Vorpal Blade

12

“I was told to report to Ops?” Berg said, looking through the open hatch of the operations office.

“You Berg?” the staff sergeant behind the desk said with a frown. There was a nameplate on the desk with a faux brass plate that read “Staff Sergeant Mark Driscoll, Operations.” “Enter.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Berg said, stepping into the office and coming to parade rest.

“You’re up on the simulator,” the staff sergeant said. “Which is totally grapping up my training schedule. So get it right the first time. You’ve been in the sim before?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Then you know the deal,” presumably Staff Sergeant Driscoll said. “Come on.”

Driscoll led Berg back to his Wyvern and hit the hatch button. When the hatch didn’t open he hit the armor with his fist.

“It’s already keyed, Staff Sergeant,” Berg said delicately.

“Then open it,” the staff sergeant snarled.

“Bergstresser, Eric, PFC,” Berg said, laying his hand on the palm-pad. The armor still refused to open so he closed his eyes and grimaced. “Two-Gun.”

Then the armor opened. He wasn’t sure if the voice analysis was just off for his name or if Lyle had grapped with him, but it opened and that was the important part.

“Get in,” Driscoll snapped. When Berg was snapped into his position, the operations sergeant leaned in and replaced a module on the inside of the pilot’s compartment. “Training module. See you in six hours. Have fun.”

“Maulk,” Berg muttered as the hatch closed. Nobody spent six hours in sim training. The staff sergeant was clearly just glad to have him out of his hair.

But it was too late to protest. The VR mod was already starting and Eric saw his orders scrolling up in front of his eyes. Move to the corner of the street and recon for enemy positions.

“Shiny,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

“Six hours?” Jaenisch snarled. “Is Driscoll grapping insane?”

“I should have brought a puke bag,” Berg admitted, grinding his teeth to keep down the nausea.

Virtual Reality was a very effective training method but not perfect. The problem was that the Wyverns could not actually move. The module that was replaced prevented that, so that the entire training program could be run with the Wyvern still latched into the side of the ship.

So various motions occurred that disturbed the inner ear. VR could also cause epileptic fits in people who were susceptible. While Berg could have “stepped out” at any time, rapid VR reversion was often worse than space sickness.

So Bergstresser had ended up frequently “virtually” down on his hands and knees, puking his still chemically roiled guts out. In reality it had been down the front of his cat-suit and all over the inside of the Wyvern. Then he spent two hours cleaning it out.

“Top is going to ream him a new asshole,” Jaenisch said.

“I’m fine,” Berg replied. “I just needed a shower.”

“The God damned training schedule said fifty-minute periods with a ten-minute break,” Hattelstad said.

“Did big old Two-Gun have a bad time in VR?” Lujan asked, mock sadly. “Awww, cry, Two-Gun. Go waaah.”

“Shut the grapp up, Drago,” Jaenisch snarled.

“Grapp you, Jaen,” Sergeant Lovelace said, rolling out of his rack. “You don’t grapp with my team!”

“Then tell him to keep his God damned mouth shut,” Jaenisch said. “Or go try six hours of VR after he’s just gone through grapping pre-mission phys.”

“Awww, is big bad Two-Gun all queasy?” Crowley snorted.

“Shut the grapp up, Crow,” Lovelace said. “And you, too, Drago. Lock this maulk down. Now. Jaen, if you’ve got issues with my troops, you bring them to me, got that?”

“Sure, Lacey,” Jaen said, his teeth grinding. “No problem. I’ve got a date with the first sergeant, anyway. Berg, you’re off-duty for the rest of the watch.”

“Not going to bitch,” Berg admitted, closing his door.

“Enter.”

Jaen stuck his head in Admin and looked around.

“Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec, a moment of your time if you please?”

“That sounds formal as hell,” Hocieniec said, standing up. “What you got, Jaen?”

“In private, if you please,” Jaen said.

“Privacy is a rare commodity on a ship,” Hocieniec said, looking over at Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen.

“I’m up to my ears in paperwork,” Big-Foot growled. “So you can take it somewhere else. Or I can pretend I didn’t hear it.”

“Come on in, Jaen,” Hocieniec said.

“Berg just got done with his first Wyvern training,” Jaen said, closing the hatch and hitting the lock. “All six hours.”

