THE PRIZE: BOOK TWO - RETRIBUTION (8 page)

“Good to know. It’s very bad out there in places, sort of like Afghanistan and Lebanon all rolled into one.”

“Remember this, never point the guns inward, always outward towards the bad guys, never towards the innocent. You are the servant and protector of the people, not their lord and master.”

“Now I understand the meaning of the test.” His eyes flicked to the doorway and he visibly shivered. “All the others that come out of that doorway are going to be like me, aren’t they?” Penn nodded.

“Mostly.” He answered, seeing Simpson look at the row of uniforms on the table.

“I wondered why there were so few uniforms, considering the number of applicants. Now I understand.”

“You are taking on a huge responsibility, one that only one man in a hundred is capable of. People will try to bribe you, con you, and or kill you in so many different ways. From IEDs and snipers, to old west style shootouts, to trying to stab you in the back, but don’t worry. You’ll be dealing with everything from domestic violence and petty criminals, all the way up to war lords, pocket kingdoms, criminal gangs, slavers and god knows what else. The uniform and equipment you’ll have will protect you from most kinds of firepower you will come up against, and gradually you will have more Rangers assigned to your district to help.”

“And if the situation is more than I can handle, like a full scale army?”

“Now the Imperials have gone, the bigger the rogue groups will become, so if you run into anything bigger then you can handle, you can call in the Marines. Your job is to re-establish the rule of law for everybody, equally by whatever means you deem necessary.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“You can call in Rangers from the surrounding districts to help as well. But like the Texas Rangers used to say. …’One riot, one ranger’… You will also be able to call upon construction equipment on a ‘as needed’ basis to help in the rebuilding process.”

“Got it.” Simpson smiled then, just as a second person, a woman this time walked out of the doorway. Wiry, with short, dark brown hair, she looked tough, but the look in her eyes said she’d been through a similar experience to Simpsons.

“Hello Ranger. My name is Simpson.” He held his hand out. The woman hesitated for a moment, and then shook it.

“Musgrave, Gina Musgrave. So I’m a Ranger now am I.” She looked at Penn.

“If you still want the job you are.” For a moment, she looked as if she’d bitten into something sour.

“Do you have any idea of the hell I’ve had to go through for the last few months… wait?” She stopped and looked around the room, seeing exactly the same thing she’d seen when she came in originally. “It wasn’t months, was it?” She said, more of a statement than a question.

“For you it was months, here,” Penn looked at his watch. “About half an hour.”

“But… but… how… Hell I almost died in that hellhole!” She snapped.

“And proved you were worthy to wear the uniform of a Ranger.” Her anger faded.

“You’ve been through there yourself, haven’t you?” Penn just smiled and nodded. “Yes, of course you have. It all makes sense now.”

“So, Ranger Simpson will explain the basic rules while you and he grab a mug of coffee. It shouldn’t be long before the remainder arrives.”

Just then, a third person staggered out the doorway, an old man, with long gray hair and a haunted look in his eyes. It was all that remained of the burly looking man with unshaven cheeks who’d swaggered through the doorway less than an hour before. He looked at the three of them a moment, then at the uniforms on the table and shook his head.

“Not fair… you never told us.” He sobbed, looking at them with pleading eyes. “I never could…” He sobbed and walked out the room on unsteady legs. Neither Simpson nor Musgrave said a word for a moment.

“Time.” Musgrave said at last. “It’s not the same in there is it?” Penn pursed his lips and shook his head. “The test takes as long as necessary, irrespective of outside time.”

“So… it’s all in our head?” Simpson asked.

“Like hell it is. Those tests were as real as it gets.” Gina Musgrave snapped.

“The tests are real, you bleed, suffer and even die… well sort of die in there if need be to prove you are worthy to wear that uniform. If you aren’t, you end up like him.” Penn nodded towards the retreating figure.

He’d have to ask Michael about him later, suspecting he knew the answer. The man was just plain dangerous, and had never stepped out of the self-imposed gilded cage he’d built for himself, and the pyramid had taken away from him the one thing he could never replace. His age. He’d been in there so long, locked into some fantasy he’d become an old man and no longer a threat to anyone.

