CHAPTER 9

Given the estimated arrival will be a while, there will be down time from the journey, aboard the Vanity. To pass the time Dean decides to enter the shooting range,

The small recreational room holds the same baroque fashion as seen before, the range itself offers some hovering holo targets at the back end, weapons are plastered on the counters in front with a LED screen above, the weapons date to 18th century furthermore more into obscure newer futuristic sleek designs. To the right are lockers, wooden benches. He lines himself up in one of the booths, looking to equip first, a smooth shorthand-sized handrail pistol. Catches his eyes, surely enough to pack a punch.

Aiming at one of the targets the little pistol charges and in burst rounds fires in circular patterns towards its target. Embers dissipating on impact, above him a score on an LED screen is shown. 98. He scorns at the fact. “Ninety-eight? Not good enough, damn it.” Exclaiming in frustration. He was about to charge the weapon again when he couldn't help but look as he slowly turned to his right, where a crew member was certainly very drunk that man laid on his side.

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The fellow could be seen adorning an unassigned scuffed light blue tunic with a nonmilitary standard uniform, as it has no buttons present, more so, laid-back casual black jean is draped to his boots. Eventually the fellow rose to a seated position, as he drunkenly hiccupped, slurring his words “cap-n.”

Dean's reaction, wincing at the state of this poor cadet, the captain just stood still, it's all he could focus on. The drunk man slowly rose, stood up on his feet and gave a suggestion to the for what his next beverage should mix it with. It then dawned on Dean that he could barely identify the accent with the man's sluggish audible slurs. “God-dammit your Finnish?! Why the bloody hell did we recruit you?”

Ignoring the insults the drunkard continued to stagger towards the range, the Finnish cadet took out a sniper rifle with ease, aimed at the holo targets, achieving impress feats while drunk, firing with impossible but accuracy aim. His score was “100” on the LED screen. The captain looked impressed but then gave a disdained reminder of really who’s in charge “Impressive, but I remind you, England has declared your kind as enemies” giving him a deep stare of disapproval otherwise.

Heikki, too drunk to care but deep enough that the term reached him crystal clear, scooted back to the bench, his clumsiness getting the better of him caused him to tumble over, spilling the remaining liquor as he trilled his words. “Helvetii perkele” (“the hell, dam”) as he was making a prat of himself.

By which time the captain left the range, too disgusted to be in his presence, he headed towards his quarters, comms updated him on the time, in his precinct he went looking over the battle plans on his desk, as a holographic view of the fleet stats, detailing their specs of each vessel, the timing towards the location and formation, but nevertheless, the guilt that caused nearly the destruction of his own ship still stirred in the back of his mind.