I finally run into my old squad leader in the most fitting of all places on the Midway—the shooting range over in SI country.
Since I lost all my kit with the Manitoba, the armorer on the Midway had to scrounge up a pair of armament sets for me. Ever since they gave us new gear for use against the Lankies, every spaceborne grunt has two sets of weapons, called Alpha and Bravo kit. The Alpha kit consists of a modular fléchette rifle with a grenade launcher, for use against other humans. The Bravo kit is centered on the M-80, a giant jackhammer of a rifle that fires a twenty-five millimeter round with the destructive power of a light-vehicle cannon.
The Alpha and Bravo kits I get from the armorer are from the tail end of the supply chain, just like everything else on this ship. The M-66 looks like it has been cleaned to death by fifty cycles of recruits, and the M-80 is so loose and rattly that I suspect it was used for stress-testing experimental loads at Aberdeen Proving Grounds. Still, I want to be sure that my new rifles actually hit roughly where I point them, so I haul the entire kit down to the range on a slow morning.
When I check in with the range master, I can see through the armored windows that all eight of the computerized shooting stations are taken up by HD troopers, and more grunts are lined up and waiting behind each station. The troopers in the firing lanes are putting their fléchette rifles through their paces, shooting bursts at computer-generated targets. All the HD troopers on the range carry their standard M-66s, which are almost useless against thousand-ton Lankies that can cover forty klicks in an hour at a leisurely gait.
It’s strange to see the Homeworld Defense troops in their unfamiliar battle armor on fleet turf. The HD armor suits are subtly different from those worn by our Spaceborne Infantry grunts. Their shoulder pauldrons are bigger, the chest and back plates are more faceted, and the sensor bulbs on the helmets are in slightly different spots. I notice that most of the grunts on the firing line have battle scars on their armor plating, shrapnel gouges and pockmarks from bullet impacts. Whatever the HD battalions riding along with us have done Earthside lately, it looks like they were no less busy than our frontline assault regiments.
The HD troops use helmet-mounted sights, just like we do, so all the troopers on the firing line are in full battle rattle. They wear name tags across the backs of their helmets, but I don’t need to read the one labeled FALLON to recognize my old squad sergeant. She’s in the last lane on the far right of the line, standing half a head shorter than the next smallest of her troopers. The rifle in her hands burps out a steady stream of short bursts. There’s something about her bearing and economy of movement that would make her stand out in a parade ground among a whole regiment of troopers. I watch as she works through her magazine, putting simulated tungsten fléchettes into imaginary holographic enemies until the bolt of her rifle locks back on an empty feedway. She raises the muzzle, yanks the disposable magazine block out of the rifle, and checks the chamber before vacating her spot in the booth for the next trooper in line. Then she walks up the firing line to the exit hatch where I am standing, and I give her a curt wave when she raises the visor of her battle helmet. Her purposeful stride falters just for a fraction of a second, and I see a hint of surprise on the part of her face I can see through the visor slot of her helmet. Then she walks over to where I’m standing and motions for me to follow her out through the armored hatch of the firing range, away from the hoarse staccato of the fléchette rifles.
Outside, in the range master’s vestibule, she removes her helmet and turns around to face me.
“Andrew Grayson,” she says, and pulls me into a firm one-armed hug. Nearby, two of the HD troopers about to walk onto the range exchange looks of surprised amusement at the sight of their senior sergeant hugging some fleet puke. “What the fuck are you doing on this rusty piece of shit?”
“Good to see you again, Sarge,” I say. “This rusty piece of shit is my new duty station as of last week.”
“You must have pissed off the brass something fierce again.”
“No, my shiny new ship got shot to shit by the Lankies a few weeks ago. But what the hell are you doing here? I thought you didn’t do space.”