"Nothing to do with you as a person, I'm afraid. Just that you're big, and loom. If it was you? She wouldn't have gotten in the plane with you." She replied, softly, hoping the gathering dark hid the expression on her face.
"You're not scared of me." He replied, and the tone was far too carefully neutral.
That got her to smile up at him. "You remind me of some gents I've known. Crazy bastards, the lot of 'em, but the best in all the worlds to have by you when the chips are down."
He sounded a lot happier, then. "I'll take that from you. Been called worse."
"Like Rocky Rhodes?" She replied, and he actually laughed. "I got off light with Amber Porter."
"You keep thinking that, girl." He chuckled as they walked into the edges of the loading ramp lights.
23
Michelle was working inside the cargo deck, helping stack flat-pack furniture and bags of coffee when one of the rampers on the other side of the plane exclaimed, "There she goes!"
"What?" She looked up for the next piece of cargo, but the ramper was hurrying to the loading deck with the others, so she followed them. As she did, she heard a deep engine roar that made her heart trip with homesickness; a ballistic was taxiing to the active runway.
As she came out of the plane, she saw the Imperial ballistic. They built theirs with less emphasis on the blended body, and instead of the single sweeping arc of sleek white composite, it was a lot of deep gray curves and angles. Without the lighting, it'd disappear in the haze at almost any altitude. It must be an amazing plane to fly; the engine pods hinted at a lot more power than the passenger ballistics she was used to. Of course, it was built to be multipurpose, and could haul heavy cargo over the top. She wondered, with that power, if she could have angled it just right and hit low orbit…
Wondered, too, what would have happened if she'd wangled a seat on that plane, instead. If she'd taken the understated offer to start over there, with Blondie, that she hadn't understood until it was too late to accept. A kiss of exhaust-scented air hit her face as it turned, already cleared to take the runway. The whine of the engines spooling up made her smile through the unshed tears, and roaring thunder as the pilot smoothly poured the throttle to full takeoff power made the very bones of her chest vibrate, stealing her breath away.
The plane moved slowly at first, deceptively crawling because the sheer scale of the bird fooled the eye into thinking she had to be smaller and slower than she was. By midfield she was already off, picking up speed and altitude before arcing back and letting rip with an almost vertical climb. She raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun as the afterburners blazed, and saw a two streaks of light rising from off the airfield, climbing after it. Her heart lurched painfully, flashing on an odd wobble on climb-out. "Not again!"
And then the Imperial bird grew wings of flame and smoke, streaking out and down. She'd never seen a chaff display, certainly not low enough level to fill the sky and set the airfield below on fire, but there was no mistaking the sight. The rockets turned into the chaff and exploded with gigantic puffs of black smoke, and the bird kept climbing out, untouched.
"Down!" Rock grabbed her, and pulled her off the loading ramp, onto the plascrete, tucking her tight under the length of his body, against pallets of supplies still to load. He kept her there even as the ballistic roared overhead, past and gone, and they heard a dull whumphing noise as the explosion finally reached them. "Fool girl, don't stand there when there's incoming!"
Michelle was puzzled, until she heard the crack of things hitting the plascrete, and smelled chemical smoke. "Are they shooting at us, too?"
"No, just her. But what goes up, must come down. And we're downwind and downrange." He got up on his elbows, to look under the plane at the airfield. "Looks like they only got the one shot… and here comes the return fire."
"Where?" She followed his finger to see the Imperial bird was turning. "That's the outbound turn." Or the return-to-airfield; if it hit a control panel, she'd make a shallow, turn, too. "Did the shrapnel hit something critical? She almost got away…"
"No, she's hunting." He grunted. "That was a clean miss."
"Hunting?" As the Imperial plane kept climbing, a streak of smoke and light peeled off, jinking in the sunlight, then steadying… she lost sight behind the cargo next to her. The ballistic continued on her outbound turn, climbing out now on full afterburner, leaving diamond points behind her engines and a thunder in the sky.
