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Chapter 10 – Developing Resolve
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General Greenfield tilted the phone up so that his annoyed sigh wouldn't blow into the receiver. “You're using shovels to kill the enemy?” he repeated.
“Not exclusively, sir! In fact we use grenades more than anything. But when you've got a bastard right in front of your face, well, the spade has a nice sharp edge...”
“I get it, Lieutenant, and I'm not going to berate you for using what works. I'm just annoyed by the reality of the situation. When I was a lieutenant fighting in Gaullia, I would have sold my own mother to be able to arm my men with rifles like the ones you have. And now you tell me that when you reach their line you don't even use them.”
“Well, sir, the rifles are long, and the trenches are narrow. If you come around a corner they'll see your barrel before you know where to point it. And that doesn't end well.”
“No, I can't imagine it would. ...What did you say your name was, Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Eibenschütz, sir.”
Greenfield picked up his pen and began writing. “And what is the platoon you're with?”
“Second platoon, A-company, 161st battalion.”
“Lieutenant Eibenschütz, how would you and your men like to test some new equipment for fighting in the trenches?”
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The cadets began slowly milling their way out of the lecture hall, but Amber stayed in her seat reading through a textbook. The first few days of officer training had thrown her for a loop, as they were actually studying material she had not previously learned in either of her lifetimes. It had been a very long time since she had to actually pay attention in a classroom.
She had expected to be reviewing outdated military tactics, but so far they had only been reviewing regulations and military bureaucratic affairs. By the end of the first week she had settled in to the appropriate mental state and workflow, but she still felt unprepared on some level. Spending some extra time after class reading and reviewing helped her feel like she had a good grasp on the material.
Amber lifted her eyes from the page for a moment; there seemed to be a mild commotion coming from the hallway outside. While she was debating about whether it would be worth it to pull away from her studies, Cadet Meckler popped his head through the doorway and called out to her. “Hey Darkwood! You should come see this!” The expression on his face was almost as bright as his hair.
“What is it?” Amber asked somewhat skeptically.
Meckler emphatically responded “A mensur duel!”
Amber's tone was one of surprise. “A duel? What, like with pistols?”
“No, with swords!”
“Swords?!” Amber plopped the book closed and hopped to her feet. “Hell yeah, I'm down!”
Amber followed Meckler and the tail end of the crowd through the hall. “So what's this all about, anyway? You said it was a 'measure duel?'”
One of the cadets looked over to her and said “Have you never heard of mensur before?”
Meckler replied “Mensur is a test of manhood; the true scale to judge a man's inner character! Mensur separates the weak and cowardly from those who can face challenges with resolve and nobility!”
The other cadet responded “Sheez, Meckler! You're going to make me want to duel!”
In the next moment they were in the academy's gymnasium. A respectably-sized crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle, and in the center of the room the two combatants were preparing for their battle. One was a cadet from the other company that had started their training five weeks prior, and the other was Kilian Diemer.
Somehow, Amber was far from surprised to see Diemer there. Diemer was one of three cadets who were promoted from being an NCO, and the only other cadet in her company that had earned a medal before starting officer training. Diemer expected the medal to earn him much recognition and respect from his peers, but his Bronze Badge of Merit was completely overshadowed by Amber's Golden Valor Wings. He seemed to have some sort of chip on his shoulder, and jumped at every chance he could to out-do Amber.
Diemer spotted Amber as she came into the room, and there was a sly look on his face once he saw her arrive.
The two duelists were wearing thick leather smocks with high collars that wrapped around their necks, and began fitting their faces with metal goggles followed by long leather gloves. Amber spied the swords; they looked like rapiers with bell guards.
“Those are real swords;” Amber said in disbelief, “aren't they going to put on more protection than that? Those blades could give someone a scar.”
A number of nearby heads turned toward Amber with accusatory glances. One of them said to her “Half the point is to get a scar.” A few heads nodded and looked back to the center of attention.
Amber looked on with a puzzled expression. 'Is this a German thing? This must be a German thing.'
Meckler stood next to Amber and looked down at her with a smile. “Just watch; you're in for a treat!”
The duelists made some brief chatter agreeing on seven rounds plus four warm-up rounds, and deciding on eight strokes per round. They each had a companion with them from their respective companies to serve as referees, each also carrying a sword but only with the long-sleeved leather gloves for protection.
