Train:
The John Everett (Formerly the 556)
Location:
Manitau Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada
52°41'42.6"N 109°44'30.5"W
Time:
1834, Friday, July 01, 2067
Report Issuer:
January-50a - Aurora Marshal
Third generation immune
Sadie looks out the window, distracted. Apparently, the news that The Hunter flirted with me is less than impressive. Maybe she’s annoyed it took me over a week to share, but I’ve been getting busier lately and haven’t been able to spend as much time with her. Plus, I’m tired—damned tired. The last few days have been filled with getting ready for my official Ranger evaluation—The Crucible—and the PT is grueling.
The fork slips out of Sadie’s hand as she aimlessly drags it around her plate and she absentmindedly tries to put her hand back on it. I roll my eyes, reach out, grab her hand, and place it on the fork. Before I have the chance to pull it away, her other hand snatches mine and she looks at me, eyes twinkling. “Thank you,” she says with a lustful purr, further pressing my buttons by stroking the top of my hand with a pair of fingers.
“Creepy,” I mutter through a hot smile as I pull my hand away.
Her amusement only grows. “So, The Hunter can flirt with you, but I can’t?”
I just stare at her in laughing disbelief and shake my head. “Sadie, sometimes you’re—”
“—so illuminating,” she says, impersonating me with a horny lilt. “That makes me sooo hot. Let’s go to my bunk.”
“Eww, shut up, Sadie!” I snap. But I’m still smiling, and it twists the words. “Freaking creepy.”
“Ooh, unloading the offensive language, are we?” she replies, leaning over to me and taking one of my hands again.
I smile, shifting my jaw. “Everything I say with you is another opportunity to make me uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I could make you very comfortable if you would prefer,” she replies, waggling her eyebrows and stroking my hand again.
I pull my hand away again. “Creepy! Creepy creepy creepy!”
“I suppose you’d prefer The Hunter make you very comfortable?” she asks with a quirk of her head. I flush, the heat in me— “Oh, I neeeed a reload! That’s suuuch a big gun! Give me more rounds, captain!”
“I’m leaving!” I say, standing up.
“Booo!”
I just stare at her, crossing my arms.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” she says, leaning back. She then fixes me with a playfully accusatory look. “But in the future, if you don’t want to talk about something, you shouldn’t bring it up.”
“You are a manipulative monster. You know that, right?” I reply, shaking my head.
“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so fun and easy to rile up.” She sighs. “But forget about The Hunter—tell me about qualifying for the Rangers…” She fixes me with a look of slightly dramatized annoyance. “…not that I like the idea of not having you all to myself anymore.”
I roll my eyes and ignore the comment. She is right, though; I won’t be able to drop in on her nearly as much. “I didn’t mention it before, but I had really good scores,” I admit, hoping to catch her interest with a little gossip. “You can’t tell anyone, but apparently my mom was tweaking the numbers for all the qualifiers.”
“What?” she says, shocked expression on her face as she leans in. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She looks down for a second. “Damn, I can’t imagine it would help your already sterling reputation for people to know your mother was protecting you from work.”
The words hit me. “It’s not like that,” I protest, half believing it to be true and half only hoping. “She wants me in leadership—she kind of… I don’t know tried to steer me in?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” she replies, thoughtful; I can see the skepticism blead through, though. “It’s not the way everyone else would see it if it got out, though.”
“I wanted to work!” I retort, annoyed. “I’ve been working my ass off to get that Ranger qualification.”
“And it shows,” The Hunter replies, as he opens the door.
“So, you’ve been looking at Aurora’s ass?” Sadie lazily retorts, not missing a beat.
The Hunter, evidently immune to her twisting words, just slowly turns his head toward her, unamused. “What, expecting embarrassment? Should I quale at being caught appreciating a nice ass?” The words make me hot and I freeze. I barely notice that the lack of an uncomfortable reaction clearly bothers Sadie and she leans back, crossing her arms. “What?” he asks, grinning and charming. “You don’t like the idea of a man flirting with a woman?”
She rolls her eyes an looks away, clearly annoyed.
I, for my part… he’s… he’s definitely flirting. I—
“Aurora,” he says, catching my attention.
I look at him.
“I said, come on,” The Hunter says from the door, bidding my follow him. “The eval, remember?”
I grab my now compulsory rucksack, taking an excited breath. I take a step toward him, unable to suppress a smile. He rolls his eyes, but grins a little too. I wave goodbye to Sadie, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Bye Sadie,” I say, trying to catch her attention. She just lifts an arm and halfheartedly waves. I just roll my eyes and head off.
She hates being one-upped.
I follow The Hunter in silence down the desolate hall and stairs. Almost everyone is out of the train since we reached Manitau Lake for the scheduled refueling; even though we stop every day during the solar hours, a layover like this is a good opportunity to have an extended cook out or whatever. Also, there’s a lake and it’s rare that we ever get to swim.
I’ll have to do a bit of that, while we’re here.
…if I get the time.
