At that point there was even less light, the rain was obscuring Kydd’s vision, and the part of the target’s body still exposed was the general’s head. It was little more than a dark smudge in the quickly gathering gloom. And making the situation even worse was the fact that the combat car was about to pull away.
Kydd’s thumb seemed to move of its own accord as the safety came off. It was necessary to nudge the barrel a fraction of an inch to the left in order to compensate for the steadily increasing wind that was blowing left to right. Then Kydd entered a strange alternate reality in which time seemed to slow. So that even as the car began to pull away, Kydd had enough time to compensate and squeeze the trigger.
He heard the rifle bark and felt the recoil as the projectile sped away. Then Kydd saw the target’s head explode and heard Sergeant Peters whoop with joy, “You did it, Kydd! You took forever, and you let the easiest shot go, but you nailed the bastard! Congratulations!”
It wasn’t his father’s voice, or his mother’s for that matter, but that was okay. Finally, after eighteen years, Kydd knew what he’d been born to do. And it felt good.
The windowless office was many levels underground. An effort had been made to personalize it with laser-inscribed plaques, framed awards, and other mementos. Private Ryk Kydd was standing at attention, staring at the wall.
Meanwhile, Major Lionel Macaby continued to review the recruit’s P-1 file, which was displayed on the screen in front of him. The youngster hadn’t been in the Corps long enough to pile up a lot of fitness reports, training endorsements, and other bureaucratic nonsense, so there wasn’t much substance.
But one entry in particular caught the major’s attention. It stated that after only eight weeks of boot camp, Kydd was the best shot in the entire training battalion and had already earned the much coveted sniper’s badge. An honor most aspirants achieved only after attending a special school. But, according to the boy’s drill instructor, a seasoned veteran named Peters, “Private Kydd has a sharp eye, outstanding eye-hand coordination, and the X factor. After racking up some field experience, he should be considered for advanced sniper training.”
Macaby knew what Peters meant. The so-called X factor was marine shorthand for a talent that only one out of a thousand good marksmen had—the ability to seemingly slow the passage of time as they took their shots. An absolutely devastating talent that was very much in demand throughout the Marine Corps. Experts had been hired to study the phenomena, in hopes of finding a way to duplicate it, but none had been successful so far. Although one psychologist believed that Kydd could have “psionic capabilities.” Whatever that meant.
The other entries of interest were all related to the same thing: repeated claims that Kydd had been drugged, abducted, and sworn into the Marine Corps under a false name. Furthermore, according to affidavits submitted by Kydd since his arrival on Turaxis II, his real name was Ark Bennet. Which, if true, would make him a member of a very prominent family.
Of course Kydd, like so many others, was probably just trying to get out of the Marine Corps. But what if the claim was true? And what if Kydd, a.k.a. Bennet, really was who he claimed to be? There were only a few vidsnaps of Ark Bennet in the public domain, and the ones he’d seen were of what looked like a much younger boy, with a more rounded face. There was some degree of physical resemblance, however, and Macaby was a realist. So he knew that while most of the young men and women in basic were volunteers of one kind or another, a small number, say one or two percent, were forced to join by unethical recruiters intent on hitting their increasingly high quotas. Which was okay with him so long as the practice didn’t get out of hand.
But if some damned fool had been lazy or reckless enough to press-gang the VIP’s fair-haired son, then there would be hell to pay once the truth came out! And the repercussions would start at the top and flow downhill. So what to do?
Fortunately the answer was right there in front of him. Thanks to the accelerated training schedule, Kydd was about to graduate from boot camp. That meant he would join a line unit within a week or two. All Macaby had to do was buck the problem up the line and keep his head down, knowing it would take the chain of command weeks to respond. Because later, when the shit hit the fan, Kydd’s new commanding officer would have to deal with the cleanup! The plan was clean, smart, and in the finest tradition of the Marine Corps.
Macaby cleared his throat portentously. “Congratulations on qualifying as a sniper, son. That’s a very impressive accomplishment. As for the claims regarding the manner in which you were recruited, I want you to know that I take them very seriously. That’s why I plan to forward your package to the Bureau of Personnel—along with a request for a division-level review. In the meantime you have an excellent record. Don’t mess it up. Do you have any questions?”
Macaby saw a look of satisfaction flicker across Kydd’s face and disappear. “Sir, no sir.”
Macaby nodded. “Dismissed.”
Kydd’s uniform was smooth, creased, and spotlessly clean as he completed a textbook-perfect about-face and marched out of the office.
It would be a real shame, Macaby thought to himself, to lose such a promising recruit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Although losses have been substantial in the most recent skirmishes with the Kel-Morian Combine, Confederate sources report that troop morale is at an all-time high. Analysts credit this to increased military discipline throughout the unified terran forces, including new changes that have been described as ‘strict, thorough, and rigorous.’”
MILITARY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY-R-156, ON THE PLANET RAYDIN III
The day began as it always did with the harsh sound of the Klaxon that signaled when to get up, when to eat, and when to do everything else of any importance. That was followed by the sound of Sergeant Bellamy’s belligerent voice as he entered Barracks #3. “Hit the floor! This ain’t no flickin’ resort. That includes you, Sergeant Findlay …” he mocked. “Get your ass in gear.”
Yeah, rub it in, you waste of life. The day you actually see combat is the day you can shit on my parade.
Bellamy made it a point to broadcast daily that Tychus wasn’t a sergeant anymore. He’d been demoted to private the day he had appeared at the summary court-martial, and been sentenced to three months’ hard labor.
Tychus’s feet were sticking out over the end of the steel-frame bed, and he was in the process of pulling them in when the swagger stick struck. The blow hurt. Tychus swore and Bellamy grinned. “How ’bout it? Have you had enough? Is today the day? You can take me… . So have at it.”
Bellamy was a small man, commonly referred to as “the runt” behind his back, and eternally on the lookout for opportunities to impose his will on the larger prisoners, Tychus being his favorite target. He was dressed in a parade ground–perfect uniform, his nose plugs were dangling on the front of his chest, and his right hand rested on the swagger stick that was clenched under his arm.