The two duelists faced each other and used their swords to set the distance between them, both pressing the hilt against their chest and the very tip of the sword against their opponent. They then readied themselves with one hand grasping their sword and their other hand perched behind their back. Their referees also stood facing each other, the four of them standing in a square. All four raised their swords together in the middle. The senior referee from A Company then bellowed “To the measure!” The other called back “Ready!” and the senior referee declared “Fence!” The two referees quickly ducked down and away as the swordplay commenced.
The warm-up rounds weren't much to look at; the two swordsmen stood in place, each striking the other's sword in the air, exchanging blows. After the set number of blows the senior referee called out “Halt!” as the two referees stood up and slipped their swords into the middle, blocking any further blows. A moment later the referees would call out for the next round, “Mensur!” “Ready!” “Fence!” and duck away while the swords began dancing again. This pattern continued until the four warm-up rounds were complete.
As the four armed men readied themselves for the main event, Amber looked to Diemer. With the goggles on Amber couldn't see his eyes, but there seemed to be the faintest of smiles as he anticipated what was to come.
Meckler also watched in anticipation, and as the real event began, the smile on his face was not so faint.
Again the referees called out “Mensur!” “Ready!” “Fence!” As the duel began for real, there was a distinct change in the energy of the combatants. Their exchange of blows was no longer directed at each other's swords, but at each other's heads. Strikes were flown in with serious force, and the blocking had to reciprocate in kind.
Their feet remained planted firmly on the ground, and their backs remained straight. There was no ducking nor diving as metal fell maliciously near their faces, they didn't even flinch nor turn their heads. Only their arms moved as they madly swung their blades at each other, each narrowly managing to block the attack before attempting to deliver a blow of their own.
After a few exchanges the senior referee called out “Halt!” and both referees stood and raised their swords into the middle, stopping the attacks. One of the swords rang for a moment from the strike. All the swords lowered and the referees each took a close look at their fighter. A quick moment later the referees moved back, all swords were raised and the referees called out again, “Mensur!” “Ready!” “Fence!” and the second round began.
The fighters retained immaculate poise as the swords began swinging once again. Meckler looked on with distinct admiration as the blades continued to dance just barely missing their opponent's head.
But Amber saw it differently.
Amber wasn't sure if she felt confused or just disappointed, but the duel played out nothing like any fencing match she had ever seen. Neither opponent advanced on the other, nor did anyone try to evade. Blows were deflected, but she couldn't call them “parries” as they were merely blocking. No elegance, no art, they fought with the skill of children fighting with empty wrapping-paper tubes.
No, that wasn't a fair assessment. Children with paper tubes would at least turn their head to dodge an attack. These men made no such effort. They just stood as still as possible, no dodging, no flinching, just smacking their swords back and forth until the referees stuck up their swords to stop the round.
'But those are real swords... What the hell are you people doing? Why aren't you even turning your head? One slip and you're going to take a sword to the face! Don't you see the danger?!'
The rounds were short and quick, just as they were in the warm-up. The flurry of sharp metal continued to dance in the air until at last, in the fourth round, a blade made contact with Diemer. Despite the sword cutting into his face, Diemer had kept his posture so firm that Amber had to second-guess if the other cadet had actually landed a hit.
Diemer's referee called out “Halt!” as the referee's swords came up to stop the exchange. The swords stopped swinging and dropped to their sides. Diemer's referee looked at the bleeding face and announced “Hit!” The two referees looked at each other and nodded.
Then the swords were all raised together again. “Mensur!” “Ready!” “Fence!” And then they began the fifth round, while blood continued to drip onto the leather collar that completely wrapped Diemer's neck.
Amber's mouth dropped open as they resumed their fighting. She never thought she could feel so much desire to shout “what the hell did I just watch?” without access to the internet.
In the sixth round Diemer's opponent took a blow above his left eye, but the blade mostly bounced off of the goggles and barely nicked the flesh. His referee seemed more concerned with making sure his goggles were still in place than with the tiny wound to his brow.
But the pair had one more round they had agreed upon, and so the fight continued for another six blows.
After the final round, the swords dropped, cheers started coming from the crowd, and Diemer felt the side of his face where he had been hit. There was a cut on his cheek that went from almost the corner of his mouth down to his jawline. He looked back at his opponent and smiled widely, which pushed more blood out of the wound.
There seemed to be little difference between how the crowd treated either of the combatants. Again Amber was confused; Diemer had a large gash on his face compared to the other's tiny nick, yet no one acted as if he had lost. Once his goggles were off, Amber could see his face was beaming, despite the blood running down onto his gear. The sight reminded her of a quote from Kung-Pow: “I am bleeding, making me the victor.” Except the audience wasn't laughing, indeed the audience cheered at him as if he truly was the victor, just as much as they cheered the other man.