We leave the train and begin walking parallel to it, heading, I assume, to the nearest armory car. The silence continues, but I don’t let it bother me. Instead, and making sure to keep an ear attentive, I scan the surroundings.
It is beautiful, if plain. The gray sky doesn’t quite promise rain and the wind makes the green, lush grass swirl. I can’t see the lake from here—it’s maybe a kilometer or so away from the rail—but I can still remember the last time we visited. I—
I walk right into The Hunter’s back, startled to see him opening the door to an armory car. I stare at him, shocked; he just shakes his head, amused.
We enter the armory, and I can see this is one of the middle ones, which, aside from all the standard equipment, has an allotment for operations’ supplies. Three late teens who I might recognize if I took the time salute The Hunter who returns it, quickly going back to their tasks thereafter. As I follow The Hunter, I see the eight hotbunks where on-duty Rangers sleep. They are not much, but at least they have sound protection; I know it is going to suck getting used to sleeping in an active zone, but I am not bothered by the idea at the moment, excited to finally—
I walk into The Hunter again and stare at him, this time mortified. He just smiles and shakes his head, handing me a FN SCAR 20, the standard, top tier precision rifle for The Everett.
“Starting me off with the 20?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“That is a 17,” he replies, and I am too preoccupied with how wrong I am to take in his tone before he speaks up again. “It is over a kilo lighter. Should suit you better for now. Sims predict you are a good shot—a damned good shot—but, realistically, the times you are going to need long range fire are few. It will be vastly outnumbered by the times where maneuverability is better, hence the 17 and a suppressor. Even so, it is an exceptionally accurate battle rifle.”
“Right,” I reply, lamely. “I…”
“…am nervous?”
“Yes,” I reply, deflating a little.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, clearly joking a little.
“I—yes, but…” I sigh. “I want this to go well is all, but thanks for making me even more nervous.”
He chuckles and hands me another weapon. “What is this one? Take your time.”
I look at the angular weapon—a submachine gun—a very distinct submachine gun. “H&K MP7,” I say and, ejecting the magazine for a look and clearing the barrel, clarify: “H&K MP7A1.”
“Good,” he replies. “For now, and despite what anyone says,” he adds, looking behind me. I turn back, seeing two amused Rangers eying us; they straighten immediately. “…a submachine gun is perfect for you as a secondary weapon—a primary weapon, really. Like I said, long range precision shooting isn’t going to happen often, so the MP7 is probably going to be the one you have handy most of the time. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” I reply, smiling.
He just shakes his head, my “yes sir” a bit too perky, but not so much that he wants to bother with it. “You are clearly a designated marksman and need a more versatile secondary weapon. The MP7 is very light—just over two kilos—which should help. Wardens,” he says, looking past me; I turn, seeing the two Rangers perk up, “utilize them for urban hunts. Here,” The Hunter says and, from his auditory cue, I can tell he is talking to me. Turning back, I see him handing me several magazines, which I slide into the appropriate sleeves. “Take a look at this,” he says, twisting the suppressor on the SCAR 17, which comes right off the rifle.
“Huh,” I reply, already familiar with the concept through the sim rifles, but not wanting to overstep.
“Though there isn’t really a scenario where you wouldn’t want a suppressor—for all our ears sake as well as keeping the sound of your presence to a minimum—these are fast detachable.”
“Convenient,” I agree
“The Gunsmith was very fond of this type of suppressor—a Dead Air Sandman, I think he called it. Consequently, he has meticulously worked to replicate the system for smaller arms as well, such as one for your MP7.” He leans in and points to a small etched number “2” on the suppressor and muzzle break. “See that?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“It shows that the break and suppressor match,” he replies and screws the suppressor back on, the sound like the ratcheting of metallic zip tie. “Different rounds require different suppressors, obviously.” He then pulls out a shelf, rummages, and hands me another suppressor. “See the etching?”
I turn the suppressor over and find it. It says “4S-MP7.” “Yeah.”
“That denotes it’s a ‘4’ class suppressor, but matched to the MP7 round. It will work on other class 4s in a pinch—assuming the bullet is smaller than the MP7’s 4.6×30mm bullet—but is really designed for the MP7,” he adds. “Try to put it on the MP7,” he says, giving me a nod.
I do, matching up the indicators on the suppressor and break and then twisting.
He looks at me, less impressed than suspicious.
“I spent a lot of time in simulation,” I reply, a little sheepish.
He smirks. “Let’s go.”
We depart and head further along the train. I take the opportunity to get all of my gear in the right places and soon we are at a rapid deploy storage car. The Ranger guarding the last remaining quad—Sam, as it turns out—gives The Hunter a nod that somehow shows more respect than a salute, which The Hunter returns, also an air of respect to it. He then turns to me.
“Aurora,” Sam says.
I tense, suspicious.
“I wanted to welcome you to the Rangers—hopefully I will be the last to do so informally.” He holds out a hand.
Cautiously, I put my own out, taking it. “Thanks,” I reply, clearly not convinced.
