Welcome to Chapter 19. This is kind of a short one, but an important one as it introduces another character. As it's a short one, we'll have another one right behind it. Stay tuned for Chapter 20!
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19
The Warrant Officer
The next morning, we were back at The HALL, meeting with Bem in room 603. It was a white conference room with a white table in the center and six chairs, three to a side. The room was just large enough to walk around the outside if all the chairs were pushed in. I wedged myself in the too-small chair closest to the door.
Bem started teasing as soon as we got there. "You two smell like sex and bad decisions." He said for an opener.
I blushed like a bashful girl to Bem's lewd, cackling delight. Shawn maintained his composure. "Even if we did," Shawn deadpanned, "it wouldn't have been a bad decision."
"The bad decision was not inviting me." Bem retorted and let the statement, or accusation, hang in the air while he put his business mask on. "I picked out some hardware for both of you."
On the table were several dark-green cases of different sizes. Bem pulled one to him and flipped it open. Inside, nestled in grey foam, was a matte-black, plastic and metal machine pistol. Next to it were magazines of different lengths. It was a mean-looking weapon, ugly and utilitarian. "Shawn, this one is for you. It's known as The Hornet. Maximum capacity is thirty rounds. It will fire singles, bursts of three rounds, or fully automatic. I don't recommend the last one because you'll empty the weapon in less than two seconds."
He shoved the case toward Shawn. Shawn looked down his nose at it like it was a drowned rat. He radiated pure obstinance. I expected him to refuse to even touch the thing. Bem saw what I felt but didn't address it. He flipped open another case and shoved it my way. "That is the Bull Dog. It is an eight-shot revolver that fires fifty-caliber rounds. The bullets are polymer. They flatten on impact but will not fragment. Taking a shot from one of those would be like getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, except the hammer would do less damage."
The gun was short and chunky, eight inches from muzzle to butt, with a big cylinder, plastic grip, and metal body. Two speed-loaders kept the gun company. The end of the barrel looked like an auto-tunnel. I picked it up, making sure I didn't accidentally point it at anyone, and hefted it in my hand. It felt heavy, business-like. It felt like it could stop a train.
Bem flipped the last case and shoved it at me. "That is the Viper. It's a repeating rifle in full military trim. This one is also fifty-caliber, with excellent stopping power, but greater range and accuracy than the revolver. It comes standard with a twenty-round magazine but can be fitted with a sixty-round drum for siege engagements. It's a heavy weapon that can be a rifle, a quarter-staff, or a club. This one has a bayonet. It will be your main weapon."
It was a savage-looking, matte-black rifle, just under four feet long. The stock and body were thick and rectangular with knurled grips along its length, I supposed for hand-holds when using the thing as a staff. Two magazines, one drum, and one ten-inch-long bayonet with a smooth sharp blade on the bottom and a notched edge on top, filled the long case to capacity. I stood and took the rifle from its case. It was heavy, but well-balanced. Another business-like weapon. I set it back in the foam and sat down.
"Thoughts?" Bem asked.
I thought it time for another admission. "I've never fired a gun in my life."
"You'll learn...and quickly." Bem informed me. "We're using projectile weapons because the discharge of energy-weapons is too much like magic. If Pravus is stealing magic, he may be able to absorb the blasts or keep them from firing. No amount of magic absorption can stop a poly slug." He sounded proud and a little jazzed about teaching green recruits. I didn't exactly share his enthusiasm for learning how to kill, but it wasn't real enough yet for me to worry. Shawn on the other hand...
"I can't." Shawn said like it was his last word on the matter and shoved the machine pistol back toward Bem.
The corners of Bem's mouth drew down in a dour frown and he got up from the table like his joints were rusty. He walked to the far end of the tiny room, turned, and leaned against the wall with his hands behind him. He looked at Shawn, both of us really, with shallow, dead eyes in a shallow, dead expression. "You can and you will." His voice was a scary hollow monotone that had none of the rich luster of his normal baritone. "This is not a game. The survival of all life depends on us and our willingness to do what needs to be done. You are a healer, and you don't want blood on your hands. This mission doesn't leave you that option. If you remain part of this team, you surrender your innocence. We must end their lives before they end ours. Now decide, right now."
Shawn's left hand closed in a tight fist and his right closed over it. He squeezed the hand like he squeezed his mind, trying to force the right answer from his horrified grey matter. Bem seemed to sense Shawn's reluctance as clearly as I did. He softened his tone and offered some perspective. "Shawn, being part of the team doesn't mean you want to kill, or even that you're willing to kill, it just means that if faced with the choice between us and them, you'll make the right decision without hesitation."
Shawn opened his hands to stare into his palms. "Forgive me." He whispered to them. "I'll do what I have to." He promised.
Bem came back to the table. Some depth returned to his eyes and his voice sounded less scary. "That's fine. Close the cases and bring them. We're going down to the range. I'm going to teach you to load, aim, fire, disassemble, clean, and reassemble these weapons. By lunch time, you will be experts. After lunch, we'll meet the last member of the team in the Steward's office."