'Who won?' Amber wondered. 'Did they really both win somehow?'
With the duel concluded the crowd began separating; its various people returning to their various activities. The closer associates of the duelers gathered in close to the two men to offer their admiration, which made it a little harder for the nurse to squeeze her way in to tend to Diemer's wound. She stood by patiently as he began removing his equipment, then impatiently as he continued to receive slaps on the back from his friends, and then she finally just charged in and pushed Diemer down into a chair and began sopping up the blood with a cloth.
Amber continued to stand a fair distance away from them; she felt incidentally ostracized by the event. She may have been physically present, but she was emotionally disconnected from the others there.
Meckler gave Diemer his congratulations, and then turned back toward Amber and asked “So what did you think of it?”
Amber paused to work out a polite response. “...When you said there was going to be a sword duel, this isn't quite what I thought it would be.”
Diemer overheard the statement and it piqued his interest away from his adoring fans; he leaned over and called out to her, “So what kind of fight were you expecting?”
The nurse fussed at him “Stop moving!”
With Diemer's question almost all of the remaining people turned their focus to Amber, even the people from A Company that were fawning over the other participant. Amber felt the weight of those stares. She didn't want to be a damper to the event, but now they all expected her to say something.
The other combatant broke the silence. “Were you expecting something like in the adventure novels? Swashbuckling action of mariners fighting pirates?”
A few chuckles rose up from the crowd, but it helped ease Amber's tension.
“Perhaps I am just too much of a novice to recognize the artistry in your mensur duel, but... I mean, you didn't even move your feet to evade! You both just stood there and didn't even try to dodge the attacks!”
A couple chuckles came out of some cadets.
Meckler replied “That's the point, Darkwood, he's not supposed to evade!”
“Eh?” Amber said. The statement had trouble processing in her head.
Diemer's companion turned to him and declared “She is a renown warrior, but she is still a child, it seems.”
Diemer coolly stated, “Mensur is not about art, it is about one's character.”
The nurse pressed Diemer's head into his shoulder and declared “Don't move; don't even talk.” She began placing sutures into his cheek.
Meckler spoke up again, “A mensur duel is a test of one's resolve, one's mettle! It takes profound courage to be able to stand firm when a blade is trying to hit you in the face. It is a lesser man who tries to dodge.”
It finally clicked in Amber's head, and she slowly nodded. “First one to flinch loses.”
“Exactly!” Meckler replied.
The statement about flinching seemed to carry some extra weight as she watched the nurse run stitches through Diemer's cheek. He kept still, and made no flinch as the tiny suture hook pierced his flesh. Amber could not deny it; the man had a very strong resolve.
Amber looked back to Meckler. “And since neither of them flinched nor dodged, they really did both win.”
Meckler nodded. “Yes, and now he has the scar to prove to everyone how he measures up!”
Amber may have understood it, but she wasn't so sure that she “got” it. 'Is this really the mentality of our soldiers? Of our officers?'
The nurse put away the suture kit and fished out some bandages to place on top. Amber watched the crowd around the two combatants, talking, smiling, and laughing the way friends do. Although Amber still felt a bit detached from the experience, there was still something about it that she respected. She softly nodded to herself as the scent of the hydrogen peroxide dissipated. 'Resolve in the face of danger... Standing firm against an opponent... Yes, there is certainly something there I can respect.'
There were a few more mensur duels across the weeks she spent at the academy. She never participated in one herself, but she felt that there was a certain degree of importance that she bear witness to the events.
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General Greenfield picked up the paper cylinder with the brass bottom, slipped it into the chamber, and pressed it into the loading tube. After repeating the action with another three, he raised the weapon into position, and swung the lever open and closed. He aimed at the target and fired. He swung the lever open and closed and fired again, and then repeated the procedure until all four shells had been exhausted and expelled from the weapon.
The range marshal looked on the tattered remains of the paper target and declared “Well you certainly hit the bullseye, and all the other rings for good measure.”
The quartermaster raised his voice. “So what do you think?”
Greenfield checked the breech to make sure it was clear before setting the shotgun down on the table. “Don't they make ones now with a slide that you just pump back and forth?”
The quartermaster nodded. “Pump-action! It's great for hunting fowl; if you miss that first shot you can manage a second or even a third before they fly away.”
Greenfield looked at him with a knowing expression. “Now imagine that same advantage in the trenches.”
