Crown Vic to a Parallel World

20

The Warrant Officer

The next morning, we were back at The HALL to meet with Bem.  I was wearing a two-tone orange outfit and felt very much like a tall road barrel.  Shawn looked very attractive in pink shirt, dark green hip hugger pants, and light green heels.

The room we were meeting in was next to the dojo room.  It was a white conference room, small and windowless, labeled ‘Conference Room 603.’  The room contained the bare minimum to answer its definition.  It held a white table in its center and six chairs, three to a side.  The room was just large enough to walk around the outside of the table if all the chairs were pushed in.  I wedged myself in the too-small chair closest to the door.

Bem started teasing me as soon as we got there.  “You two smell like sex and bad decisions.” He said for an opener.

I blushed like a bashful teenage 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 face on.  “I picked out some hardware for both of you.” He announced.

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 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.  Maximum capacity is thirty rounds.  It will fire singles, bursts of three rounds, or fully automatic fire.  I don’t recommend the last one because you’ll empty the weapon in less than two seconds.”

Bem 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 seemed to notice Shawn’s distaste for the weapon, but he didn’t address it.

Bem flipped open another case and shoved it my way.  “That 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 revolver 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 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 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 primary weapon.”

The rifle was a savage-looking thing, matte-black and 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.  Also inside the case were two magazines, one drum, and one ten-inch-long bayonet.  The bayonet had a smooth sharp blade on the bottom and a notched edge on top.

I set the revolver back in its case and stood to handle the rifle.  I took it from its case and held it against my chest.  It was heavy, but well-balanced.  Another business-like weapon.  I returned it to the foam and sat down.

“Thoughts?”  Bem asked.

I thought it was 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.  Energy weapons use catalysts, magically modified crystals, to channel stored electricity into a weaponized beam.  We’re concerned that, since Pravus is stealing magic, he may be able to absorb the blasts or keep the weapons from firing.  No amount of magic theft can stop a poly slug.” Bem 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 about.  Shawn on the other hand…

“I can’t.” Shawn said like it was his last word on the matter and shoved the machine pistol 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, at both of us really, with shallow, dead eyes in a shallow, dead expression.

“You can and you will.” Bem’s voice was a guttural, hollow growl 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, right now, decide if you will remain on this team.”

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.  Being part of this team means that if you are 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 returned 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 lunchtime, 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, that the targets weren’t shaped like a person with the vital areas highlighted.  The range was inside a plain, black-glass room with a light panel ceiling and 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.

Both of 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 quickly became proficient in its use and maintenance.  He also turned out to be a surprisingly good shot.  My marksmanship wasn’t quite as good, but I managed to turn in decent results.

When lunchtime came, we returned to the conference room to eat.  Bem used the relative quiet of the noonday meal to comment on the size of my appetite, and how he assumed that must indicate the size of everything about me.

I’d inadvertently provided ample fodder for Bem’s leering comments because I made the mistake of ordering two hot-sausage sandwiches with peppers and onions for lunch.  Bem delighted in watching me eat the thick links in the long rolls while he made a steady stream of lewd jokes.  By the time I finished eating, I’d recognized Bem as the only man I ever met who’s laugh had its own leer.

After lunch, as the appointed time of one o’clock drew near, we trooped up to Ars’ office to meet the last member of the team.  Upon entering the showpiece office, 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 who stood next to the seated Ars said in a melodic contralto voice.  It was a voice that should have been coming out of someone soft and alluring, but the woman’s voice was the only alluring thing about her.

Neb 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 was parted in the middle of her head.  It 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.

Neb wore a grey long-sleeve, buttoned-down overshirt, open to the waist and tucked into close-fitting black slacks.  Under the overshirt, she wore a navy-blue t-shirt with a pocket over the left breast.  The sleeves of her overshirt were unevenly rolled up, with her left cuff shoved passed the elbow while the right one rested half-way down her forearm.  Everything about Neb, 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.  He left Neb to make her own introduction, which she did without hesitation.  “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.”

Neb paused her speech, 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 sarcastically, ‘and we’re only one letter away from an anagram between her and Bem.’  My natural dislike of authority led me to debate over whether to fuck with Neb right away, or to wait.

Bem took the initiative and mooted my decision.  He’d been sitting with 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 attending 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 Neb shot at Bem would have.  She was angry at Bem’s disrespect and didn’t shrink from letting him know it. “Is the potential end of the world not a serious enough matter for military discipline?”  She demanded.

Bem 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.”

Bem got up and walked around the desk to where Neb stood.  He pointed to Shawn and me.  “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 Bem 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.

With the crisis of opinions seemingly solved, Bem returned to his seat and propped his face in his hand again.  I was surprised that the military professionals, Bem and Neb, had participated in what amounted to a dick measuring contest in front of Shawn and me.  I assumed that military discipline wasn’t the same in every world as it was on Earth and didn’t let it bother me.  What did bother me a bit, was the way Bem had described me to Neb.  I took the quiet moment as an opportunity to address it.

“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 still 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.