“So… uh… good luck,” he replies, just as clearly a little lost for words.
“I, uh… thanks,” I say, this time a little more genuine.
He just closes his eyes, shakes his head, and sighs, a little frustrated.
“Get on,” The Hunter says, and I see he’s already on the quad. I freeze a little at this and take a deliberate moment to put on the helmet. Then, forcing myself to be calm, I get on the quad and wrap my arms around him. He laughs. “I’m not contagious,” he says, and I hear the smirk in his voice.
I wrap my arms tighter and, as he pushes the acceleration, find myself wrapping tighter still. We take off, heading toward the south west of the lake. “Where are we going?” I call out over the wind.
“Northwest of the lake,” he replies. “There is an old Bible camp there—only place around here with a decent forest.”
We ride for a couple minutes in silence. Ascending a ridge, we ride parallel to the lake’s shore and I look out. The waters of this particular lake are rich in salt and minerals. It also has a large island, making it a perfect place for a permanent outpost, though I’m not sure how long ago it was founded or completed.
As it stands, the geothermal plant—probably the first project undertaken—serves as a semi-regular summer stop for refueling. That typically means cycling in hydrogen and oxygen into the fuel tanks and restoring any water displacement that represents. As this is a relatively well-manned outpost, we will also end up exchanging supplies and staying for a few days. I think I remember someone mentioning that this place is critical for the minerals it collects from the water; it had something to do with those being processed into bricks which are reintroduced into the pure water used by The Everett for potables.
Judging by facility on the island—one that is hard to make out amidst what is probably a manmade dirt and rock mound—there is a lot going on nowadays. I can’t help but wonder how many people live there. —what it’s like to be stuck to one place. —what it’s like to be dependent on the trains to keep the outpost sustainable.
The Hunter and I travel a bit longer in silence and I take the time to survey the area a little more. Several clusters of people are in the lake, swimming and having fun. Several other groups are on the beaches and I see what I can tell is probably the beginnings of a cookout underway. Looking out in the other direction, I search for the telltale signs of Ranger perimeter guards, but spot nothing. They will, of course, be motionless in concealed locations, but I was hoping I would be able to spot at least one.
I suppose it is good that I can’t.
What I do see is a lot of drones. They hang in the air, almost completely motionless. I can’t see it, but laser emitters on The Everett are keeping the drone’s powered. There may be Rangers on duty, but those drones are the eyes and ears. The Rangers are mostly just the guns.
A couple minutes later, The Hunter and I enter a small forest and stop shortly thereafter. Disembarking, we head into a small building. He takes a rag and wipes off a large, aged wood desk. Next, he rolls out cloth and pulls up a chair, sitting and gesturing to another. I take it and sit, setting my rifle down across my lap, SMG hanging from my vest from its tether.
“Alright,” he says, cracking his neck. “The first thing we are going to go over is your weapon proficiency test. Normally you would have all sorts of preliminary training done, but your simulator time takes care of that.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he holds up a finger.
“Now when I was first brought into the Rangers, around now would be the time when someone would speak with a joke or quip, get chewed out, and immediately be rejected from that round’s group.”
I close my mouth—feel my teeth click together—surprised at how shocked I actually am when I hear that.
“It sets an important precedent and lets everyone know exactly how serious training is. There is always—always—someone who gets kicked out, too.” He chuckles. “They—we—pretty much make sure of that.” He then pauses for effect and, before I risk an unsure nod, he continues. “Given that you’re a class of one, what you’ve put into getting where you are now without aid, and all the details, I think you have already learned the seriousness of the profession.” He scratches behind his ear. “As for your attitude, I am going to fix that by assigning you to Sam’s command.”
I open my mouth to object, but the just looks at me, the deadpan expression somehow more stifling than a glare. We stare at each other for almost a minute, my tension lessening with every second.
“You have difficulty with authority,” he says, carefully inspecting me.
My mouth opens again, but I close it. Thinking—deciding on diplomatic words—I consider my actions carefully. “May I speak?” I ask. Then, qualifying, I continue: “I do not know all the protocols yet.”
“Yes,” he replies.
“Without recourse?”
That gets a smile from him. “Sure, why not?”
“How does forcing me to work with someone who hates me make sense?”
His smile grows. “First,” he says, raising a finger, “do not grow accustomed to getting explanations for orders. I am only offering the courtesy now so you can understand and begin to build a perspective on how things work in the Rangers. Normally we can do this subtly over weeks, but… well, to say it frankly, you are half a decade late to the game. And, to be honest, immune are too valuable to waste hoping you figure it out for yourself. The ones that can do so make the best soldiers, but, alas…”
“Second?”
“What?”
“You said ‘first.’”
“Ah, second,” he says, leaning back. “Do your trust my judgment?”
The question catches me off guard and I find myself needing to break eye contact to think. Of course, I would like to say I do. I am smart enough to realize that that is prime bait for a trap, but that doesn’t seem like something The Hunter would do. No, he wants and honest answer. I look at him again. “I don’t know.”