“I see, sir. Do you think that will really pan out?”
“I'm willing to put up a crate or two to test it out.” He began pulling out his earplugs.
“That may be a problem, sir. The only companies I know that make pump-action shotguns are in Indiana.”
“Indiana? Is there really no one on this side of the globe making them?”
The quartermaster shrugged. “Maybe Highland & Highland, but I don't think Norlandy would sell weapons to a country they're at war with.”
Greenfield made a grumbling noise. “It will take weeks for them to get here, plus whatever it takes for them to fill the order.”
The range marshal spoke up, “Beg your pardon sir, but can't we just make them ourselves?”
Greenfield shook his head. “It's not economical. We'd need to make thousands of them for that to be worth it, and we're not spending that many resources on an untested theory.”
The quartermaster drew a short breath. “Well if you get the order on my desk tonight, you can get that theory tested before the end of fall.”
Greenfield nodded somberly. It was the best they could do.
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Noel Hopkins looked up and saw the man walking up to him; a man who could have just as well had a career of appearing on posters as much as he could have been leading the Norlan army. “General Hudson, sir! How can I help you today?”
The general looked around somewhat coyly before responding. “Mr. Hopkins! I wanted to talk to you about those... water containers you are building.”
Hopkins nodded with full understanding. “Ah, yes sir, the water tanks. Shall we step into my office?”
“Yes, let's do that,” the general said agreeingly.
Within a few quick minutes the two of them were in Hopkins' private office. Noel locked the door behind him while General Hudson stared out the window that looked over shop floor beneath them, watching various engineers and machinists who were occupied with their work.
Hudson spoke up without facing him. “By the way, I was curious if anyone has come up with a name to call these things yet.”
Hopkins replied in a very casual tone, “Honestly if we keep calling them 'tanks' while we're working on them, I suspect that's what we'll wind up calling them on the battlefield.”
Hudson seemed a little annoyed. “Tanks? That's it? These things are going to completely revolutionize warfare as we know it, and we're just going to call them 'tanks?'”
Noel retorted, “I was a little partial to calling them 'The Hopkins Death Machines' but I have to admit that 'tank' is a little easier to say on the battlefield.”
The general turned back to face him. “Whatever they get called, I wanted to talk to you about some alternative ideas about them.” He set his briefcase on the central table and produced a few papers from it. “Tell me what you think about these.” He set the papers on the table.
Noel slipped on his reading glasses and looked over the illustrations, reading the various notes pointed out on them. The designs had some strong similarities to what they were working on, not enough to suggest they were stolen, but enough to show a competent mind was behind them. Two solid tracks, a large turret on the top... And the armor designs seemed rather clever.
“...These are some very good designs... Where did you get these from?”
“Let's just say, these are the plans for the Weston Death Machines.”
Noel looked up at him and processed the statement. 'Weston? From the West? Are these plans stolen from the Argans?' Noel nodded slowly in understanding. “I see, yes sir, this vehicle would be something to look out for.”
“What I want to know is if we should be adapting our designs to match these.”
“Ah, yes sir I see your concern.” 'Pitting our tanks against theirs.' He walked over to his cabinet. “On paper they look nice, as they would need half the crew size, but in practice it just wouldn't be as good as what we are already working on.” He unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a roll of paper.
Hopkins unfurled the paper across the table and slapped his hand across the beast illustrated thereon. “This is the machine that will dominate the wars of the future! Our Mark One! This other design here, this...” he read the name printed on the paper the general supplied, “this 'M4 Sherman' thing wouldn't be able to compare! See here, this thing has no sponson guns on the sides; how is it going to support the infantry when it can't properly defend all sides? Our tank will be able to fight troops from all angles! ...Just as soon as we can get enough power from the engine.”
Hudson looked over the two designs. With a somewhat defeated tone he stated “So you don't think this design will help us any in this war?”
Hopkins blinked. 'Is he that worried about the enemy's design?' “Sir, it's a... competent design, yes, but not one we need to be concerned about.”
The general nodded and began placing his papers back in his briefcase. “Thank you Mr. Hopkins; I will trust your decision on this.”
Hopkins smiled. “Anything I can do in the service of Norlandy!”
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The entire lecture hall stood and saluted as the general came in, carrying a brown leather rifle bag on his shoulder; he was quick to return the salute and call out “at ease.” He faced the man standing by the podium and said to him “Major, how much longer until your class is over?”
The major's bushy goatee couldn't hide the surprise on his face. “Good timing sir, I was just about to dismiss them for the day!”
