Untitled
Chapter 43

Mother Confessor:

After the long march from the mess hall, we enter the shooting range just the other side of the armor depot. Unable to take my eyes off the powerful machines, their sole purpose to be destructive and agile. The thick metal skins spotless, and painted in camouflage of various terrains. Standing tall and ready, as that of toy soldiers begging to be commanded into combat. Massive metal feet act as boots, longing to leave their mark on soil and in field. Large hands wanting to grasp a weapon, and slam in the first of many heavy magazines and belts of bullets. Oh how I want to feel that power surrounding me. The whole trek through the depot excites my senses, dulling my mind for a brief time lost in the fantasy.

Following Sergeant Nimix into the designated firing range, winding our way through the ammo depot to our destination. I glance around at the crates, observing the large metal bolts stacked neatly in their containers. Observing the symbols on the different crates identifying caliber size, and some have extra markings to indicate the duel nature of the projectiles. Some turn molten after passing through the designated target. Others have a particularly nastier disposition in being highly explosive on impact. My mind running off again into fantasy, as we make our way to the range. This time of slinging the various projectiles at targets from an armor rifle at long range. The images of vehicles and enemy armor erupting into entropy flash through my mind. Playing out in slow motion, as each fine detail of every metal fragment is torn from the mangled machinery. On a path like high velocity stones lobbed randomly in all directions.

Entering the main open space of the firing range, Sergeant Nimix leading the way. A small arsenal in array on a large table a few meters from the range itself. It displayed two types of pistols, and two types of rifles. I concluded that one of each weapon was Terran, the other Centurian . Basing this on design and style of the models that lay upon the metal tabletop.

Standing next to the Sergeant, paying full attention to the Sergeant as she demonstrates them to me. Starting with the pistols, she uses slow and deliberate movements to show the workings of them. Starting with loading the magazine, and chambering the projectiles. Following it up with unloading the magazine, and the chambered bullet. Moving on to the safety mechanics that seem fairly simple to understand and operate. I watch as she places the two pistols on the thin flat surface about waist height, pointing toward the firing range and the targets in the field.

Motioning me over to the range itself, “Let’s see if you can hit the target ten meters out, cherry” , the Sergeant says. Handing me the large Terran pistol, it feels heavy in my slender grip. Taking it in my grip, I slide the magazine into the weapon. The slide puts up a bit of resistance, as I am not used to handling such a device. Letting it manually slam the first bullet into the chamber. Setting myself in a stance where my legs were parted, using my rear pair as a brace. Clicking the safety off, and using both hands to level the heavy weapon at the closest target. Drawing a bead on it, giving my eyes a small amount of issue adjusting to lining up the sights with my target. One eye wants to focus on the sights the other on the target. Taking a deep breath, holding the pistol tightly in my slender grip. I squeeze the trigger, as I slowly exhale the breath. The muzzle flashes brightly, as the weapon expels the projectile. It bucks in my grasp, rising from the explosive force as the bullet is expelled. This reaction of the recoil slams the heavy pistol against my face with the inertial force. The sights cutting into my forehead and just above my lip. Taking the brunt of the force with my nose. Sergeant Nimix roars with laughter, as she watches the whole action.

“Well cherry, you need to lock your elbows, otherwise you should get used to the beating”, she says through her laughter, plucking the heavy pistol from my hands. I step to the left, observing her person as she brings the weapon to bear down on the target. A second flash of the muzzle, the casing flies free of the breach. I observe her muscular arms barley move with the recoil as the bullet is expelled.

“Try again cherry” , she says to me, handing the pistol back to me the grip first. Carefully I accept the weapon once more. Taking my original stance again, being mindful to keep my arms as immobile as possible. Ignoring the pain and the trickle of blood dripping off the end of my nose. My eyes line up my second shot. Giving the trigger another squeeze, as I brace for the recoil. The explosive release vibrates into my rigid posture, raising my arms a few centimeters. Holding my stance, I wait for further instruction.

The Sergeant nods her approval of my shot in my peripheral vision.

“Not bad cherry, not bad” she says in her rough tone adding, “Empty the mag in to that target. Though do try to be more swift about it cherry.”

With my sights set on the target indicated, I fire the remaining thirteen bullets as quickly as I can. The recoil hurts my arms, as the final concussive blast escapes the pistol. The breach gaping wide as a small amount of smoke exits it. Lowering the heavy weapon, and discharging the empty magazine and placing it on the flat surface parallel to the weapon.

The Sergeant seems occupied with examining my results on the target. Standing at attention waiting for her analysis and next instruction. I feel a bit uneasy as my tutor clucks her tongue, as she stares down range.

“Try that again cherry, this time let’s see you hit the one at fifteen meters out” ,she addresses me seemingly satisfied with my first target at the closer range.

Turning to retrieve a second magazine for the Terran pistol, analyzing my impact on the first target. Plucking the large magazine for the table, I head back to the range and the Sergeant. Taking a glance at the holed up target as I cross the short distance. Holding the heavy magazine in my hands, I slide the top bullet out of the metal confining it. Examining the medium, fat bullet a few moments, rolling it end over end. I spot the caliber of it stamped into the soft metal of the casing on the base of the round. Stamped in the metallic flesh I roll it in my fingers reading the circumference: Confederation 15mm ACP. Finished with my inspection of the bullet, I struggle a bit to slide it back into the magazine. The Sergeant scoffs in a amusement as I fight with the bullet to reinsert it back into the metal device. In the end I did succeed, wiping the blood off my face afterward.

