Eight’s?”
The R5 unit hooted in the affirmative. A moment latertwo views of the distant target appeared side by side on Kell’s main screen—views that were alike but not identical, so they appeared to be an unmerged stereoscopic image.
“Seven, recommend we set the torps to a broader proximity fuse. That target’s ugly.”
“Good point. Doing so. All right, Eight, strike foils to attack position, now.”
“Affirmative.”
A moment later one of the visual images went to gray. Kell grinned sourly. Seven and Eight were about to experience the same failure he had.
“Eight, my weapons are gone. Some sort of system failure.”
“Seven, my targeting’s shot.”
“Do you still have weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on, I’m transmitting my targeting information to you … wait for the lock … Got it!”
“Firing, Seven. We have detonation … Looks like a kill. But I still don’t have targeting sensors.”
“Mine show a clean kill. Good shot, Eight.”
“You did all the work, I just pulled the trigger. Kind of the way I like it.”
Wedge’s voice crackled in: “Good work, you two. It’s back to base so Three Group can do this. Do not inform anyone who hasn’t gone through this exercise of its parameters. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One out.”
Kell gritted his teeth. Once again, because of one of Wedge Antilles’s oh-so-clever tricks, he had come out looking like an incompetent. He’d worked very hard to overcome that first score of zero in the simulators, worked hard enough to put him at the top of the pilots roster, and now it was starting all over again.
The punching dummy was shaped like a man—that is, if you fed a man until he was so fat that his features half disappearedin folds of flesh, then mounted him on a flexible rod in the Folor Base gymnasium. Kell shook his head; he certainly wouldn’t want to be treated that way. Nor would he want to suffer the damage he was inflicting on the dummy.
He started with a one-two combination that rocked the dummy’s head, deforming it temporarily; in seconds, the puttylike memory material inside began to restore the head to its proper shape, but until then it bore the marks of Kell’s fists. He switched to a knifelike blow with the edge of his hand to the thing’s neck, stepped in for a forearm shot to the nose, stayed in close to bring his knee up into the dummy’s rib cage twice. Both times, he heard cracking from within the dummy; it was constructed to feel like flesh, to give way like flesh and bone when the assaults were powerful enough, then return to its pristine state.
He danced back, bobbing, weaving, threw a left-hand feint, followed up with a right hook that whipped the dummy’s head partway around. Very satisfying … though not as gratifying as if it were the real Wedge, the real Janson.
Kell knew he wasn’t the best hand-to-hand fighter around. His instructor in the commandos was a woman half his weight, a head shorter than he. She could throw him around the mats at will and could hit harder than he ever could. But he was big, fast, and trained, so he figured he was in the top ten percent of unarmed combatants in the military. It was just something he was good at.
Too bad it didn’t help him on Folor Base. He spun, planted a powerful side kick to the dummy’s sternum, watched the rig sway far back on its flexible pole and then snap upright.
Just like his tenure here on Folor. If all his skills were as polished as his fighting, all his objectives here seemed as resilient as that dummy. He gave them everything he had and still they popped upright, unmoved, undamaged, unmarked.
“Are you mad at the dummy? Or is this a mad mind?”
Kell spun. Runt was seated on a balance bar, watching curiously, his brown eyes open wider than usual. The fur that covered his body was fluffed and disordered in places, patchy with moisture in others, clear signs of a recent shower andinadequate drying. “Uhhh … I
The R5 unit hooted in the affirmative. A moment latertwo views of the distant target appeared side by side on Kell’s main screen—views that were alike but not identical, so they appeared to be an unmerged stereoscopic image.
“Seven, recommend we set the torps to a broader proximity fuse. That target’s ugly.”
“Good point. Doing so. All right, Eight, strike foils to attack position, now.”
“Affirmative.”
A moment later one of the visual images went to gray. Kell grinned sourly. Seven and Eight were about to experience the same failure he had.
“Eight, my weapons are gone. Some sort of system failure.”
“Seven, my targeting’s shot.”
“Do you still have weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on, I’m transmitting my targeting information to you … wait for the lock … Got it!”
“Firing, Seven. We have detonation … Looks like a kill. But I still don’t have targeting sensors.”
“Mine show a clean kill. Good shot, Eight.”
“You did all the work, I just pulled the trigger. Kind of the way I like it.”
Wedge’s voice crackled in: “Good work, you two. It’s back to base so Three Group can do this. Do not inform anyone who hasn’t gone through this exercise of its parameters. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One out.”
Kell gritted his teeth. Once again, because of one of Wedge Antilles’s oh-so-clever tricks, he had come out looking like an incompetent. He’d worked very hard to overcome that first score of zero in the simulators, worked hard enough to put him at the top of the pilots roster, and now it was starting all over again.
The punching dummy was shaped like a man—that is, if you fed a man until he was so fat that his features half disappearedin folds of flesh, then mounted him on a flexible rod in the Folor Base gymnasium. Kell shook his head; he certainly wouldn’t want to be treated that way. Nor would he want to suffer the damage he was inflicting on the dummy.
He started with a one-two combination that rocked the dummy’s head, deforming it temporarily; in seconds, the puttylike memory material inside began to restore the head to its proper shape, but until then it bore the marks of Kell’s fists. He switched to a knifelike blow with the edge of his hand to the thing’s neck, stepped in for a forearm shot to the nose, stayed in close to bring his knee up into the dummy’s rib cage twice. Both times, he heard cracking from within the dummy; it was constructed to feel like flesh, to give way like flesh and bone when the assaults were powerful enough, then return to its pristine state.
He danced back, bobbing, weaving, threw a left-hand feint, followed up with a right hook that whipped the dummy’s head partway around. Very satisfying … though not as gratifying as if it were the real Wedge, the real Janson.
Kell knew he wasn’t the best hand-to-hand fighter around. His instructor in the commandos was a woman half his weight, a head shorter than he. She could throw him around the mats at will and could hit harder than he ever could. But he was big, fast, and trained, so he figured he was in the top ten percent of unarmed combatants in the military. It was just something he was good at.
Too bad it didn’t help him on Folor Base. He spun, planted a powerful side kick to the dummy’s sternum, watched the rig sway far back on its flexible pole and then snap upright.
Just like his tenure here on Folor. If all his skills were as polished as his fighting, all his objectives here seemed as resilient as that dummy. He gave them everything he had and still they popped upright, unmoved, undamaged, unmarked.
“Are you mad at the dummy? Or is this a mad mind?”
Kell spun. Runt was seated on a balance bar, watching curiously, his brown eyes open wider than usual. The fur that covered his body was fluffed and disordered in places, patchy with moisture in others, clear signs of a recent shower andinadequate drying. “Uhhh … I
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