“Well then,” Greenfield waved his hand in a quick circle.
The major nodded. “Yes sir!” He turned back to face the cadets and loudly declared “That is all for today; dismissed!” He turned back to the general and asked “How can I help you sir?”
Greenfield responded casually “Oh I'm not here for you.” He turned his head toward the sandy-blonde freckle-faced young girl walking up to him. “Cadet Darkwood!” He unslung the rifle bag and presented it to the child. “I assume you know what this is.”
Amber responded enthusiastically, “Sir, I'm surprised you came to deliver it to me! I could have picked it up myself.” She took the bag from him.
“I wanted to see it in action first-hand, if you don't mind. Shall we head to the range?”
“Certainly, sir!” Amber finished positioning the rifle bag's strap on her shoulder. “Hey, I don't have to angle it to keep it from hitting the ground! I like it already!”
Amber hustled to the door and held it open for the General. As they stepped into the hallway she continued, “By the way, this is cutting it rather close, is it not? I'm shipping back to the front in three days.”
“I believe it was those extra magazines you requested. Fitting it with that larger magazine was an issue in itself, but then customizing multiple magazines, and machining them to fit your rifle? Be glad we got it back before you left.” He made a slight huff through his nose. “It's a wild concept, to be sure. A soldier carrying around spare magazines?”
“It's the way of the future,” Amber declared. “One day the Army will have thousands upon thousands of spare magazines; it will be how soldiers carry their ammo, just like they do with clips right now.”
“That's why I want to see this thing in action.”
As they neared the end of the hall Amber hustled forward to open the door for the general, and then they both stepped outside.
“By the way,” Greenfield continued, “did you get that letter addressing the credit we are issuing you?”
“I did sir, and I did the math; it's going to take me longer than I expected to pay this off. But I do appreciate the fact that I get to keep a little spending cash.”
“I hope you're not just spending it all on candy,” he said with a teasing smile.
“Maybe if I could find some good chocolate bars, but the stores around here only have this old-fashioned grandma candy.”
“Old fashioned?”
“Actually I did buy something; a blank book to use as a journal.”
Greenfield began beaming. “Ah, so you're keeping a diary? That's fantastic!”
“Well I haven't started yet; if I can find the time I'd like to return it and go into town to find a different one.”
“What's wrong with the one you have?”
“Well, I want one with a soft cover, and a bit thinner. That way I could slip it inside my tunic and carry it with me at all times.”
Greenfield gave a playful smirk. “You're that concerned about someone slipping into your tent and reading it while you are on a flight?”
Amber gently smiled. “That's part of it, actually. I won't deny that.”
The pair turned the corner.
“By the way,” Greenfield began, “since we are going to the range, there is something I am curious about. I've heard about the remarkable things you do with a rifle. I understand how you use your telekinesis to fire faster by cycling the bolt without taking your hand off the grip, and I get how you make the enemies miss by nudging their rifles. But I don't understand how your telekinesis gives you such impeccable aim. How does that work?”
Amber put her hand to her chin. “Hmm, how can I explain it... Okay, let's say instead of shooting, we're just trying to touch extended fingers, like this:” She held up her hands, each pointing the index finger at the other, and bumped the fingertips together. “Now, hold out your finger, I need an extra hand for this demonstration.”
The general complied, and pointed his finger at her.
“For the sake of argument, let's pretend that this is actually kind-of challenging to do, just like shooting someone far away.” She poked her finger in the air around Greenfield's finger, although the walking motion of the two indeed made the effort at least a little challenging. “What I'm doing with my telekinesis,” she held her finger near to Greenfield's, “is this:” With her free hand she clasped both their fingers. “Now my finger is lined up perfectly with yours.”
“So you're lining up the target to match where you're aiming?” he said with a confused tone.
Amber let go of the general's finger. “No no no, that was just for the demonstration; all I do is touch the point I am trying to hit. I use my telekinesis to hold my rifle steady, and I just sort of... stretch my telekinetic power out to that point. Kind of like how my hand covered the distance between our two fingers, but with an invisible hand that I can stretch out across a thousand dequas.”
She pulled her pen out of her pocket and laid it on her upward-facing palm. “Here, pick a target for me to point to. Something precise.”
“Okay... The very corner of that roof,” he said pointing.
The pen laying on her hand suddenly jumped up, the tip of the pen pointing at the corner of the roof, with the end of the pen sitting on her palm. She spoke slightly slower than normal. “What I'm doing is holding the pen with a really wide hand, that goes from the pen all the way to the roof... It takes a bit more concentration than just lifting the pen, but I've gotten good at it...”