Slapping the large magazine into the heel of the pistol hard. Managing the slide with less difficulty this time. Letting it mechanically clink back into position, slamming the first round into place. Taking up my braced stance again, leveling the bucking beast of a weapon at the next indicated target. Taking a deep breath I hold it for three heartbeats. In those brief moments finalizing my micro calculations on where I wish to hit the intended target. Letting the long breath out slowly, I fire. Plotting each shot in specific points of the target. Hitting the head, neck, and chest of the simulated person. Emptying the small semiautomatic cannon into the target in about nine seconds. Taking the recoil much better the second time around. Though it still hurt, as the vapors escaped the empty breach as the final casing is violently ejected. The ringing in my ears begins to subside, and the adrenaline flows freely. Much more exhilarated at the second attempt handling the powerful device.

The Sergeant exclaims, “I’ll be damned cherry, not in all my years have I seen someone make such a grouping nor improvement with a Terran pistol before!” The surprise in her tone, I take it as a compliment as I a drop the now expended magazine from the heel of the weapon.

She continues further, “Have you ever shot before” , she asks me.

“No, ma’am” , I curtly reply, “this is my first time.” Placing the pistol and magazine on the narrow surface, a small smile of pride on my lips. Feeling good that I am doing rather well despite my reservations.

Markus:

Deciding to not be so far removed from my thoughts, thinking about the mysterious Martian spiders of the deep deserts. I change my mental tact to more important things. Getting up from my desk feeling more on point with my more immediate agenda. I stride toward the door. If I am to utilize the small old creature in the brig, then I will first have to get him out and open for discussion.

Taking leave of my quarters after placing my mask on my bare head, I set off toward the brig. Looking ahead to the business I shall be conducting with the aid of my enemy. This does not trouble me, as he is elderly and inferior to the General and myself. Both in rank and in physicality. Should be easy to get him to see things my way. The sound of my boots fills my ears as I march through the almost empty corridor.

Graxis:

Wearing myself down with the vigorous exercise, feeling the strain begin to slow my movement slightly. Working my graceful mock dance of death from combat speed, back down to the slower fluid motion. Letting some slackness into my whole body as I descend in tempo with the two practice swords. My knuckles sore from my tight grasp onto the grips. Breathing heavy from the stress of moving at the ferocious speed. Winding my practice down, and coming to a formal stop. Hanging on to the moment before placing the practice weapons back where they belong. Standing tired and proud that I take the time to practice, putting my cluttered mind at ease.

Dropping my solid stance, I take the faux swords back to the racking on the wall. Placing them orderly amongst the other practice weapons on the large racking running six meters on the length of the wall. I wander off refreshed back to my personal quarters to get some work done.

Marckus:

Entering the brig, I am greeted to insults shouted from the captured. Ignoring them, as I care little for the wounded pride of their Commander. Talk about a lack of dignity amongst the lot, save for one. The little creature who wore his age, and looked wise in his wrinkled face. I spot him at the far end of the rows of cells on my right, peering out curiously from his cell in response to the commotion.

Striding to the little soldiers cell. Letting the acid spewing confined say what they will. I have more important matters to attend. Just hoping the elder captive will prove to be of use to me in the long run with my planning.

Reaching the aged Captains cell, I look down as he looks up at me.

“Can I help you, sir”, the little Grey asks me respectfully. I nod my response to him.

“First thing I want you to do is denounce your faction” , I tell him pointedly. His large dark eyes on me as he mulls over the request for turncoat. Running small four fingered hand across his pointed chin in consideration.

“And the alternative to that would be, sir” , he asks me still rubbing his chin in indecision.

“Well my dear Captain, would be left up to the Council of Elders. If they so choose to bother with the likes of you and your present company. Hell you can decline and rot in that cell for all I care” ,I retort back at the small Captain, glaring down into his dark eyes.

I continue, “If you should choose to comply, you will be given a chance to earn your freedom. Not going to say that it will be easy, as what it will entail may put your life on the line. Though you have to decide what is more worth your while. Either you can put your cards on the table, or you can fold.” He continues in his thoughts, as I wait for a reply.

Starting to become impatient with the elder, as he takes his sweet time making a decision. I crack my knuckles in frustration. The joints loudly sound off on my calloused hands. Glancing at the watch on my wrist, sending the silent message to the small man to make a choice soon. Part of me wants to pull the little bastard through the bars, and use him as a punching bag. To pound him into nothing more than a puddle of purple goop, leaving behind an empty gray wrapper.

Watching him as he places his cap upon his bulbous head, he finally says, “I should like to hear you out, sir.”

Fair enough I think, no harm in dragging him out of his solitude. He should at least know what his freedoms price actually is. I signal the guard to open the cell.

“No tricks now, not that you are any position to pull some stunt”, I tell him as he steps out of the cell. Adding, “Come with me Captain, I should like to discuss my conditions of your liberty in private.”

With that we leave the angry mob to their own devices. The only thing they can do is shout more insults and thinly veiled threats, as I lead the elder captain out of the brig. We walk out in silence to contrast the hate filled prisoners.