“Very well,” he replies, little nod of the head acknowledging my truthfulness. “You will follow all my orders, correct?”
“I will follow your orders, yes,” I confirm. “I sort of have to—that’s how it works.”
He smirks. “If you want to be a Ranger, yes. You can always back out.”
I narrow my eyes. “Not going to happen.”
He shrugs. “Well, being willing to follow orders is the important part, anyway; trust will come in time—it isn’t something you can force, anyway.” He stands from his chair, moving to a window; when I shift to stand, he holds up a hand and I grow still. “Tell me Aurora, who is Sam?”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The question strikes me as odd. I once more open my mouth to answer, but close it. After almost a minute spent thinking and coming up with nothing, I speak. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Well, unlike the example of booting a prospect to teach a lesson, I am not going to explain this one for you. I will help, but you will have to work it out. Pick at the question, if you must. No need to think alone.” He turns to look at me. “Who is Sam?”
“Sam is a Ranger,” I reply, annoyed.
“Yes,” he replies, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, he qualified for the Rangers?”
“Correct, and when?”
“When?”
“When did he qualify?”
“I—” I stammer, remembering. “It was something like nine, right? But that was just the reserves. —I don’t know when he actually made it in.”
“He qualified at nine,” he replies, shocking me—my mouth actually falls open. “He was the youngest we have ever had, clichéd as that sounds. But hey, someone has to be the youngest, right? He was damned persistent too—petitioned The General and everything.” He smirks. “I said, ‘What the hell? Let him try The Crucible and wash out.’” He shakes his head. “The General never lets me live that down.”
“Nine,” I reply with a neutral tone, further remembering what an insufferable ass he had been then. It was only a month or so later than Commander Sam had his third breach and, during his ceremony, bestowed his name on the Sam I know. After that, the arrogance and self-important bragging that came from Sam was insufferable, and yet no one else found it annoying. They fawned over him even though he would only let so called friends call him by his new name. He had become a recognized Ranger and even the older Rangers treated him well, rather than the little shit he was. Yet I always had thought he was a recruit, not a full-fledged Ranger. Even so, it was—
“In fact,” The Hunter says, pulling me back to reality, “there was discussion about not letting him in specifically due to his age, but he passed The Crucible and ultimately it sets a good example.”
“Maybe that was a mistake.”
“Oh-h-ho, not at all,” he says through a laugh that nonetheless has a trace of annoyance. “He may have started out as an annoying little shit, but exposure to the Rangers changed that.”
“I won’t comment,” I reply, cynical.
“Good,” he retorts, cold. After a moment, he continues. “Think about that, Aurora, think about what it would have taken to qualify at nine.”
I break eye contact as I ponder the idea. Nine years old? I think back to the scare a week or so back with the gas station explosion—to that little kid Sam had running the magazines. Sam qualified at that age.
“He is one of the most resolute and disciplined Rangers I have ever encountered, your little ongoing spat with him notwithstanding,” he says with a little warmth. When I look up to meet his eyes, I see he has taken his seat. “He is command rank now. He leads The Paragons. Others that are older than him defer to his judgment, something he earned.”
“He’s that good?” I ask, cracking just a little.
“More than that,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“What do you mean?”
“Ignoring yourself, how does he treat his subordinates?”
I think for a moment, trying to come up with a negative response, purposely skimming past instance after instance of mature behavior—leadership qualities, as my mother would say. “He always takes the scoped rifles for him and his friends, even if he isn’t the best shot.”
The Hunter stares at me, cold and angry. I have never seen the expression on his face, and I find myself involuntarily pressing back against my chair, nervous—afraid. “Have you considered,” he says in a cold, livid tone I would have believed only befitted a fury, “that the shooters behind the scopes are the ones most often tasked with taking lives?”
I freeze, the idea having never actually occurred to me.
“Have you considered,” he asks, leaning forward and tilting his head to the side, “that maybe the twelve and thirteen-year-olds don’t need to be further burdened with the trauma of killing someone—fury or no?”
“I—I—”
“Have you considered!” he says, this time pushing my chair over. I hit the floor hard and scramble away out of instinct, finding myself in a corner. I turn, seeing him right up in my face. I look away, closing my tearing eyes. “Have you considered that just because you—fortunate as you are to be immune and spared the ever-rising fury, lust, other emotions constantly growing on you! —the knowledge—the fear—that every day might be the one you snap! Have you considered that you have it a whole hell of a lot easier than everyone else!”
He grows silent.
“Answer me,” he replies, a lot calmer.
I try, but my words are stuck.
“Answer me!” he yells, and I look at him though tear-filled eyes.
“I—I didn’t,” I admit, shaking.
He hunches down. “This is what the Rangers are, Aurora,” he says, now very, very calm and collected as he offers a hand. “You still have time to leave but you now know.” I take the hand, and he pulls me up. As we go back to the chairs, he puts a hand on my back and leads me; I only realize then than I’m shaking. It takes me a little while to still, but I eventually do. I look at The Hunter, who looks back, calm and collected, waiting for me to center myself again. “You also have others around you that will help you bear this burden, as you will, in turn, bear theirs.”