“Shiny. How’d he do?” Hocieniec asked.

“Pretty good for the first two straight hours,” Jaenisch replied. “After that it sort of went downhill.”

“Too bad…” Hocieniec said, frowning. “He seemed… Wait, you mean two hours straight? No breaks.”

“No, Gunnery Sergeant, I mean six hours, straight, no breaks,” Jaen said, trying to remain blank-faced. “He still scored an 88 percent, but most of it was in the first two hours.”

“Who in the grapp did that?” Big-Foot said, looking up from his paperwork. “Sorry, ears off now.”

“Who’s in charge of simulator training?” Jaen replied.

“I am going to grapping kick Driscoll’s fat lazy ass,” Gunny Hocieniec said, standing up.

“While that would be fun and I’d love to hold his arms,” Jaen said, “I’d rather you weren’t in Portsmouth.”

“I outrank him!”

“Yeah, but the court-martial wouldn’t care, Gunny,” Jaen said. “I managed to cool off on the walk over here. If I might recommend, could you bring it to the first sergeant’s attention?”

“Damned straight we will,” the gunny snapped. “Follow me.”

“What we are dealing with here, is hearsay evidence,” the first sergeant said. “I will look into this. Return to your duties and I will have a word with Staff Sergeant Driscoll.”

“Top…” Gunny Hocieniec said.

“Return. To. Your. Duties,” the first sergeant stated bluntly. “And I will have a word with Staff Sergeant Driscoll and look into this event. Is that clear, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Hocieniec said, coming to attention.

“You and Jaen hang out,” Powell replied. “I’m probably going to need you two, and Berg, at some point. Where’s Two-Gun?”

“In his rack, First Sergeant,” Jaen said, also at attention. “I told him to chill. I also got an authorization for a second shower. He needed it.”

“He should have stepped out the minute he got nauseated,” the first sergeant said with a sigh.

“Two-Gun wouldn’t quit if his leg was being slowly gnawed off, First Sergeant,” Jaen replied. “He might be on the wrong side of gung-ho, if you know what I mean.”

“Ain’t no wrong side of gung-ho, son,” Top said. “One potential failure here was to ensure he knew it was authorized to stop if he became physically ill. Now, you two go back to your duties, but don’t get into anything I can’t snatch you out of. I’ll look into this.”

“Just answer Top’s questions and otherwise keep your mouth shut,” Jaen said as he knocked on the first sergeant’s hatch.

“Enter.”

Staff Sergeant Driscoll, wearing a furious frown, was standing on the left side of Top’s small office. Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec was on the right, one jaw muscle twitching furiously but otherwise blank-faced.

Sergeant Jaenisch entered at a march and came to attention parallel to Hocieniec.

“Sergeant Jaenisch reporting with a party of one,” he stated.

“Move over, Jaen,” Top said. “Okay, PFC Bergstresser, a couple of questions. Staff Sergeant Driscoll handled your prep for simulation, yes or no?”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Berg said, sweating.

“What was the continuous duration of such training?”

“Six hours, First Sergeant.”

“And did you remain in your armor and in VR for that entire time?”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“Was that your understanding of Staff Sergeant Driscoll’s orders?”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“And did he or did he not instruct you to take a break every fifty minutes?” the First Sergeant asked.

“He did not, First Sergeant.”

“I thought he’d be smart enough—” Driscoll snapped.

“Silence,” the First Sergeant said, quite mildly. “PFC Bergstresser, did you become physically ill during simulations training on the last watch?”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“PFC Bergstresser, were you informed by Staff Sergeant Driscoll that if you became physically nauseous you were to discontinue simulations?”

“No, First Sergeant,” Berg said.

“Were you, at any time in training, instructed that that was to be your action during simulations?” the First Sergeant asked.

“No, First Sergeant,” Berg said after a moment’s thought.

“You may expand upon that if you wish,” the First Sergeant said.

Berg thought long and hard on that one.

“During Basic we had monitors during training, First Sergeant,” Berg said. “Also during Force Recon Operator’s Training. I had never previously been in training without a monitor. We were specifically ordered during training to remain in armor unless told to discontinue simulation by the spotter. As far as I was aware, Staff Sergeant Driscoll was acting as spotter, First Sergeant.”

