of the women in her family had owned and operated the smooth black relic. When her mother died young, the semiautomatic became Promise's. It was about all Promise had left of her mother's things, and wearing it settled her nerves; connected her to her ancestors and robbed life of some of its uncertainty too. Promise was grateful for its presence now as she appraised her Marines. They had a very long day ahead of them and she was about to drop a bit of news she knew they wouldn't like.

Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart stood at the center of the group of Marine noncoms. She wore a tank shirt and running shorts, exposing sinewy arms and legs. The ankle of her left leg reflected sunlight, metal and polymer from toes to shin, a souvenir from the Battle of Montana because she didn't regenerate. Her ocean-colored eyes were impossible to miss, just like the hair on her head, which changed color depending upon the lance corporal's mood. Today, it was morphing-target-yellow. Kathy held a power stick in one hand and quickly raised it to her lips.

“Sorry, ma'am,” Prichart said, mouth half full yet again. “I guess I wasn't thinking.”

“You have that right.” Promise spoke as sternly as she ever had to her guardian. “Kathy, I just drew my senior without thinking, on an
E-only
range. I'm going to be busy this afternoon with the accidental discharge report. The ADR won't get done until the range master is through ripping my head off, and those practice plates are coming out of my meager pay!”

“No worries, ma'am. I've got you covered. I worked it out with the range master ahead of time,” Prichart said. “See.” The range master's white booth stood in the distance like a small pillbox. “Staff Sergeant Heckler wanted to see your senior in action. You know how rare those things are.”

Promise turned around as the door of the range master's booth opened. A Marine dressed in utilities stepped out and waved back at her.
That must be Heckler.
Even though the staff sergeant was a good ways off Promise could tell the woman was smiling. Then she gave Promise two vigorous thumbs up before disappearing back inside.

“We'll, she's heard my G-Twenty-Seven's report,” Promise said. “Why don't you invite her to the range tomorrow? Say eight hundred hours … for a private shooting lesson. Please ask her to be early. The antique ammo is on the RAW-MC.
You
may go replicate me some more.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am. That's very generous of you. The staff sergeant will be thrilled.”

“She will owe you one, no doubt.”

“Something like that, ma'am.” Prichart looked like a Marine caught with contraband.

“Mm-hum, why does this feel like a setup?” Promise asked.

“Said the target to the sniper.” Sergeant Maxzash-Indar “Maxi” Sindri, one of her platoon sergeants and closest friends, stood next to the gunny. Maxi just reached the gunny's shoulder, and barely measured up to the Marine Corps's minimum height requirements too. He had a big, hidden temper that emerged when someone tried to kill him, or wound his pride. Unless you were inside his circle of friends, or you didn't know any better, you kept your mouth shut about his height. “Maxi, wear extra socks so you can see out the visor of your mechsuit” or “Maxi, I said ten-hut!” He'd give you that smile, and knock you to the ground. Maxi and Promise had noncom days to fall back upon, and Promise could have gotten away with more than most if she'd wanted to. There were moments when Promise regretted the distance her commission had created between them.

Next to Maxi stood Sergeant Richard Morris, an unremarkable-looking man with brown hair and brown eyes. Morris would have made a good spook, because his face was utterly forgettable. Morris was a good man. He'd fought hard on Montana, and Promise trusted him with her life.

Beside Morris was Lance Corporal Nathaniel Van Peek. The lance corporal was as tall as the gunny, only thicker in the back and shoulders. Van Peek had almost bled out on Montana. He was, in many ways, a walking miracle.

Maxi, Kathy, Nathaniel, Richard, and Tomas made up the old guard from Promise's pre-Montana days. Her Montana Marines. They had fought and bled together on Promise's birth world, and owned the wounds to prove it. Some wounds, like Kathy's ankle, were more visible than others.