“T-thank you for your patience,” I reply, realizing as I speak that I am still a little shaken.
“You are welcome,” he says, somehow both cold and sympathetic; then he warms. “Know that next time you try to manipulate me, I will have you in PT until you can’t walk for a day, understand?” he adds, the question both a joke and definitely not a joke.
After a moment, I nod. Then swallowing, I look at him. “Yes, sir.”
He nods, approval in his eyes. “Don’t tell your mother this—not that you are the type to cry to mother—but she did you no favors by coddling you.”
“I wasn’t coddled!” I snap with heat before I can stop myself. Yet I don’t want to. I stare at him, stern; evidently it cuts off some sort of retort, because he shifts from accusatory to uncertain in an instant. “Apologies for the outburst, sir,” I add with earnest poise, “but I was… manipulated and guarded. …like a… a… pet.” I sigh. “I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
He rubs his chin at that, looking me over. “Yes,” he finally says. “She coddled; you weren’t coddled. If you were, you wouldn’t have worked so hard for this—you would have balked at the first sign of real adversity.” I open my mouth, and he seems to read my mind. “I can see how much it means to finally have someone to whom you can vent this, so you have my apologies for the mistake,” he says, reaching out and putting a hand on my shoulder.
I nod, appreciative, but not willing to dive further into it.
“But that is for a later time,” he adds, removing his hand. “How does Sam treat his Rangers?” he asks again, deliberate, heavy, and serious. “Think.”
“He treats them…,” I say, thinking back to that night during the emergency. He treated those two boys’ arrogance with disarming calculation. He treated Thomas and the other two younger Rangers with professionalism. He made a positive example of the boy who did everything right and requested a shotgun. That little nine-year-old… he was kind and direct—like a teacher.
When I think of Sam, am I just seeing who he was years ago transposed over an older version of himself—seeing what I want to see—or do I see the truth?
“…he treats them like his has their best interests at heart.”
“And how do others treat him?”
I sigh, annoyed by knowing I have to give a positive answer. “They practically worship him.”
The Hunter reaches over and grabs my jaw, roughly shifting my face to regard his. “I know not being adored by everyone around is a sore spot for you so I will let this slide,” he says with a tone that mixes criticism, seriousness, and mockery, letting my jaw go. “How do they treat him? Think.”
I close my eyes, thinking. Remembering interactions I observed, I realize I’m right… I look at him. “What I said was true,” I reply, and fire rises in him, but I am faster to my words, “but for the wrong reason.”
Hearing that, a skeptical, tense expression overtakes him; I am on thin ice.
“They do practically worship him—” his irritation flairs, but I press on “—or try to impress him—or do the things people do when they want the attention of someone they respect.” With every word, his anger and doubt melt in favor of something more encouraged and pleased. “That is how they treat him, but he tries to dissuade it—pardon, but the question isn’t how they treat him, but how they view him.”
After a minute—an awkward minute where I know I’m right, but somehow feel I’m lacking—he reaches out, puts a hand on my shoulder, and speaks: “That is well reasoned.”
I… I beam, the words immensely gratifying.
“Now, would you like to venture a guess as to why I would want you assigned to his command?”
“I have a lot to learn from him,” I reply, and he nods.
“Yes, and?”
I pause, thinking for a second. Not coming up with anything, I just look at him, eyes asking for me.
He looks at me, a sense of warm sympathy in his eyes confusing me. “Given what you know about how he treats others, and how others respect him… how will people start to treat you once you have earned his respect?”
“But he hates me,” I blurt, unable to contain the words now that the conversation has become so positive.
“…does he?”
“He was so mean to me—like, all the time.” All my memories, everything I have seen, all Sadie has learned via her network of gossipmongers—all of it—has shown me a self-centered, egotistical ass that…
My attention is captured as The Hunter looks away for a moment, frustrated. He sighs and looks back. “How do you treat him?”
The words unlock something in me, and I think about that—the relationship—the wall—we have deliberately put up between each other… the olive branch he offered me when he was with the quad. “He’s just… trying to teach me a lesson, I think—like he does with everyone.”
“I think the truth of that is something for you to figure out for yourself, Aurora,” he says, tone cryptic, and not the aloof and mysterious sort. Something’s there, and he’s not going to help me with it. The look I give him stirs something else, evidently, and something in him shifts. “If I told you he is a shy man…? If I told you him welcoming you into the Rangers wasn’t anyone’s idea but his own…?”
The words confirm my suspicion. I swallow. “If that’s the case…” I look down, suddenly hating myself. “I… I think I would like him to be the first to formally welcome me to the Rangers, too.”
“That can be arranged,” The Hunter says, reaching out and lifting my chin, “if you pass.” He stands and picks up my rifle, which had fallen over when I fell from my chair.
I dropped my rifle.
How could I…?
