Psychic Warrior pw-1

by Robert Doherty

  * * *

  “Sergeant Major, I can’t do it.”

  Dalton rubbed his eyes. First Jackson waking him, now this. Sergeant Trilly was standing in front of him, head down. Dalton finished zipping up his black isolation tank suit. He had five minutes before his next session. He could see a couple of the other bunks were now occupied by men who had finished their second training session.

  “Can’t do what, Trilly?” Dalton knew the answer, but he was also aware he had to play this out.

  “I can’t go in there again,” Trilly said, his voice quavering. “I can’t breathe that shit they put in your lungs. I can’t get shut off like a light switch and frozen. I just can’t do it.”

  Dalton looked the sergeant over. He was shivering, a blanket about his shoulders. His hair still wet, his skin covered in goosebumps. He remembered how Trilly had missed most of the Trojan Warrior training after getting his collarbone broken during the aikido training.

  “You don’t have any choice,” Dalton said. “You’re the team sergeant. Your team goes on a mission in thirty-six hours. Can’t is not an option.”

  Trilly made a choked sound. “I can’t go in there again, Sergeant Major. I can’t. I know I can’t. You can order me and make me put that stuff on, but I can’t do it.”

  Dalton felt the soreness in his throat where the tube had twice gone down. His body was covered with small welts, from what he had no idea. He had just noticed them when getting dressed.

  Dalton stepped close to the other man and kept his voice very low and level. “Get some sleep, Master Sergeant Trilly. You’ll feel better.”

  Trilly looked up. Dalton could see the shadows in the others man’s eyes. “I’m not going to feel better. It’s not going to make any difference.”

  “Trilly, you’re Special Forces. We may not like where we get sent or what we get ordered to do, but by God, we go there and we get the job done.”

  “Like Stith?”

  Dalton resisted the urge to grab Trilly’s shoulders and shake him. “Yes, like Stith. Who the hell do you think all those names on the Special Operations monument outside of SOCOM headquarters are? Nobodies? They were men just like you and me. They got killed doing the job they volunteered for. That you volunteered for. You want the easy life, you should have stayed in Air Defense. You put that green beret on, you choose a different path from most. Now it’s our turn in the breach.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Don’t say that.” Dalton kept his voice firm. “You think negative, you won’t be able to. You’ve got to think of the team, not yourself. The team needs you.”

  “I can’t— ”

  “Shut up,” Dalton hissed. “Get your head out of your ass, Trilly. Think about somebody else for once. You got the stripes on your collar, you do the job. You flake out on this, we’re another man short, and sometimes one man can make all the difference.”

  Dalton could see the clock over Trilly’s shoulder. He had no more time. “Get some sleep.”

  Trilly turned without a word and went to his bunk. Dalton watched him, then walked into the corridor and to the experimental center. He noted the doors on the wall that he had not been through. He wondered which one hid the bodies of the first team.

  Two of Hammond’s technicians had his TACPAD waiting. They rigged him, the process going somewhat faster now that he was used to it. He still wasn’t thrilled when they shoved the tube down his throat or his head was encased in the TACPAD, but he hardly noticed the micro-probes going in anymore.

  “We’re going to send you over to the virtual plane this time,” Hammond told him through the computer.

  He was lifted up, then lowered into the isolation tank six minutes ahead of the new schedule. The handoff to Sybyl went smoothly.

  The computer quickly ran through a check of his stick man form, insuring that he had control.

  “It is time now,” Hammond finally announced, satisfied. “You will feel power. It’ll feel good. A feeling of strength. Do not do anything until I tell you. Do not do anything unless I tell you specifically to do it. Is that clear?”

  “Clear,” Dalton replied. “I am giving you ten percent.”

  Like a jolt of adrenaline, power coursed through him. Dalton felt giddy. He began to lift this arm.

  “Do not do anything until I tell you.”

  Dalton forced himself to remain still. The feeling grew stronger.

  “Turn to your left.”

  Dalton did as instructed.