"Oh, wow." She blinked, and shook. "Oh, shit. That was a missile! They shot back? Wait, but… they're armed?"
Rock grunted. "All Imperial planes can be armed. Never assume they're not." He stood up cautiously, testing one joint at a time. "The Fed may believe they can keep internal control by disarming all their citizens and holding them at gunpoint, but there's a reason they keep failing to conquer us every time they try. We believe in keeping the world safer by keeping everyone armed."
She clamped her lips on the automatic denial of such a crazy idea, and got to her knees, accepting his help up as she was distracted by the grass fires ripping in the breeze across the airfield, at the distant bright dot of the ballistic, far off and gone. Smoke rose in a thick black column from behind the trees, down where there was an access road to the beach below.
"Look at 'em go." Untouched, unharmed, unhampered… and having hit the bastards back. She suddenly wanted, very badly, in every cell of blood and bone, to hit the bastards who'd hurt her like that. "Fuck, I want to fly that." She wanted to see it coming, to be able to react, and to fly off in a blaze of glory, leaving the destruction behind…
"Everybody wants the ballistics." Rock kept a friendly hand on her back, looking around. "Nobody gets 'em."
"No, I want to fly something that can shoot back!" She stared into the bright blue sky at the fast disappearing-plane, wanting so hard her body hurt with it.
He grunted again, but there was a quality to it that made her turn, and meet his thoughtful expression. "You want to learn to shoot back, kiddo?"
"Yes, dammit!" She flushed at his regard. "I'm sorry, but I do."
"Don't apologize; that's a healthy attitude that'll keep you alive. We'll get you from shooting back to shooting first later, as that’s even better." He grinned at the look on her face. "For now?" He jerked his head at the plane. "Load her up."
"Yes, sir!"
24
"Where are we headed?" Michelle perched on the worn and cracked bench seat of the parts truck, trying to keep from sliding off or into Rock as they bounced down the access road to the flats and muddy beach at the base of the cliff below the airport. This was where the Feds had hidden with their surface to air missiles, but she couldn't imagine airport security leaving anything behind - not that the Imperial's missile and the subsequent fire had left much for security to deal with.
"First, the flats. Then, dinner." Rock replied, with a shrug. He looked over and caught her expression. "What?"
"I don't date in the cockpit?" She said it like she knew she was misunderstanding, and hoped she was right.
Rock vented a rare crack of laughter. "Hah! No, you're way too young for me, kiddo." The grin he shot at her had nothing but a certain predatory friendliness to it, and he reached over to ruffle her hair like she was ten years old. She laughed, and tried to fight him off before the exposed steel and springs of his work hand caught and pulled her hair. "But you're going to burn out way too fast if you keep eating the junk they stock in the pilot's lounge. That youthful metabolism won't save you after you turn thirty!"
"Too right!" She agreed, but didn't point out she'd passed that age a bit ago. He had far more silver in his hair than she did, and she wasn't going to win that fight. So she rolled the window down, and enjoyed the smell of the trees and bush in full explosion of growth, the sharp tang of the dust they stirred up as they bounced down the dirt and gravel road, the briny smell of the sea, only visible now and then through gaps in the vegetation.
The rutted excuse for a gravel road continu
ed well past the recently-burned patch with its stink of chemical reek and charred plants and something underneath that made her stomach turn, back into the much friendlier summer brush, and finally gave out on a wide turn-around, clearly bulldozed flat with built-up berms on part, and only a small set of track leading off down in the dirt to the marshy flats below. Rock backed up off the main entrance, and killed the engine. "Hop on out, and put the bug dope on."
"Yeah." She'd already heard the whine, and shook her head. "What the hell were the founders thinking, when they decided to bring mosquitoes?"
"I figure it was probably an accident, and it's all been mealy mouthed fancy excuses since to cover their asses." Rock pulled a long case out from behind her seat as she sprayed herself down and followed him. He pulled the tailgate down, set the case on it, and held out his true hand for the can of bug dope. "If they really had meant to, their security would’ve fragged 'em."