The memory makes me cringe, I already finding my earlier reaction immature and unprofessional. Before I can stew, The Hunter places the SCAR 17 on the table, turning and leaning against heavy wooden edge. “To begin, what are the four rules of firearm safety.”
“One, treat every firearm as though it is loaded,” I begin, slipping into an academic mindset, “two, don’t point a weapon at anything you do not intend to fire upon; three, trigger discipline, which is holding your finger off of the trigger and straight ahead when not prepared to fire; and four, all safeties are to remain on until a combat situation is entered.”
“Good,” he says, clearly pleased, “now let’s see you disassemble and reassemble your new rifle.”
I do just that, clearly meeting and exceeding his expectations on knowledgeability. Nevertheless, I find the physical act is far more demanding than in VR—springs, well, don’t like to be compressed.
As I go about my work, he asks me questions, mostly about the functions of parts in a generic sense, which I answer without error. Having spent hundreds of hours studying firearms, it is sort of inevitable. When he asks about the specifics of the of the FN SCAR 17, I mix up a couple of points, but they are minor.
“That is the type of information I will expect memorized within a couple days or so,” he says, idly scratching at something on his chin, “as well as the serial number.”
I turn to him. “She’s mine?”
“If you pass.” He gives me a supremely amused and unimpressed look… somehow. “Now, on to your secondary.”
I then repeat the process with the H&K MP7A1, though he only asks about the unique parts. Since the SMG uses an unusual ammo—4.6×30mm—I hadn’t bothered to learn much about the weapon, as such firearms are generally reserved for special roles.
Evidently that’s me.
It… it sort of makes me feel pretty damn good.
The Hunter then moves his chair behind me and walks me through a number of things. As he shows me how to lubricate the rifle, I find myself thinking about altogether different things, given our proximity. His chest keeps rubbing against my shoulder and I shiver several times, unable to concentrate on what he’s saying. He keeps telling me things, but I don’t catch it all. I find myself biting my lip.
“Aurora, are you even paying attention?” he finally asks, coming around from being me and giving me an unamused stare.
I sort of just bite my lip and look away, before looking back and smiling again, a little giddy.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fortune’s sake,” he mutters.
He has to redo that section of the course.
By the time he moves on to showing me how to adjust the sights, I am able to suppress my girlish distraction—for the time being, anyway. When I’m alone…? …later?
He proceeds to show me how to clear a jam, zero a scope—something he says I will be using from the start, given my preliminary scores—and other odds and ends. He also moves me through the three shooting stances, and I once again find myself distracted when he touches me, adjusting my position.
This time he makes certain I am paying attention, pausing significantly and making me repeat what he says back.
He asks about other things he suspects I know, such as weather conditions, terrain, and projectile motion, and ultimately finds me fit. When it finally comes time for the live fire exercise, we exit the dilapidated building.
When we do, I am excited and goose-bumpy for several different reasons.
“All of this training is based on the old United States Marine Corps introductory courses, if drastically adjusted to consider age,” he explains as we walk. “For example, rucksacks are weighted based on a percentage of the wearer’s weight, not the gear they will eventually be carrying. That comes with more advanced qualifications. As you can imagine, since we have to make soldiers out of tweens, the regimens of adult soldiers had to be… adjusted.”
“Uh, I understand, but… what is a marine?” I ask, certain that information is probably in one of the military history courses. I gleefully skipped most of those in favor of what I thought would be more practical information. “Is it like, water? —like Water Rangers?”
“As I recall, it they did a lot of work with ships or something like that,” he says, thoughtful. Honestly, I was expecting far more—maybe even a bit of chewing out for not knowing it myself. “Funnily enough, the United States also had Rangers.”
“Why don’t we do Ranger training, then?” I ask, confused.
“The Rangers were an elite force—that, and our Rangers also have roles that relate to the forest kind of rangers.”
“Forest kind?”
“They made sure parks—like protected nature sites, I guess—were safe.”
“The marines didn’t?”
“They were a corps,” he replies. “The Rangers—not park rangers—were an elite branch of the Army, which was another corps. The Marines were technically part of The Navy. I know—it is confusing,” he adds, with a sigh.
“Why have two different groups?” I ask, even more confused. “Was it like a rivalry thing?”
“There were six, actually: The Army, Coast Guard, Navy, Marines—which, as I said, were technically part of the navy—the Air Force, and the Space Force—which were technically part of the Air Force. There was the National Guard too, but they were not a branch.”
I don’t reply, mind full.
“They all had different roles. There were police too, local, county, state, and national—several different national ones, if I’m right.”
That makes my brain swim a little. I can’t imagine needing six—or seven—or more—different types of military at first.
As I think about it, though, it makes more sense—I have no idea what we would do if we needed to do something in the ocean, let alone the sky.
I run back and forth between ideas, trying to figure out which question to ask next.
“Space?” I finally ask, clearly sounding confused, even to myself. I decide to go with it. “What is space?”
He stops, causing me to do the same. He then fixes me with an incredulous look.
“What?” I ask, annoyed.
“You aren’t messing with me?”
“No.”
