“I’m surprised at you. Usually you take a more rational approach.”
“I try to leave myself open to all possibilities,” Carpenter said. “I had a college instructor who used to say that the only thing that keeps us from solving the challenges we face is a closed mind.” Slayne changed the subject. “I’m going to get on the horn and announce that anyone interested in being a Warrior should contact me. I’ll conduct personal interviews later, after the fallout stops and we know it’s safe.”
“I wonder how many will apply?”
Fourteen men and women were interested. Slayne weeded out those whose hearts were in the right place but who lacked the most essential attribute for the job. As he explained it to one of the volunteers,
“Anyone can learn to shoot. Anyone can learn to fight. But that’s not enough. True Warriors must have a certain mindset. They must be devoted to combat. They must live it, eat it, breathe it. They must learn to live on the cusp of death. The deaths they cause, and their own.” The candidate asked for Slayne to elaborate.
“When all is said and done, the essence of being a Warrior is death dealing. If a person isn’t comfortable as a death dealer, they lack the most essential quality a Warrior needs. So far there are only two Family members who I can say with complete confidence have that quality, and one of them is me.”
“Who is the other one?”
Soren Anderson strode over to a corner table in the cafeteria, set Mjolnir down, and took a seat across from the man who was eating. “Do you mind if we talk?”
“Not at all.” Sam Richter paused with a piece of meat-loaf halfway to his mouth and stared at the hammer. “So that’s what you used? A mallet against rifles. You have guts.” He bit the meatloaf off the fork and chewed. “Word is that you’ve been selected to be a Warrior. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. That’s why I’m here. Mr. Carpenter says you’re the Family Armorer.” Richter chuckled. “Him and his titles. I’m a blacksmith, Mr. Anderson. Before that I had a gun shop for a few years. I can take a gun apart and put it back together again.”
“I’m not here about a gun.” Soren placed a big hand on Mjolnir. “I’m here about this.” Richter put down his fork and picked up a glass of water. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The Warriors are required to carry at least two guns. One must be a rifle or a shotgun or a submachine gun. The other must be a sidearm. I don’t want a sidearm. I want to use Mjolnir.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Can you turn Mjolnir into a gun? Can you rig it so I can shoot a bullet out the handle?” Sam Richter reached across the table to lift the hammer using one hand. “Dear lord.” He used both hands. “How can you swing this thing? It must weigh fifty pounds.”
“To me it is a feather.”
“Maybe you should listen to Slayne.”
“But I want Mjolnir. All I need is to find a way to give it more range and he’ll let me use it. I’m sure.” Richter examined the hammer closely. He ran his fingers over the runes and thumped the head and then the handle. “Mr. Anderson, this thing is solid. A gun requires parts to operate. Where would I put them?”
“I was thinking the handle.”
Richter turned the hammer upside down and placed it on the table with its handle sticking up. “What kind of wood is this? Whatever it is, it’s as hard as rock. I could try to core it out, but even then I’m not sure I could fit a trigger mechanism inside.”
Soren didn’t hide his disappointment. “There must be something. Maybe it could fire a shotgun shell if you put in a firing pin and I pound it a certain way.”
“The pounding might break the pin. And it would only work at extremely close range.” Richter shook his head. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I don’t see how I can be of help.”
“I was afraid of that.” Soren sadly picked up Mjolnir and held it high. “If only I could be like the son of Odin and call down the thunder and lightning.”
About to resume eating, Richter looked at him and then at the hammer. “Lightning, you say?”
“Yes. Surely you’ve read of Thor’s exploits?”
“Can’t say as I have, no. But you’ve just given me an idea. Ever used an electroshock weapon like a Taser or one of those new Voltz? I sold them back when I had my gun shop.” Soren shook his head. The only time he had ever seen them was on television and in the movies.
“They made great strides in miniaturization right before this damn war. The Voltz looked like a pen, but it packed quite a wallop. Up to two million volts, if I remember correctly.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Richter came around the table and examined the hammer more closely. “Would you trust me to replace this handle? Say, with a titanium alloy, hollowed out so I can fit it with those new solarium capacitors and a selector switch? All insulated, of course, so you only fry those you’re fighting and not yourself.”
“I’ll be able to stun people?” Soren liked the idea, but it wasn’t what he had had in mind and certainly wouldn’t convince Slayne to let him use Mjolnir.
“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Richter circled the handle with two fingers, gauging how thick it was. “There’s this young man named Allan Timm. He’s the Assistant Armorer, as Carpenter calls him. Allan is a gun nut, but he’s also quite good at electronics. With his help we should be able to outdo the commercial models.”
“How would it work, exactly?” Soren asked. “I’d shoot little darts out of the handle?” Even that didn’t appeal to him.
“Oh, no, Mr. Anderson. Didn’t you ever read Popular Mechanics? The latest versions use the air as a conductor.”
Soren drummed the table in mild impatience. “Spell it out for me, Mr. Richter. What exactly will I be able to do?”
The Armorer smiled. “You’ll be able to shoot lightning bolts.” A tingle ran from the nape of Soren’s neck to the base of his spine. He said, almost breathlessly, “You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all.” Richter scratched his chin. “Let’s see. If I make the new handle longer, we can rig it so you can trigger a discharge several rimes without recharging. I should guess it would give you a range of twenty or thirty feet.”
“Dear Odin.”
Richter was absorbed in the challenge. “As added protection we should come up with special gloves. Rubber would work. Maybe even a whole suit. Like one of those wet suits that divers wear.” He paused.
“I wonder if Carpenter has one stockpiled somewhere?”
Images danced in Soren’s head. He grabbed the Armorer’s hand and enthusiastically pumped it. “If you can do this, Mr. Richter, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“Don’t get excited yet. I have to run it past Allan. He’s the one who can make it work. Why don’t you bring your hammer by my workshop in an hour or so for him to look at?”
“I’ll be there.” Soren grabbed Mjolnir and hurried out to break the news to Toril. In his excitement he nearly collided with someone coming the other way. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Carpenter. I didn’t see you.” Kurt Carpenter was consulting a digital clipboard. “Mmmm?” he said absently, and looked up. “Mr. Anderson. How are you? I want to personally thank you for volunteering to be a Warrior. Patrick tells me you’re one of his most promising recruits.”
That reminded Soren of something. “Did he talk to you about my code name?”
“Your what?”
Soren explained that Slayne had insisted each of the Warriors use a code name.
“He says they are common, that Special Forces use them when on combat ops, as he calls it.” Soren hesitated, then came out with it: “But when I told him the name I want to use, he called it silly. Inappropriate, was his exact word.”
“What do you want to be called?”