“Like I have time to—”

“I said silence,” the first sergeant said, much less mildly. “Sergeant Jaenisch, PFC Bergstresser, you are dismissed. Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec and Staff Sergeant Driscoll will remain.”

“I think I just made a serious enemy in Staff Sergeant Driscoll,” Berg said.

“Everybody hates Driscoll,” Jaenisch said. “And he hates everybody else. Most miserable son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, but the Ops sergeant has so many little ways to grapp with us,” Berg pointed out. “It probably would have been a better thing to keep our mouths shut.”

“Let Top worry about that,” Jaen said. “Driscoll’s going to be pretty careful about how he grapps with us for a while. Just get the damned WCT test right. That’s going to be his first real chance to grapp you over.”

“I will,” Berg said. “Unless he tries to grapp with the numbers. He’s got full control over the information.”

“Point,” Jaen admitted, frowning. “Let me look into that.”

“Jeff,” Miller said as the Marine first sergeant entered their shared compartment. “You look like you had a bad day.”

The chief warrant officer had a small collection of dried flowers laid out on the table. It was the same ones he’d left Earth with but every few days he rearranged them in the vase.

“That I did, Todd, that I did,” Powell said, sitting down at the small fold-up table in the room and pulling out a bottle marked “Poisonous! For topical use only!” He poured some of the clear liquid into a cup and raised it. “Hair of the dog?”

“Got my own,” the SEAL said.

“So, you used to be a team chief, right?”

“Many a year, Jeff,” Miller said, pulling out an Aunt Jemima syrup bottle and squirting some syrup in a cup. He took a sip and picked up a ribbon, tying it onto a mum.

“Ever have a completely efficient son of a bitch working for you?” Powell asked. “One that couldn’t get past the son of a bitch part?”

“You had a problem with Driscoll,” Miller said, chuckling. “Yeah, had an assistant team leader one time like that. Guys hated him but he was so grapping efficient I hated to lose him.”

“Solution?”

“Canned his ass,” the SEAL said, not looking up from his flower arranging. “His personal efficiency was great but he was enough of a bastard it grapped with the team efficiency. Is Driscoll the type to backstab?”

“In a heartbeat,” the first sergeant admitted. “And he’s got a real case of the ass at a Nugget, now. Entirely Driscoll’s fault. He stuck the kid in a Wyvern sim for six hours.”

“Ouch,” Miller said. “Is the kid sane?”

“Bitch is that he just went through pre-mission phys,” Powell said, finishing his fungal treatment and putting the bottle away. “Threw up all over himself for four hours.”

“And he stayed in the can?” Miller said. “Good lad.”

“Seems to be,” Powell said. “But is he worth losing the most efficient ops sergeant I’ve ever had? First, there’s not a damned thing to do with Driscoll on the cruise. Second, I need him where he is, at least until I can get a replacement. But figuring out who he is going to grapp, just to pass the time, is getting to be a full-time job. Looking for a job in Ops, Chief Warrant Officer Miller? Nothing but headaches and no extra pay, but you get petty power and the chance to grapp people on the side.”

“Not on your life,” Miller said, chuckling.

“I could ask the Old Man to draft you.”

“We share a room and you have to sleep sometime.”

“Point.”

“Switch him out for one of your team leaders,” Miller said. “That puts him in the position to be grapped by Ops instead of doing the grapping.”

“Point,” Powell said. “I wish he’d shown this proclivity before we left Terra, though. That way I could have done the switch with time to shake down. Doing it mid-cruise is going to suck. No, I’m not going to shake up the teams that badly. Putting Driscoll in a team leader slot would just destroy a team. But, yeah, Driscoll’s got to go. What’s the word from on-high?”

“Runner found a world right off,” Miller said. “One that has air and water and all that. But we’re going to do a full system survey before we approach. I’d say three days, minimum.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Powell said, grinning. “Otherwise I’m sure the scuttlebutt circuit will have it as we’re going to crash into the sun.”

“Grapp…”

Berg stuck his head out of his bunk at the sound of rapid and constant bitching from down the compartment. He was recovering from his third day of VR training in the Wyverns. After what had apparently been a serious drubbing from Top, Driscoll had, in very simple terms as if he was a slightly retarded child, explained that he was to take a break every fifty minutes. Hattelstad had been designated as his spotter, which had thrilled Hatt no end since it meant two days of, basically, looking at a grapping Wyvern that wasn’t doing anything.