  “Do you see the light?”

  There was a bright glowing tunnel straight ahead. All else was dull gray fog. Dalton paused as he realized what he had just done, or what had been done for him by Sybyl— he was inside the avatar, looking about— not in his own head looking at the form.

  “I see it.”

  “Walk toward it. I am giving you a surface to walk on and a feeling of weight.”

  Dalton did feel ground beneath his feet. Slightly spongy, like walking on a gym mat, but it gave him something to push off of. The tunnel got closer. Then it was right in front of him.

  “Wait,” Hammond said.

  Dalton paused.

  Hammond’s voice, filtered by the computer link, came through. “When you step into the virtual plane, there will be nothing beneath your feet. It will be like floating in a mist. You will have no sense of orientation. It will take us a little while to get you both oriented and able to move. Some have difficulty with this.”

  Dalton remembered the first time he had free-fall-jumped out of a plane. It was much different from static line parachuting. He had tumbled in the air as he fell; the only orientation he had had was the ground far below that he was rapidly plummeting toward and the air whistling by. He had an idea what Hammond was talking about. He had seen men panic in such a situation, unable to deploy their chutes as they tumbled, saved only when their automatic opener activated at a predetermined altitude.

  “All right. I’m ready.”

  “Step into the tunnel,” Hammond ordered.

  Dalton moved his leg forward. There was nothing to put it on. But he didn’t fall as he lifted his other leg. He felt himself drawn forward and then he was in.

  His stomach spasmed his last meal ready to come back up as he floated in a fog. He had no idea how far he was able to see, because there was nothing to see.

  “I f el like I’m going to throw up,” Dalton said. “That’s a psychological reaction,” Hammond said. “And a very good one.”

  “Good?” Dalton swallowed. “Yes. Because you can’t really feel your real stomach. So this is a subconscious psychological reaction, which means your mind is very attuned to the virtual world. That your mind believes the world you are in now, the form that you are taking, is real.” “That’s nice.”

  “Take some time and get adjusted to being there.”

  Dalton did as Hammond instructed. More than free-fall parachuting, it reminded him of scuba diving at night, when there was no way to determine which way was up. Neutral buoyancy in the netherworld; Dalton found that concept interesting. He looked about, but everything was the same grayish mist. He had no idea if he was seeing fifty meters into it or ten. He put a hand in front of his face, but all that was there was the stick arm of the avatar. He had no idea where he was either.

  “Now we will teach you how to fly,” Hammond said. “Fly?”

  “How else do you think you will be able to get around?” Hammond asked. “Although possible, it is very hard to jump with just your mind, especially on your first time. It is much easier using the avatar form.”

  “All right,” Dalton said. “How do I fly?”

  “With your wings, of course.”

  Dalton’s stick arms transformed into two wide wings, white feathers glistening. “Sweet Lord,” Dalton whispered. He swept them down and felt himself lift. He swooped, tried to turn and felt himself lose control, before regaining his balance. He looked down. He still had the stick figure he’d originally had, but the wings had replaced hi
s arms.

  A black level space appeared ahead.

  “I’ve had Sybyl make a place for you to stand, ” Hammond said. “We must work on the rest of your avatar. I’m passing you to Sybyl for training.”

  Dalton landed on the black plane. His felt his “feet” sink into the surface slightly.

  “I will show you the various forms we have computer generated, ” Hammond said. “You must pick the one you prefer in accordance with your own physical shape and size.”

  Dalton watched as a series of forms appeared in front of him. All were man-shaped, but there were a number of subtle differences among them, ranging from the basic size to the lengths of the arms and legs. One of the forms was moved out in front of the others.

  “The data indicates this would be the best fit, as it most closely approximates your own body shape,” Hammond said.

  The form was featureless, the skin a pure white. The eyes were two black spots on the face. There was no mouth or nose. Dalton assumed that Sybyl had the form that way because there would be no need for mouth or nose in the virtual plane, but he wondered what they would look like when they came out into the real plane. He saw a certain advantage to not having an entirely human appearance in such a situation.