“Sergeant Baum said you described it as 'casting a thread.'”
Amber let the pen fall down into her hand. “Yes, I described it that way because that's what it feels like to me; a thin strand of telekinesis that I stretch back to my gun. It's easier to describe telekinesis as 'invisible hands,' and people understand that. But they don't feel like hands to me; they're more like... tendrils, or webs maybe? Webs for sure.”
She held her hand out toward a doorway an officer had just walked through, with her middle two fingers pressed to her palm and her other fingers extended. “Thwip!” she said, pulling the door to swing toward her with her invisible threads.
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When they got to the range the range marshal saluted the general. “Sir!” He then saw who was accompanying him. “Oh no, not you again!” He looked back to the general, “Sir if this lady has challenged you to a shooting match, you should know that she is swindling you out of your money.”
Greenfield smiled, “Oh no, I've seen the results of her –” He froze for a moment and then looked at Amber accusingly. “...Matches? For money?”
“Hey, that journal costs more than candy does. Besides, they challenged me.”
Greenfield shook his head while masking his admiration. He looked back at the range marshal. “We need a lane and a box of seven-nine.”
A short minute later Amber set her leather gun bag on a prep table. “You know, I've committed all my money to this thing, and I've never even seen what one of these K11's look like.”
“I haven't seen it yet either,” the general admitted.
Once the zipper had reached the end of its track, Amber flipped the cover over, and they both got a good look at the weapon. The wood had a beautiful cherry-red tint to its finish, and the bolt handle had the same wood furniture. The barrel was shorter, making it a carbine, but it would probably still count as a rifle in Darren's world. There were two grooves pressed into the top of the receiver, and a slide across the rear sight for adjusting aim. But by far the most distinctive feature was a metal ring protruding from the back of the receiver.
Greenfield pointed at the receiver and declared “With that ring in the back it looks like a syringe.”
Amber lifted the weapon and began examining it. “I think that's just so I can give the Norlans their medicine.”
Greenfield nodded. “Ah yes, I hear they just don't get enough lead in their diet up North. So kind of you to help them with their deficiency.”
Amber hoisted the carbine to its firing position. The wood still smelled new. “Mmm, it feels a lot more comfortable than a full-sized rifle.” She gave the bolt a test-pull; it only needed to be pulled straight back without the twisting other rifles required. “Nice!” She placed her hand to the trigger-guard and wiggled her thumb back and forth while using her telekinesis to work the bolt. “Oh yes, yes! This is exactly the kind of rifle I need!”
Greenfield commented, “Do you need to wiggle your thumb like that?”
Amber lowered the carbine and nodded. “Yeah, no matter how hard I try, I can't use my telekinesis without moving my hands; I can wiggle my arm or just a finger, depending on what I'm doing. So this straight-pull works a lot easier; I can just slide my thumb back and forth much faster.”
Amber grabbed the ring and gave it a pull and a twist. “Okay, so that is the safety. That's a little easier to manage than ours, I think.”
Greenfield looked over to the rifle bag. “Alright, let's have a look at these removable magazines.”
Amber set the rifle down. Each of the magazines was sitting in one of three pouches sown into the tote. One had a piece of paper sticking out which Amber withdrew and read aloud. “'Since the seven-nine is bigger the magazines can only hold ten rounds each.' Oh well; it's still an improvement.”
Amber didn't have to do much guessing to decipher how the magazine worked; it inserted simply, and the release mechanism just required a little squeeze in the right direction. She slipped the magazine back in and gave it a good tug to make sure it was secure.
“So it just sticks out the bottom like that?” Greenfield said it with a displeasing tone.
“It's the way of the future,” Amber declared. “They'll eventually stick out to about here, and have a slight curve to them. It's all part of being able to hold more ammo.”
Amber pulled a few handfuls of ammo out of the box and began sorting them into groups of ten. “Imagine bigger magazines that can hold, let's say twenty-five rounds. A soldier can go through a whole mag, reload, and use a second one. That makes 50 rounds, and he only paused to reload once. But using clips as we do now, that same soldier would spend literally ten times as much time reloading, time that could have been spent shooting the enemy.”
Greenfield gave an unamused grunt. “Yes, it works out mathematically, but what about practical terms? In what scenario would a soldier fire fifty rounds, at least without just wasting them?”
