Sten touched the trigger.
Sten's fortieth-century sniper rifle was, in essence, quite simple. The round was still the AM2 shielded particle. But instead of using a laser as propellant, a modified linear accelerator hung around the barrel. The sight was used to give exact range to the target, then, when the scope was twisted to fix on the out-of-sight target, the accelerator "spun" the round so that it could execute up to a ninety-degree angle if necessary.
A gun that could shoot around corners.
Sten heard the explosion and saw the wall crumble.
"Hit."
Carruthers slammed Sten on the back.
"Y'know, troop, you keep up like this and Guard's First may get themselves a trooper."
And for some reason, Sten felt very proud of himself.
Sten crashed the garbage bin down on the dump, then upended it. Clean enough. He shoved the nozzle of the ultrasonic cleaner to the bottom and touched the trigger. Then banged the can a few more times on the concrete and lugged it back into the messhall. Most of the Guard's menial jobs were handled either by civilians or by the time-servers of the duty battalions. Except for the real scutwork. The Guard reserved those chores for punishment detail. It didn't bother Sten that much. It was still better than any on-shift back on Vulcan.
Besides, he didn't figure he could have gotten around the problem.
He'd been quite happy, sitting there on the sand watching Halstead posture at Lanzotta's commands.
"We are not building technicians," Lanzotta had said. "I've told you that. We're building killers. We want people who want to listen to the sound of their enemies' eyeballs pop, who want to see what happens when you rip somebody's throat out with your teeth."
Sten looked around at the other trainees. Most of them looked mildly aghast. Sten blanked. He remembered quite well, thank you, sergeant.
"We need a demonstrator."
Silence. The company had learned by now what volunteering generally got you. And then somebody said, "Corp' Sten."
Sten had a pretty good idea it was Gregor, but didn't worry about it. He was seriously into being invisible. Lanzotta heard the voice.
"Sten. Post."
Sten grunted, snapped to his feet and ran forward.
"Yes, corporal."
Halstead did another fast one-two move. Fair, Sten analyzed. He's open down low, though.
"Recruit Corporal Sten. That man is your most dangerous enemy. Your mission is to close with and destroy him!"
Sten ambled in. Held up his hands in what he hoped would look like an offensive move and went airborne. Sten rolled in midair, recovered, and held back as his feet touched. Allowed himself to crumple forward, face first in the sand.
That should do it. And he heard Lanzotta's whisper in his ear.
"You are faking it, recruit corporal. You know how to do it better. Now I want you to get back up, without letting your fellow skinks know what you're doing, and attack Corporal Halstead."
Sten didn't move.
"The alternative is three days on garbage detail."
Sten sighed and picked himself up.
Halstead moved in, hands grabbing. Poor, Sten flashed, and rolled toward the ground. Legs in the air, scissored about Halstead's hips.
Halstead crashed, Sten locked, using Halstead's momentum to bring him back up. Halstead rolling up, Sten incoming, shoulder under Halstead's waist.
Halstead went straight up in a curving flight. Sten had time enough to consider if he'd put a cadre into sub-orbital, then he was moving. Halstead slammed back down, still moving, and Sten slammed two toe kicks into his ribs.
Halstead stayed down.
Sten recovered and turned.
There was awed silence from the trainees. Sten looked at Lanzotta, who heaved a sigh and jerked a thumb.
"Hup; sergeant!"
Sten picked up his cap and double-tuned toward the messhall.
There it was. Spaced if you did, spaced if you didn't. Sten grabbed the other garbage can and lugged them back into the messhall.
The mess sergeant grinned at Sten as he came through the tiny office.
"Guess you're glad to be goin' back to trainin' tomorrow, hey?"
Sten shook his head.
"Ya like it here?"
"Negatory, sergeant."
"What's the problem, 'cruit?"
"Tomorrow we start knife training, sergeant."
"So?"
Yeah. So. Sten suddenly started laughing as he dragged the cans back toward their racks. So? It was still better than Vulcan.
Even Sten felt a little sick as the medic worked swiftly on the gaping wounds. The body was riddled with shrapnel and gouting blood.
"The procedure hasn't changed in thousands of years," the medic instructor said. "First get the casualty breathing again. Second, stop the bleeding. Third, treat for shock."
He finished, covered the humanoid simulacrum with an insublanket, and stood up. Looked around the class.
"Then you yell as loud as you can for a medic. Assuming some bork hasn't decided we're the most important target he can hit and there's any of us left."
"What then?" Pech, the fat recruit, asked.
"If there's no professional treatment, use your belt medpak. If the bleeding's stopped and the insides are more or less together, the antis in the kit should keep your buddy from getting the creeping crud."
He laughed.
"'Course if you're on some world where we don't know anything about the bugs, best you can do is try to leave a good-looking corpse." The medic looked over Pech's steadily diminishing chubbiness. "Which will be hard enough in your case, Pech."
Sten and the others chuckled. The medic was the first instructor they'd had who'd treated them even vaguely like sentient beings.
The medic opened a large cabinet and motioned to Sten, who helped him lift out another simulacrum. This one was dressed in a battle suit.
"In a suit, things are different," the medic said. "The medpak should already be hooked up inside the suit and work automatically. Sometimes it does." Another snort of laughter from the medic.
"But if the suit's holed, all you can do is seal it and get the casualty to a medshelter. You get more on that in suit drill. Now, I need a sucker—I mean a volunteer."
He glanced around the audience, and his eyes lit on Pech. "Come on up, troop."
Pech double-timed up to the stand and waited at attention. "Relax, relax. You make me nervous. Okay. This dummy here is your best buddy. You went through training together. You chased…" He pretended to study Pech closely. "…uh—ameboids together. Now his arm has just been blown off. What are you going to do?"
The medic stepped back. Pech shifted nervously.
"Come on, soldier. Your best friend's bleeding to death. Move!"
Pech took a tentative step forward as the medic pressed the switch concealed in his palm and the simulacrum's arm exploded. "Blood" sprayed across Pech and the stand.
Pech froze. "Come on, man. Move."
Pech fumbled for the medpak on his belt and moved closer. More pulsing "blood" dyed his face. Pech unclipped the pak's base and took a pressure bandage off.
"Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven…forget it, soldier."
Pech seemed not to hear him and fought to get the bandage in position. Finally, the gout of "blood" stopped.
"Your friend just died," the medic said harshly. "Now, on your feet."
Pech clambered up, numb. The medic stared around at the trainees to make sure they got his point. Then he turned back to Pech.
"The dye used in that blood won't wear off for two days. Maybe that'll help you think about how you'd feel if that dummy had really been your teammate."
Pech never did recover from the incident. A few weeks later, after a series of foul-ups, he disappeared. Washed out.