“There is one other thing you should know. Wherever you set up your headquarters, there will be a similar doorway to that one somewhere nearby.”

“Phew! And we’ll have the ability to use it for what?”

“Whatever is needed. Re-education, a sort of prison, healing, even for yourself if you get injured, and an emergency supply depot.” Both the new Rangers nodded, at last beginning to understand the scope of their responsibilities.

Just then, two more people emerged, one after the other. Much to Richard’s surprise, one of them was the young man who looked so cocksure of himself when he walked in. Now he looked more mature and centered. The young woman who came out behind him was the same. Penn introduced them and gave them the same basic information. An hour later, he had fifty-three people, and Michael told him there were fifty more to come. The remainder had all died and been transported back to where they came from, a little wiser, a little healthier, and maybe a little richer. It all depended on the reason they ‘died’. Self-sacrifice was always rewarded. After all the introductions were made, the people changed into their new uniforms and started checking out their vehicles and equipment.

“I’ll let you get on with it. Good luck to you all.” Penn shook hands with each of them, and with a casual wave walked across the room and through the archway.

“Why do I get the impression that there is nothing in there that scares him?” Musgrave muttered.

“Probably because there isn’t.” Gina shivered.

“I have the feeling that whatever he went through in there was a lot worse than anything we did.

Chapter Six

Inside the Pyramid - Sigma Draconis

…♫ Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse to wipe his scoundrel Master's Shoes, For now he's free to sing and play O'er hills and far away, through Friend, Foe, and Markoff’s hand, Emperor Cytec command and we obey, O'er hill and far away♫...

Staff Sergeant Isaac Ben-Sharon walked out of the short tunnel onto the training grounds, and a slight smile touched his lips as he eyed the strange looking red and gold hieroglyphics adorning the walls. He now knew what they were, unlike when he'd walked down a similar tunnel many months ago, or was it? His sun-darkened face settled into his normal grim look as he walked out into the early morning sunlight. How none of the ten thousand human troops he was part of had figured it out quicker only pointed out to just how effective the simulation was. They should have clicked earlier when no one had gotten permanently killed, only wounded. Not that they knew it at the time. For all intents and purposes, many of the men were dead as far as he, or the medics could tell. And yet, a few days later those same men were back on the line fighting the Thrakee.

He chuckled to himself as he remembered the months of slogging through an impossibly thick jungle, full of all sorts of nasty creatures, fighting an almost invisible enemy. He had to admit, the 'training', as he’d found out later, was very effective, as within two months their casualty rate had dropped to less than two percent. Even if it were just a simulation, it was damned effective. The battles were real, as were the pain and hardship. At the end, when the truth became known, it hadn’t lessened the feeling of pride and accomplishment they had all felt. The Empire thought that all humans were stark raving mad, and maybe they were right. They did love to fight, fight, and win no matter what the odds, obstacles, or price. Their victory over the simulated Thrakee was sweet, and without the secondary feeling of guilt over killing another human being. After all, when human wars were long over, the old soldiers asked the same question. Was it all worth it? Couldn't they have found another way? Did my brothers in arms have to die? Long after, they'd meet up with their old enemies at some reunion or other, swapping stories over a quiet drink at last, seeing them as Human Beings just like them.

They’d fought for their cause just as hard as the other side had fought for theirs. Victory and defeat were meaningless after the cities were rebuilt and the debris of war removed. After a while, the younger generation wouldn't even remember the sacrifices made in their name, or the friends lost on some nameless battlefield. To the young, it was just something in the history books they’d have to read and remember for an exam, and maybe that's the way it should be. Right now, with a little luck and some work, the days of man killing man in the name of some principle, ideal, or flag were over. Now they fought as one species against a universe bent on destroying them. Yes, humans did love to fight, enjoying the secret feeling of satisfaction at being better than the other guy, and surviving. So, now it fell to him, and nineteen other senior NCOs’ to train a new generation of recruits from Earth and turn them into warriors. Sergeant Ben-Sharon walked up to the table in front of the bleachers, and looked at the bright young faces of one hundred men and women of the number three training squadron seated on the hard wooden benches. They’d been recruited from all over the world and given the opportunity to join the new Terran Marine Corps and fight the Imperials. They'd come in droves, climbing out of the rubble of their shattered homelands with blood in their eyes to join up. Now it fell to him to turn this bunch of individuals into a fighting force. His face now wore his most intimidating look.