Amber froze for a moment in thought. How could she explain it to a man who used to fight in line formations? To Amber it wasn't even worth a second thought; even when her only experience was with video games it wasn't worth a second thought. And her experience with real battles only seemed to magnify that understanding; reloading a real weapon amid the stress of combat left one feeling vulnerable.
She picked up one of the magazines and began loading ammunition into it. “Every moment a soldier spends reloading is a moment the enemy has an advantage over them. Even if they don't fire fifty rounds, even if they never empty a full mag, they don't have to pause their press against the enemy.”
She paused and looked up at the general. “The aggregate result of small gains,” she declared. “Perhaps you are familiar with the saying, for the want of a nail, a shoe was lost. For the want of a shoe, a horse was lost. Do you know the rest?”
“I know the saying, Amber, but I also don't need a saying; I've seen it firsthand. Lieutenant Kirchner was a very dear friend of mine, and he died in the battle of Chambéry, waiting for reinforcements that never came, all because his regiment wasn't as prepared as they were supposed to be.”
Amber picked up the next magazine and began loading it. 'This is not going like I had hoped.'
Greenfield continued “Aggregate gains are valuable, I don't deny that. But I came here in person to see this rifle perform. Let me tell you something: most of my peers like to read reports and studies, but I like to get my hands dirty. I like to see results with my own eyes as much as I can, talk to people in person, and even try them myself, when I can.”
“So are you saying you want to test-fire my rifle yourself?”
He dryly replied “I'll let you go first, of course.”
Amber pulled the last magazine out of the K11 and started slipping cartridges into the metal container. “You know, most kids my age are doing this with a Pez dispenser.”
“A what?”
“It's a candy thing.”
“Mmn. Well speaking of kids your age, or at least kids your rank, it looks like all those cadets that have been following us are just milling about outside the range. I thought they'd at least get a couple lanes and pretend to shoot while being looky-loos.”
“They're just intimidated by your rank.” Amber set her hand over her orb and activated her voice-amplification spell. “Well either go home or come get a better seat; you're making it awkward to just stand there.”
The crowd began sauntering their way onto the range. Amber inserted one magazine into the rifle and the other two into her pockets, and began carrying her armaments to her lane. General Greenfield slipped in his earplugs and took a position behind Amber.
Amber started with taking two careful shots without the assistance of her telekinesis, just to get acquainted with the weapon. The metallic smell of discharged cordite began filling the air. She followed it up with another three slow shots, not taking her hand off the grip, to let her mind get accustomed to the different motion of the bolt.
“Alright,” she announced, “let's give this thing a workout!” She began pumping the trigger and the bolt as quickly as she could manage. The sound was like a machine gun. She swapped out magazines. The motion could have been faster; she'll have to practice that.
She fired off a few more rounds before pausing. “Hmm, perhaps I should go to a munitions range so I can practice using it with the attackfire spell.”
One of the cadets spoke up, “Did... Did you just pull the magazine out of that thing, like it were a pistol? And you swapped it with another one that was already loaded?”
Greenfield looked at the cadets with the faintest of smiles on his face. “It's the way of the future,” he declared.
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Amber's boots made a soft tromp-tromp sound as she strode across the wooden planks, but the sound was eaten up by the ambiance of train engines idling and people chattering. With one hand she carried a large rucksack, to which was affixed her flight pack, flight equipment, and a brown leather rifle bag. The collection of luggage was larger than she was, and a soft magical glow from her eyes and her orb betrayed how the load was really being carried. Her hair bobbed gently against her shoulders, which now bore epaulets marking her as a lieutenant second-class.
Amber paused when she noticed Lieutenant Meckler on the platform adjacent to her. He was talking with some civilians; an older couple, and the man in particular looked like a vintage edition of the young lieutenant. Meckler took his hat off and turned his head so as to better show the mensur scar he accrued by his left temple. The vintage Meckler beamed, and as he did Amber noticed that the man had a scar on the back of his cheek, pointing to his ear where the tip of his earlobe was missing. Amber nodded softly, at last understanding the young man's enthusiasm for the sport.
Just as she started moving again a voice called out from behind her, “Amber!” She turned to see General Greenfield approaching her with a briefcase in his hand.
Amber set her pack down and saluted.
Greenfield returned the salute. “Looks like I caught you just in time.” He motioned to her large collection of baggage. “By the way, you can get someone else to carry that for you. That's one of the perks of being an officer, you know.”
“And miss out on all the expressions people make? I love seeing people's reactions when they see a little girl carrying a pack that's bigger than her. That's one of the perks of being Amber Darkwood, you know.”