We spent all morning blasting away at bulls-eye style targets. I was glad, for Shawn's sake, they didn't use targets that were shaped like a person with the vital areas highlighted. The range was set-up the same as any range I'd ever seen on TV or in the movies. There was a partitioned, five-position firing line with a fold up counter at each place. One could shoot standing or fold the counter back to shoot prone. The range had target positions at ten, twenty-five, and fifty yards. The rest of the room could have been an oversized corridor with its light panel ceiling and black glass walls and floor.
Both my weapons were extremely simple to operate and maintain. Shawn's machine pistol was more complicated, but well-suited to his precise mind and dexterous fingers. He still treated the weapon with thinly veiled contempt, but he was quickly becoming proficient in its use and maintenance. He also turned out to be a surprisingly good shot.
We ate lunch in the conference room where Bem commented on the size of my appetite, and made suggestive comments about how that must indicate the size of everything about me. I'd made the mistake of ordering two hot-sausage sandwiches with peppers and onions for lunch. Watching me eat the thick links in the long rolls brought him no end of delight and provided ample material for a constant stream of lewd jokes. Bem was the only man I ever met who's laugh had its own leer.
In Ars' office, at one, we met the rest of our team. Bem and Shawn took the visitor's chairs while I perched on the ladder again. Ars offered to have another chair brought in for me, but as they were all too narrow, I told him to skip it.
"I am Warrant Officer Neb Torolus," the woman standing next to the seated Ars said in a melodic contralto that should have been coming out of someone soft and alluring. She stood `at rest' and made no moves to shake hands. She was Bem's height, tall for a woman on Solum, lean, drawn, and leathery. She had sharp brown eyes and sharp features on a smile-less, high cheek-boned face. She addressed us with a resting scowl. Her close-cut, reddish-brown hair parted in the middle of her head, lay somewhat flat on top and piled out to the sides like dry hay until it ended below her small ears. She had a longish, slender neck, bony shoulders, and just the barest hint of curves.
Over a navy-blue, pocketed t-shirt, she wore a grey long-sleeve, buttoned-down shirt, open to the waist and tucked into black slacks. Her sleeves were unevenly rolled up, her left cuff shoved passed the elbow while the right one rested half-way down her forearm. Everything about her, from her look, to her outfit, to her military carriage screamed `no-nonsense.'
Ars was uncharacteristically quiet. It was the second time I'd seen him that way in the presence of a woman and I wondered if women intimidated him. Neb made her own introduction. "I am a tactical strategist for the armed forces of the Protectorate of the Common States. I have been in the military for seventy-three years and a strategist for fifty-eight. For fifteen years before I joined the service, I was a member of the Epistylium Police Force. My expertise lies literally and figuratively on the fields of battle."
She paused, eyed each of us to gauge our attention, and resumed. "My task is to get us, but especially Mister Philips, to the summit of the Antitheus Arx. The Steward and I have developed a plan based on the little information we have. Over the next several days I will be testing each of you individually to see how that plan may need to be modified to suit the strengths or weaknesses of the team and how the strengths and weaknesses of the team must be modified to suit the plan. You may call me Warrant Officer Torolus or Ma'am."
This one's gonna be a treat,' my brain said, and we're only one letter away from an anagram between her and Bem.' My natural dislike of authority had me debating whether to fuck with her right away, or to wait, when Bem mooted my decision.
He had his right elbow propped on the arm of the chair and his right cheek supported with his right palm. His seated posture, like that of a bored teenager sitting through a lecture he didn't care about, seemed deliberately insolent. "Lighten-up, Neb." He said like it was an effort to force the words from his throat. "These guys are civilians, and I haven't saluted in so long I forget how."
If looks could kill, the one she gave him would have. "Is the potential end of the world not a serious enough matter for military discipline?" She demanded.
He replied without dragging his face from his palm. "I'd say it's too serious for military discipline. These guys are not soldiers. We need to be a team. You may be the one leading the charge, but that doesn't make you the General."
He got up and walked around the desk to where she stood. He pointed to Shawn and I. "The cutie with the piercing eyes is Shawn and the giant slab of man is Church." He offered his hand to her. "I'm Bem, it's nice to meet you."
For just a second, I thought he was going to have to defend himself. The scowl Neb wore was impressive and her whole body seemed clenched. She unbent slightly and shook his hand. "Neb." She said. She'd tried to growl but her sweet voice made it impossible.
"Neb." He repeated. The crisis of opinions solved, for the moment anyway, Bem returned to his seat and propped his face in his hand again.
"Did you call me a `slab?'" I asked the back of Bem's chair.
"Yes," he said without looking at me, "would you rather orgy starter' or feast of man meat' or `two-short of a threesome' or..."
Neb shut Bem's teasing down with an angry bark. "I will endure being called by my first name, but I will not put up with your mocking disrespect."
Bem gave her a flippant left-handed salute. Neb gnashed her teeth and shut her eyes like she was seeking inner strength. "Steward," she addressed Ars with her eyes closed, "I've said what I need to say. Did you have anything?"
Ars didn't have anything. Bem led us out and down to the dojo room.