“You really hate studies, don’t you?” he asks with a laugh, and I cross my arms, unamused. “Well space is—well, you know all the stars at night?”
I nod.
“It’s that—and that’s mostly empty space… hence… uh, space.”
“The United States sent Rangers—soldiers or, uh, spaciers, I guess—to stars?”
“I guess—no, not stars, but space. Stars are hot—like really hot—and… —never mind that,” he says, a little distracted. “All that Space Force thing really started getting underway right before…” the pause drags on, the moment less uncomfortable than just poignant. “…well… before,” he finishes, a bit lamely.
“I wonder if any of them are still up there,” I say, and he looks at me. I feel the need to clarify. “Maybe they were safe from…,” I begin, seeing for myself how uncomfortable the topic is. “…the, uh, after,” I conclude, just as lamely.
“I don’t know,” he says, glancing up for a moment. “I don’t even know how anyone would figure that out.” He sighs. “The Collapse kind of fucked up a lot of things.”
I give him a quizzical look, surprised he’d use “fuck” instead of frankly more adult “eff.”
“Yeah…” I trail off.
As I do, a strange sensation washing over me. I can’t… I can’t quite define it, but it’s like there’s something…
I look over to The Hunter, who has stopped as well—I only just realize I stopped. I stare at his face, but he doesn’t notice. Glancing down, I can see he has his rifle—a longer, heavier SCAR 20—at the ready, safety off and finger hovering. It’s angled up just the slightest bit, unnaturally motionless; he has it in a serious grip.
I flick my eyes back up.
He’s looking around, slow in his movements. After what seems like an eternity, but is probably just thirty seconds, he reaches with his other hand and presses his mic.
“Perimeter check,” he mutters in a voice devoid of his normal laidback warmth, the words also coming through my earpiece.
“Overwatch Alpha Six reports green,” the first Ranger replies.
“Overwatch Bravo Six reports green,” the second adds right after.
Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, and Omega—the drones’ operator—all report green, but the tenseness doesn’t lift. A minute or so later, The Hunter lifts his hand to the mic toggle again. “All squads to yellow-six,” he whispers, gradually easing as he does.
“What…?” I ask, the tension still not having passed for me. “What was—?”
“Don’t worry about it—probably just a needless precaution,” he interrupts, pointing to a spot in the dirt. “We should attend to your rifle qualification.”
I go rigid, hoping that passes for showing him how serious I am taking this. He grins, appreciative, and the mood grows light again.
“You will have sixty shots in two rounds. See those five targets out there?” he asks, pointing.
“Yes.”
“I will give you instructions on each stage, including time limit, position, and number of shots. If I don’t change a command, assume it is the same, understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’re not starting until you are ready, but let’s make sure I’m clear. If I say: ‘Alpha, prone, ten seconds, single shot’ you do what?”
“Assume the prone position, sight on alpha target, and fire a single shot before ten seconds passes?”
“Yes, good. Bravo, kneeling, ten shots, sixty seconds?”
I give him a look, eyes telling him exactly how unnecessary the question is. “I switch to kneeling, sight on bravo—”
“Alight, sorry,” he says, laughing. “Usually there is a week of classes to get this material imprinted and the applicants are a lot younger.”
“It is hard to imagine kids so young…” I say, sighing heavily as I look down range.
“Needs must,” he replies, a little sober. “Alright,” he says, formal again. “Tell me when you are ready. First we will just go through a magazine. It is your first time with a live rifle, and I want you to get a feel for real recoil. Here,” he says, slinging his bag forward and producing a magazine.
I take it, looking at it. Unlike the metal twenty-round mags I had seen all the time with the SCAR 17, this one is curved and made of plastic. I look at The Hunter, tilting my head and holding the thing up.
“Test is designed for a thirty-round mag,” he says with a shrug. “You could do it with the MP7, but the question of whether you can handle a 7.62 is really the salient point, right?”
I shrug too. Ejecting the steel magazine, I put in in my vest. Sliding the plastic one in, I put the butt to shoulder, flip the safety to single, and hold my trigger finger forward. “Ready.”
“Go ahead,” he replies, and I think it detect a smirk in his voice.
I do, aiming and pulling the trigger.
Nothing happens.
“Did you chamber a round?” he asks, smugness a little more overt now.
“Fortune, I’m an idiot,” I mutter, reaching up and grabbing the slide.
Correcting my mistake, I rack the round into the chamber. “Readddy,” I reply, mocking myself a little.
“Go ahead,” he repeats, amusement to his words.
Taking a deep breath, I fire.
The rifle bucks hard, punching me in the shoulder. Like the simulations, I find it far more manageable than a pistol, the three points of contact between my body and the weapon making a real difference. Even so, it has a hell of a kick, but not nearly as much as the simulation—not by a long shot.
I smile, the mental pun amusing me.
I return my focus, evaluating.
I was forceful… but not overwhelming.
With a bit of exposure and experience, I think I can handle it.
A couple more rounds gets me more accustomed, but still nervous. By the time I reach the last round, though, I feel a lot more confident.