  “Will I be visible in the real plane?” Dalton wanted to check what Raisor had told him. “You will cause a disturbance in the electromagnetic spectrum,” Hammond said. “Despite the fact that the human eye does not see into that spectrum, we have noted that people in the real plane do sense something when an avatar materializes.

  “You also will have the option to add color and pattern to your form if you have a need for your form to be seen.”

  The form in front of him disappeared. Dalton felt a wave of something pass through him, and he staggered back. When he looked down, he now had the form that Sybyl had built.

  He looked down at his hands, spreading the fingers, flexing them. His movements felt smoother than they had in stick form. He walked around. He felt like he had shed thirty years. His body— avatar— felt alive and vibrant. And powerful. He reached his smooth hands up, stretching. He slid one leg out in front of the other and did the basic first kata of aikido that he had learned in the Trojan Warrior training. At first he had some difficulty, but he tried again and again, until the arms and legs began functioning smoothly, without conscious thought. He worked his way through the eight katas up to black belt level before he felt satisfied.

  “Weapons?” he asked.

  There was a tingle in Dalton’s right arm. He looked down, watching the forearm and hand dissolve into a tube about three feet long from the elbow joint.

  “Aim and fire,” Hammond said.

  A target silhouette appeared about thirty feet away.

  Dalton extended his arm, then paused. “How do I fire?”

  “Think it and it will happen,” Hammond said. “Think about making a fist with the arm that is now the weapon. Aiming is easy as you will see a thin red dot on the aim point of your weapon much like a laser sight.”

  Dalton focused. He saw the red dot, moved it on target. He sent the impulse to clench his nonexistent fist, and he felt a slight recoil in the arm/weapon. A glowing ball raced toward the silhouette and hit. The target shattered.

  Several more silhouettes popped up. Dalton fired.

  He found the tube to be extremely easy to aim— it was like pointing his arm, and the red aiming dot was dead on with where the round hit. But he was disturbed by the lag between aiming and firing. He found himself pointing at a target and waiting as the power built up to firing level. It took about two seconds between each firing, an eternity in combat in Dalton’s experience.

  “The rate of firing is dependent on power?” Dalton checked. “Yes.”

  “Give me minimum power to kill a man with a shot to the head.”

  There was a short pause, then Hammond responded. “Done.”

  Dalton fired at the array of silhouettes, moving at the same time, diving to his right, rolling. Coming to his knees and continuing to fire. This lower power setting was better, firing with what Dalton estimated was slightly more than a second between each shot. The accuracy was superb, as Dalton placed each power ball into the head of each silhouette.

  “Can you equip my team with an array of power settings?” Dalton asked. “I want most of them able to fire this rapidly, but I want others firing on the stronger setting.”

  “I can have Sybyl do that.”

  “If you decrease rate and increase power,” Dalton wanted to know, “can you also fire a spread of balls?”

  “At the same time?” Hammond asked. “Like a shotgun shell,” Dalton said. “Yes.”

  “I also want some of my men to be armed with a focused, powerful shot that can punch through armor.”

  “I can program that also.”

  Dalton concentrated and the tube shrunk, dissolving into his avatar arm once more.

  “What about the wings?” he asked. “If you are ready, you can change your arms to the wings. Just concentrate like you did with the power tube.”

  Dalton paused, closing his eyes. He concentrated; his arms felt like he was flexing the shoulder muscles. When he opened his eyes, he had the wings back.

  “Where would you like to go?” Hammond asked. “I must keep you within a certain area in the virtual world until you are more proficient. Consider the borders of the state of Colorado as your current limits. Where would you like to go in Colorado?”

  Dalton knew the answer to that, but he didn’t bother to tell Hammond as he moved into the virtual plane.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What is this place?” Barsk asked as the wheels of the plane touched the runway. They had flown for several hours after getting the generator on board. The plane had taken the weight, but the pilots had been forced to use every foot of runway to get them into the air.