"Now that I can believe." She waited until he'd sprayed down, and put the can aside. "So… what are we doing down here?"
"Training. You want to learn to shoot back, girl?" He flipped open the lid of the case, and she sucked in her breath. Nestled in the foam were several guns, from handguns to long rifles, all very plain, utilitarian, and well-used.
"May I touch?"
He snorted. "Hard to shoot one if you don't." After a moment, more gently, "Haven't you ever held a gun before?"
"No? How do you make sure it’s safe to pick up?"
"They're never safe until you've verified they are. And even then, don't trust 'em. Always treat every one like it's loaded. That way you won't be shooting things with a gun you thought was empty." He picked up a handgun, and showed her how to drop the magazine and clear the chamber.
"Like every prop has hot mags until verified. And even then…" She grimaced, and took it awkwardly. It was heavier than she'd thought, and she wasn't quite sure where to put her fingers, or how to grip it so she could get the piece back to open the chamber.
"Exactly." He helped her as she ran through the clearing motions until she had it down. "All right, now, before we load it, I have eye and ear protection here for you."
She put the gun down a little too eagerly, and paid close attention as he brought out safety glasses not unlike every mechanic had laying around, and little foam earplugs like they gave to pax. The glasses went on, but she put two fingers on the package in his hand. "Won't need those."
"These are a hell of a lot louder than you think." He raised a grizzled eyebrow at her. "That little one right there is 160 decibels. Save your hearing loss for loud planes, good music and fast cars."
She nodded, and tapped her ear. "These are aftermarket; my in-skin automatically mutes." At his raised eyebrows, she said, "I looked it up, and the manual specifically states that they cover small arms fire."
"What are you running? That's no junior crew mesh." His eyebrows were coming down, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
She grimaced. "Starlink 61's." There was no hiding who she was, when she admitted that.
Rock whistled. "And they started you off on my plane? Girl, you need to be running the 600's."
"Not if we're making me look like a rank amateur. Besides, I have a hell of a lot to learn about how you get into and out of all the patches." She smiled.
"You do, but you're wasted with me." He shook his head. "I won't stop teaching you, but…" Rock paused, and cocked his head. "Ah. You don't want a ballistic 'cause the shiny already rubbed off for you."
She shrugged, hands out. "I miss it. But… can't say I miss the scheduling. Sleeping every night, in the same time zone, has a strange and fascinating allure."
That got a true laugh from him. "Yeah, I understand that one all too well! Every time Russ gets on my case about yanking out the burnt net and doing regen, I'm wondering just what shit he wants to get me into with a shiny new nerve net. I like my plane, and my farmers and hunters. Simple people, quiet route… it's a good life, here."
"I haven't been shot at in almost two weeks, though I think McMurtrie has come close a few times." She grinned, but it faded as she looked back down at the guns. "It's too good to last."
"Yeah. Hold that thought." He grabbed a couple drink cans out of a box in the back of the truck, and walked over toward a berm, dropping them at intervals. "Targets. Now, before we start, first we have the inevitable but critical preflight briefing. You with me?"
"Roger." She settled onto the tailgate, and got ready to learn.
"First, we've already covered. Treat 'em all like they're always loaded, and you won't look stupid when they turn out to be. Second, never point it at anything you're not willing to shoot."
"Like the Fed security?" She said. He snorted.
"Or the ground. Or the berm, there, that'll stop it, or that way, out where nothing is. Damn well don't point it at me, or I'll thump you first and point out what you did wrong later. Hear me?" There was no laughter or joking when he said that, only a coiled menace that made her remember just how large he really was.
"Loud and clear." She met his eyes and nodded. The threat actually made her feel better. Yes, he would thump her if she got stupid, but that also meant if she didn't, she really was safe.