I can do this.
It is different from the simulations, but not too different. The recoil, too, is… manageable.
Slowly lowering the barrel, I look at The Hunter.
“Are you rea—what?” The Hunter asks, clearly picking up on my frustration.
“I think,” I say, shifting my jaw, “my mother tampered with the recoil of the simulators.”
The Hunter thinks for a moment and then sort of nods his eyebrows. “That would make sense.” He crosses his arms, giving his head a slight nod. “What do you think?”
“It is a hell of a rifle,” I reply, honestly. “Heavy, to be sure, but manageable.”
“What else?”
I think. “I am going to need some serious time between shots to remain accurate—the recoil is a lot less than expected, but it isn’t unsubstantial.”
“Do you think it is too big for you?” he asks tilting his head a little.
“No!” I reply, earnest, realizing I’m a little manic. I love the rifle—everything about it gives me goosebumps—and I’d hate to trade it out.
He chuckles.
“I mean, I can handle it,” I reply, flushing a little. “I just need time.”
“Yes, well as petite as you are, a seventeen-year-old woman is bigger than any twelve-year-old boy, so you are already better suited than most that get their hands on one of these for the first time.” He smirks. “That, plus the PT…”
“Yeah,” I agree through gritted teeth, annoyedly amicable. “Gotta love that PT.”
He laughs. “You’ll get used to it soon enough—trust me, it will make you feel like a new person… once you are acclimated. Now, are you ready to continue?” he asks, offering me another magazine.
I eject the spent magazine and replace it with the second thirty-round banana-style one, rifle chambering a round for me this time. “I’m ready,” I say, still through gritted teeth, though this time excited.
“More practice, or do you want to move on to the drill?”
“Let’s do a drill,” I reply, giddiness bubbling up in me.
I’m doing this.
We commence the exercise, The Hunter running me through a simple, if rapid, set of commands. I hit every prone shot center mass, but find the other stances difficult, recoil from the heavy rounds jarring. Standing is the worst and I find I have the least control in that position. Then I make a mistake that throws me off, sighting on the wrong target before correcting and firing a hasty shot that goes wide, my first out and out miss. It is followed by another miss, and a third, my focus cracking further with each shot. Fortunately, there is one shot left in the magazine and, that knowledge in mind, I make the last shot of the round.
“Reload,” The Hunter says, and I do, chambering the round. “Ready?” he asks, and I nod. “Two shots, alpha, prone, ten seconds,” he commands, and I drop, reentering my mind.
I sight, breath, and fire—sight, breath, and fire; both rounds hit.
“Five rounds, kneeling, twenty seconds, Bravo.”
I pivot, take a few seconds to secure myself and sight on bravo. One, two, three, four, five, I deliberately think as I put the rounds into the target.
“One, bravo, standing, five seconds.”
I scramble to get up, frantically wondering if it is safer just to eat the miss in order to prepare for the next shot. I almost immediately realize how stupid that would be in a real combat situation, a fury charging me and I thinking well, I’ll just get the next one. I lock the butt into my shoulder, sight, and fire.
“Ten rounds, Delta, prone, fifteen seconds.”
I hit the dirt, carful to give myself enough just enough pause not to knock the wind out of myself. Resisting the desire to switch to automatic, I mentally resolve to take one shot per beat and manage to keep them all on target.
I then take a shot on Echo standing. Two on Charlie kneeling. Five rounds on Alpha, kneeling. Two prone on Delta. Two prone on Delta. And…
And…
I look up and over to The Hunter. He looks down. “Are you comfortable?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You’re out of rounds, Princessa,” he says, the pet name making me blush stupidly.
I push myself to my feet, dusting off my front. Shifting my jaw, partially at appreciative annoyance for the nickname, and partially out of nerves. “How did I do?”
“We’ll get to that,” he says, smirking. “What do you think?”
“I definitely fire better prone,” I reply without hesitation.
He nods. “Yeah. We’ll work on that—there are some techniques that involve using cover and terrain to stabilize the rifle that we can go over in other lessons. Still, that rifle will always benefit from a more stable firing position anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “Anything else?”
“Not really,” I reply, not hiding my eagerness. “…how did I do?”
“Well, you passed—246, sharpshooter.”
“Is that good?” I ask, excited and flustered.
“Yes and no.”
“What?”
“It is one rank above qualifying, which is good—damn good for a first time with live rounds. You should have failed a couple times first, but you had a lot of sim time, are older, and all that,” he says, and I can tell there is more. “But there is still expert and master. I know, with a bit of time to get used to your rifle, you will earn those—by The Crucible, I will expect master-level performance from you.”
“But I qualified?” I ask, shocked.
He grins. “You qualified.”
“I’m a Ranger?” I ask, surprised, excited, and amazed. I—
“Yes,” he says, grinning. “A Ranger Recruit. That was qualification two of many.”
I’m dumbstruck for a second. “…what?”
He smiles, clapping me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the bottom of the barrel, Recruit.”