“Listen up, you pathetic bunch of wannabe Terran Marines. I am not in the habit, nor do you want to piss me off by me having to repeat myself.” Silence greeted him. His scowl deepened.

“Your answer is 'Hurrah'!” Still no answer. “Well! Let me hear it.”

“Hurrah.” Sharon shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache coming on. “Hopefully, sometime in the next few weeks and months your enthusiasm will increase.” Bashfully, the recruits looked at each other.

“Right. Heads up and pay attention.” This is the barrel of your brand new, standard issue Mark III-c, pulse rifle. Sharon picked it up off the table and held it up for everyone to see. “The barrel fits into the receiver like so.” Picking up the receiver section, he fitted the barrel into the end, pushed down, and locked it in place with half a twist.

“To remove, all you have to do is push down against the locking spring; half twist the barrel and pull it out.” He demonstrated inserting and removing the barrel several times. “Anyone here not understand how to install and remove the barrel of their brand new, standard issue Mark III-c pulse rifle?” This time a few answered with a 'hurrah', but most of the recruits looked bored. The task was so simple a two year old could do it.

“Right then. Let see you remove the barrel of your brand new Mark III-c Standard issue pulse rifles.” None of his amusement showed on his face as he watched.

Unlike his rifle, theirs were, as he’d repeatedly said, brand new, and therefore a little stiff. Sharon had sanded and polished the locking lugs on his to remove any burrs so the barrel slipped in and out with ease. Many of the recruits managed to get theirs out after a short struggle, but a few couldn't. Sharon paced back and forth in front of the bleachers, his scowl deepening as he waited. He stopped in front of one recruit still struggling to remove the barrel.

“You all indicated you knew how to remove the barrel of your brand new Standard issue Mark III-c pulse rifles!”

“I'm trying, sir. But it won't…”

“Did you just call me sir?” The trembling recruit looked up from his struggle with his rifle, and gulped, seeing the expression on Sharon's face.

“Well… yes... I did.” For untold generations of recruits, Sharon did the same. He lunged forward until he was nose to nose with the now shaking young man.

“I'm not a Sir, you blithering idiot! I work for a fucking living.” Sharon yelled at the top of his voice, as clearly the recruit had a hearing problem as well as a speech impediment.

“You will address me as Sergeant Sharon, or yes Sergeant or no Sergeant. Is that clear?” This time, the 'hurrah' was a little louder, and more in unison. Sharon looked down at the shivering recruit.

“I said push down and twist BEFORE you try to remove the fucking barrel, moron!

“Y… yes Sergeant.” At last, he managed to push the barrel down far enough against the stiff retaining spring, and half twist the barrel so he could remove it.

“Seeing as we are having so much trouble understanding this simple operation, and thanks to Trooper Klutz here, we are going to repeat it one hundred times TOGETHER, until we get it right. Begin!”

“Push - twist - remove - insert - push - twist - lock - push - twist - remove - insert - push - twist - lock…” After the first twenty times, they were all doing it in unison, but he didn't let them stop until the count of fifty.

“Well, well, well. I think you all know now how to remove and insert the barrel of your not-so brand new standard issue Mark III-c pulse rifle. Let me hear it!”

“Hurrah.”

“Much better. Now we'll move onto the more mentally challenging operation of attaching the butt stock.” This was much the same as installing the barrel, except this time, the butt fitted over a six inch by two inch stubby tube.

Again, it was insert, twist and lock, and push, twist and remove. After another fifty times of doing that, Sergeant Sharon could see, and feel their frustration. So much the better, from his point of view. There was little chance any of them would forget how to change out the barrel of their rifle should it overheat, or replace a broken butt stock.