“See, that’s the problem with you, Jay. You spend too much time on-line. You need to get out more.”
“I could put mosquitoes in a scenario if I wanted.”
“You could. But have you ever?”
“Well, no.”
“And without experiencing real bugs sucking your blood and going splat when you slap them, you wouldn’t be able to do it accurately. And even then, it would only be an imitation, and not the real thing.”
“But isn’t this all just an illusion?” He waved one hand to encompass the wooded hillside.
“Wrong religion, white boy. Try the Hindus or the existentialists. Buddhists aren’t into denying reality. We like to get down and roll around in it.”
“What about that old man persona of yours on the net?”
“A tool, that’s all. Got me past a lot of preconceptions, and made my patients relax. Besides, an illusion is by definition not real, so altering it one way or the other doesn’t make it any more or less real, now does it?”
He chuckled. Boy, he liked being with her.
“So how much farther is it to this secret place of yours?”
“Not far. Couple more miles.”
He gave out a theatrical groan. “You didn’t tell me I was going to have to hike halfway around the planet carrying a house on my back. This better be worth the walk.”
“Oh, it will be. Guaranteed satisfaction or your money back.”
Well, that sounded promising. He slapped at another mosquito, and was inclined to agree with Soji’s father on at least one point, despite what she’d said.
2
When John Howard walked into the range, he heard, “Tens-hut! General in the house! Morning, Brigadier.”
Howard fought the grin, but lost. Amid the familiar tang of burned gunpowder, Sergeant Julio Fernandez stood at ramrod attention, a perfect salute in place. Any crisper and he would have crinkled.
“No such thing as a brigadier anymore, you know that.”
“It has a nice ring, sir!”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Howard said. He returned the salute.
“Not funny, John.”
“Hey, I can do it, you know. Me being a general now instead of a colonel. What do you think, Gunny?”
Behind Julio, the rangemaster grinned. “Oh, yes, sir, I believe Sergeant Fernandez is excellent officer material, sir. Never has earned his money.”
“I get promoted, first thing I’ll do is fire your sorry ass,” Fernandez said. “You’ll be out whitewashing rocks on the parade ground eighteen hours a day.”
Gunny laughed. “Long arms or sidearms today, sir?”
Howard said, “I believe the sergeant needs a lesson in how to shoot his pistol.”
Gunny nodded and set two plastic boxes of ammo on the counter. The blue box contained.357 cartridges, the orange box 9mm. Howard grabbed the blue box, Fernandez the orange.
“Lanes eight and nine,” the rangemaster said.
Howard put his earplugs in as he headed for the entrance to the gallery, Fernandez hurrying to beat him to the door so he could hold it open. “Let me, General. I wouldn’t want you complaining you hurt your hand or anything after I shoot the pants off of you. I never got to beat a general before.”
“And not likely you’ll start today, Sergeant.”
In their respective lanes, the two Net Force military men set their ammo down and started up the holoprojectors. They used identical scenarios when they went for scores against each other, so there would be no doubt who had outshot whom.
Howard slipped the Fist paddle holster with his Smith & Wesson.357 Model 66 revolver nestled in it into his waistband and adjusted things. The S&W was an antique, stainless steel and not nearly as efficient as the polymer tactical pistols Net Force issued. The H&Ks and the Walthers carried almost three times as much ammo, and had all kinds of bells and whistles — lasers, suppressors, flashlights, all very modular. Until recently, the Smith had been pretty much stock, unmodified. Howard had allowed Gunny to talk him into trying a red dot scope, a tiny one that mounted where the iron sights were, which had improved his shooting immediately. Even so, it felt like sacrilege — the old wheel gun was as much talisman as anything, his good luck piece, and in the same category as the tommy gun he had gotten from his grandfather. It worked, but it couldn’t really run with the newer hardware out there, even with the Tasco scope.
Julio was still smiling every time he saw the scope, too.
“You ready, John?”
“Crank it up.”
Fernandez was using his blued Beretta Model 92, not as ancient as the Smith, but certainly not in the same class as the tactical pistols, either. Two old and grizzled types they were, set in their ways. If they weren’t careful, the future was going to blow right past them.
The mugger, armed with a crowbar, materialized thirty feet away and ran toward Howard. He snatched his piece out of the holster, brought it up, and did a fast double tap, aiming at the chest. The mugger stopped and fell down. The holographics on the range were pretty good, and the computer registered the hits and kept track of everything.
“Got me by a quarter second,” Fernandez said from the other side of the bullet-resistant barrier. “General’s luck.”
“Right,” Howard said. “Rack ’em up and I’ll show you how lucky I really am.”
The second mugger had a long knife, and Howard’s first round caught him a hair high, just at the base of the throat. Good enough, since the second round didn’t go off. Instead, there was a metallic pop! and the cylinder jammed.
“Got a mechanical malfunction here!” Howard yelled. He kept the weapon pointed downrange, waiting.
Julio came around the barrier, an eyebrow raised in question.
“Something broke. Cylinder won’t turn.”
“I’ll get Gunny out here to take a look. So much for your six-for-sure theory.”
The rangemaster said, “Sorry, sir, but sooner or later, everything wears out. You probably put thirty or forty thousand rounds through this thing over the years, you got to expect it to metal fatigue and start nickel-and-diming you to death. I can fix it, but it’s gonna take a few days to get the parts and get ’em installed.”
“General will need a loaner,” Julio said. “Can’t have him walking around naked. Why don’t you show him the Medusa?”
Gunny smiled and went to the gun safe. He came back with a Styrofoam box. On top of it was a little pamphlet. It said “Phillips & Rodgers, Inc.,” over a little logo with a reversed “P” and an “R” separated by a big “I.” The words “Owners Manual” were under that. Gunny handed Howard the pamphlet. Howard flipped it open to the first page and saw “Firearms Are Dangerous Weapons” in bold print at the top of the page.
He shook his head. That’s what came of too many lawyers without enough to do. A maker had to warn you that a gun was dangerous. What was the duh-factor there?
Gunny opened the box. Inside was a flat-black revolver with what looked like ivory grips. It had an unfluted cylinder, and seemed like a K-frame S&W with a funny-looking squared-off and grooved barrel.
Fernandez took the revolver from the rangemaster. “General, this here is a P&R Model 47, aka Medusa. Three-inch, match-grade, one-in-nine twist barrel, 8620 steel, heat-treated to 28 Rockwell, with a vanadium cylinder at 36 Rockwell. Got a neat little red fiber-optic front sight, and fully adjustable rear sight. Coated with black Teflon, so it won’t rust.”