“Of course. At any rate, I wanted to ask: did you manage to find a journal like the kind you were looking for?”
Amber shook her head. “No, I never really had the time to go back into town.”
Greenfield began opening his briefcase. “Mmn. Well after we parted ways the other day, I remembered that I had one like that; it's never been used, it's just been sitting in a box in my study.” He handed the book to Amber.
Amber looked over the book with enthusiasm. It had a brown suede cover, and easily bent and flexed in her hands. “Oh yes, this is exactly what I was looking for!”
“Well then keep it; I never found a use for it.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“I must say how pleased I am that you want to keep a diary; one day you will find that this was one of the best things you could have done while you were in Tanfax.”
“Actually I'm heading out to Gaullia-Aquite.”
Any pleasure that was in Greenfield's face vanished. “What's this now?”
“I got a change in orders just this morning. Apparently they need me to replace another lieutenant who was stationed out there.”
There was a concerned expression on Greenfield's face.
Amber replied cautiously. “Does it bother you sir?”
“Should it bother me?”
“Well... I know you were trying to keep me out of the Army. And despite everything that has transpired, I can still see some of that in your countenance. You don't really want me going back.”
With a defeated tone, Greenfield stated “I didn't actually want to keep you out of the Army, not completely. I just wanted you to wait until you were ready.”
“Well ready or not, the war has come.”
“Yes, yes it has. But...” The General stowed his emotions. “You'll do fine out there, Lieutenant.”
Amber nodded with a slight smile. “Thank you for the bode of confidence, sir.”
“No, that was an order. You will do fine out there, Lieutenant Darkwood!”
Amber snapped up straight and saluted with a smile. “Sir! Yes I will!”
“Dismissed,” Greenfield declared.
Amber nodded at him while hefting her luggage back over her shoulder, and the two began walking their separate directions.
As Amber boarded the train she began wondering if she really should have someone else haul her flight equipment, as it took a little effort to squeeze her pack through the door with it all bound together. She walked into the baggage car where there was a 30-year-old corporal sorting and stowing the packs. He balked for a moment before giving a customary salute. Amber balked as she returned the salute.
“Is something wrong, ma'am?” the corporal asked.
Amber shook her head, “No, it's just... this is the first time I've been saluted by an NCO. It feels kind-of strange, knowing that you've been in the Army longer than I have, and have been promoted more times than me as well.”
“Well if you don't mind me saying so, ma'am, it feels a little strange to salute someone younger than my son.”
“Oh good, so it's not just me.” Amber plopped her pack onto the floor in front of her. “Where do you want this?”
After confirming which stop Amber would be departing on, the corporal took her baggage and Amber made her way to the front of the train.
The officer's car was just like the fancy train cars she had seen in dozens of movies; it was divided into private rooms with padded bench seats facing each other. There was something fanciful about the experience, and as she opened the door to the first empty room, she felt like she should be wearing a tuxedo with a Walther PPK hidden in the pocket.
A voice called from across the hallway, “Hey, Darkwood!” Amber looked back to see Lieutenant Meckler approaching her. “I hear you and I are going to be stationed in the same region now!”
Amber nodded as they both stepped into the room. “That means you can introduce me to everyone.”
Meckler laughed as they both sat down. “Sure, anyone I know.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask: do you have a Gaullish dictionary? I've been practicing all these useful Norlish phrases, but they're not going to be so useful now.”
Meckler froze in thought for a moment. “You know what, I do have one in my pack. Wait here a minute; I'll go get it.” And with that he left for the baggage car.
It wasn't Amber's intention to chase the lieutenant away, but she was indeed pleased to have a moment of privacy. She pulled a pen out of her pocket and twisted the cap off. She opened her new journal and braced it against her leg. She already knew how she wanted it to start.
My name is Amber Darkwood. I serve as a soldier for the Argus Empire. I enlisted in the Army when I was only eight years old and began fighting when I was nine.
If you are reading this, then I am dead.
The train lurched as it began pulling out of the station. Amber sighed as she replaced the cap on the pen. The train ride would be too rough to write legibly.
She looked at the brown book for a moment. It was a nice gift. 'He said this was just sitting in his study. I bet that's a lie. I bet he bought it for me and then said that he just had an extra one lying around. My father used to do that for people all the time. 'Just keep it, I wasn't using it anyway.''
Amber paused and looked up from the book. '...Why am I comparing General Greenfield to my father?'
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