"Not the parts truck, either, or I'll let the chief mechanic have first crack at you." He continued, and she grimaced at the thought. "And that doesn't just go for when you're not lining it up; just like you have to be aware of what your missed approach is going to be like before you try to land, you damn well better know what's beyond your target, and that it's safe, before you go shooting at it." He stopped and gave her a hairy eyeball, and she thought about that, nodding slowly.
"With you so far."
"Alright. Last, and just as critical as the rest… Keep your booger hook off the bang switch until you've got your sights on target and are ready to shoot." She raised her eyebrows, and he grinned. "Seriously. You start fingering that, and it'll go off where and when you didn't want it to."
"I know that one. There's a reason we've got the covers on the red switches, and it's not just for the accidental kneeboard contact." She grimaced, and he laughed. "When I blew the gear down, I felt like I was about to get smacked by every instructor who ever told me keep my finger off that."
"Well, I will be telling you to put your finger on this switch - but not unless and until you're ready to fire." He leaned back. "Read it back to me, so I know you got it."
She did, and watched as he picked up the gun again, hitting the discharge button to drop the magazine and catching it in a motion that looked so smooth, flipping a wrist up to lock the slide back… "How many times have you practiced that?"
"At least eight thousand, with this prosthetic alone. You fly it like you train it; this isn't something you'll get in your first thousand rounds." He held up the magazine and put down the gun, still locked open. "These hold fifteen rounds. That, plus one in the chamber, makes sixteen chances to survive."
"How do you load that?"
"I could make you do it the hard way by hand. I should, so you can appreciate modern advances." He waited a heartbeat, then reached out and tweaked her nose. "Don't look at me like that. We have technology for a reason! Even if the basic design hasn't changed in thousands of years, I'm not going to make you hand-prop the plane, and not going to make you hand-load this."
"Thank you." She shook her head, recognizing his teasing a heartbeat too late. "Girl can't be too careful, trying to figure out just how old-school you are when given a chance."
"Mmm, yes. There's iron ore in those hills. First, you need to dredge it out of the mudflats, then smelt…" He cracked up laughing. "We actually have a couple blacksmiths up and down the ranges, here. Sometimes, heating up the metal and beating on it is better than powder deposition creating a new one, especially when you have a lot more trees and coal to burn than feedstock and handy high amperage power sources."
"Huh! How'd you run into them? Aircraft parts?" While it had nothing to do with guns, she was fascinated.
"Knives, actually. There's a market for very nice, hand-forged knives out there. It's one of those things that might be low tech, but it takes a lot of skill, and can't be done on a space station." He shook his head. "Anyway, back to the lecture; we're burning daylight. Bullets. Don't load them backwards. Do you understand the mechanical composition of a bullet?"
"No?"
"Properly called a cartridge, not that I give a damn. The shell, which contains the primer that makes the spark to set off the boom, and the propellant it burns. The bullet is the part that gets kicked down the barrel by the expanding gasses from the boom, and the shell is the part that ejects and goes straight down your cleavage to leave second degree burns on your sweater kittens."
"Just like welding slag, then?" She had developed a permanent avoidance of low-cut shirts after watching another girl fail to follow dress guidelines and pay for it.
"Less likely to leave first degree burns or set your clothes on fire, but very close." He eyed her cleavage. "Learned that one already, did you?"
"Let's just say I saw the golden BB theory demonstrated long before my first FOD walk." She winced, and rubbed a chest aching in sympathy. "And I prefer to learn from other people's mistakes. I make enough of my own already."
"We all do." He nodded, and pulled the loader and ammo out from under the foam, walking her through the process. It was simple in theory, but finicky in application once transferred from his deft hands to her inexperienced ones.
And then it was time to shoot. Rock held the gun so easily it seemed like an extension of his hand. "This is a little easier than showing you how to land on a rough strip, because I can actually put hands on you and line you up, instead of sitting next to you. Same principle, though. Instructor tells, instructor does; student tells, instructor does…" He paused, and looked at her.
"Then instructor tells, student does, and finally student tells, student does. You're saying this is no different from unusual attitude recoveries?"
Going Ballistic Page 13