  “An old airbase,” Leksi said.

  “I can see that.” Barsk was tired and his fear of the large man had diminished in proportion to his weariness. He could clearly see that the buildings and hangars had long been out of use. The plane was slowing.

  “This is one of the bases where the planes the Americans sent over during the Great Patriotic War were flown to,” Leksi said. He pointed out the small window. “In that building the American insignia was painted over and the Soviet star was painted on. A crew of our people then manned the plane and flew it to the front.”

  “And why are we here?” Barsk asked as the plane came to a halt, then slowly turned and began taxiing toward a hangar, with an open door.

  “This is where I was told to take the generator for the first stop,” Leksi said simply.

  Barsk could now see there were several helicopters inside the hangar next to the one they were headed for. Men dressed in black fatigues stood in the shadows, weapons slung over their shoulders, watching.

  “Who are they?”

  “The men and equipment we will need for the next phase.” Leksi stood as the back ramp began coming down. “But do not concern yourself, you go elsewhere from here. I’ll take care of the next phase without your help. There’s something you need to see.”

  Barsk followed as Leksi disembarked, walked out of the hangar, and headed for a hangar that stood some distance from the other buildings. Its large door was opened by two men dressed in black fatigues. Leksi led the way to a trap door in the floor. He threw it open, pointing his flashlight into the hole.

  Barsk peered down. A naked old man chained to a metal post was lying on the floor. The old man stirred, holding a hand up to protect his eyes from the light.

  “Who is that?” Barsk asked.

  “Professor Vasilev,” Leksi said. He threw the door shut. “You are to take him with you to the next site. He will be responsible for setting up the phased-displacement generator.”

  “What is the cylinder?” Feteror asked. He had finished his report, telling the general that a group of mercenaries had killed the GRU surveillance team and had load
ed a strange steel cylinder and other equipment onto a plane and flown off to the south.

  “That is not your concern,” Rurik said. “You do not know who these people were?”

  “Ex-military,” Feteror said. “They wore unmarked uniforms and acted like soldiers. They didn’t exactly line up and tell me their names.”

  “Your report is insufficient,” Rurik snapped.

  “It is insufficient because you didn’t give me enough power to cross over and find things out. I could have ripped open a throat or two and gotten someone to talk. I could have stopped them if you’d given me the power, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It is insufficient because you pulled me back too soon. Before I could see where the plane went.”

  “Do not lecture me!” General Rurik screamed. Everyone stopped working and stared at their commanding officer. Rurik lowered his voice. “You do what I tell you to.”

  “Then you should be satisfied with my report.” Inside his steel housing, Feteror felt better than he had in years. All was progressing quite well. Tapping his data banks, he brought up a picture and could see the general’s pretty young wife. And the young children. Two boys. Perfect.

  “Get back in your pit!” Rurik slammed his fist down on the power level.

  Feteror’s electric eyes and ears shut off.

  Dalton sideslipped and began falling, tumbling out of control.

  “Relax,” Hammond said. “Spread your wings.”

  Dalton arched his back and spread his arms— wings— wide. They caught and the descent slowed. “Am I outside?”

  “You will have to look to see.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “This is where you must look into the real world from the virtual,” Hammond said. “How do I do that?” Dalton asked once more, slowly circling where he was, in the middle of the same fog he’d been in since entering the virtual world. “Concentrate. It is just like focusing on the white dot.”

  “Great.” Dalton did as Hammond said. Gradually the fog began clearing. He saw white peaks, mountains. “When you do this, your psyche is on the line between the virtual and the real world,” Hammond said. “But your avatar is still in the virtual. If you know where you are and you know where you are going, you can ‘fold’ the virtual world and ‘jump’ there.” “I don’t understand,” Dalton said. He was beginning to see the peaks more clearly. “You know where you are, and you know where you want to be. Traveling in the virtual world is different than the real. Sometimes you can cover great distances in an instant.”