“What happened?” he asked PFC Walker who was at the back of the group.

“Driscoll got pulled out of ops,” Walker said. “And Staff Sergeant Sutherland got pulled over to be the ops sergeant!”

Sutherland was First Platoon’s Alpha Team leader and assistant platoon leader. The move had pulled a serious spoke out of First Platoon’s wheel.

“Maulk,” Berg said, rolling back into his rack.

“Don’t worry, man,” Sergeant Dunn said, walking by his rack. “It wasn’t just the maulk he did to you. He’s been grapping up royally ever since we left. I’m surprised Top kept him as long as he has.”

“Force Recon staff sergeants are hard to find,” Sergeant “Onger” St. Onge said from across the compartment. “But, grapp, Sutherland. Why couldn’t Top have picked Summerlin or Rocco?”

“Or a sergeant,” Jaen said. “I know the position calls for a staff, but a sergeant can do it, especially on a cruise. I mean, all it is is grapping writing training schedules.”

“You hear?” Drago said, walking into the missile room. “They found a planet!”

“We’re in a star system,” Berg said, taking a sip of water. As predicted, he’d smoked through training in the suit, once he didn’t have to spend six continuous hours in it. He’d run through his mandated training items in two thirds the time considered “standard” and was now on his WCT testing. “Most star systems are probably going to have planets.”

“It’s a moon,” Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen said. “One around a big Jupiter type planet. What he meant was that we’ve found a planet that might support life, so we’re going to do a ground survey.”

For WCT a senior NCO, operations NCO or higher had to be present to prevent cheating. Frandsen was one of two obvious choices. Since some of the pass/fail points were subjective, Berg had been told he was grapped. Big-Foot was unrelenting. You did it perfectly by the book or Frandsen would screw your scores so hard it would look like you shouldn’t have passed Basic much less be in Recon. So far, however, Berg had smoked the tests to even Frandsen’s satisfaction.

“Well, if I want in on that, I’d better get back to testing,” Berg said, draining the bottle of water. “Permission to resume testing, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“If you think you’re up to it, PFC,” Gunny Frandsen said, shrugging. “But if you’re going to puke, you need to call the session.”

“No problem, Gunnery Sergeant,” Berg said, sliding into the suit.

“You sure about this?” the first sergeant said.

“Is that my signature on the pad?” Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen said, warming up to full Frandsen-Rage.

“Calm down, Big-Foot,” Top said, shaking his head. “I take your word for it. I’ve just never seen you give someone a one hundred percent score. Not even your own troops.”

“I’ll take Two-Gun any time he wants to transfer,” Big-Foot said. “He’s got a much better handle on the physics maulk than I do. That’s where everybody falls down. I’ve been saying—”

“If we’re going to throw these sensors at them we need more basic physics training,” Top said. “I even agree. If you can figure out how to get that done, send me a memo.”

“Well, one thing that comes to mind is that we’ve got a team of top physicists, all of them former professors, sitting around with their thumbs up their butts.”

“Point,” Powell said. “But that’s for later. Shiny. He’s passed on WCT. But we’re not posting the score. Just that he passed. And don’t put anything on the scuttlebutt circuit. He just passed. No big deal. Got it?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Kid’s got enough problems,” Top said. “He’s smart as hell and he passed the new FOT course. Face it, he’s better prepared for this than most of the old hands. That’s causing some resentment. This would cause more. Let him just glide in.”

“Shiny,” Frandsen said. “If you say so.”

“We’ve got a planet to survey,” Top said. “Make sure your teams are prepped. Let me worry about the rest of the company.”

“Are you sure about this?” Captain MacDonald asked. “The team hasn’t trained together, yet. And Two-Gun is brand new.”

“That’s the team to use, sir,” First Sergeant Powell replied. “Because of Two-Gun. Probably there’s not going to be anything weird on this world. It’s pretty dead. But if there is, if there’s something weird, I think that Berg’s background would be useful. He’s shown a better ability than anyone in the company, excepting me, at reading the more complicated sensors. Charlie Second is my recommendation for first plant. But it is, of course, your decision, sir.”