The Black Guard: Book II: Evolution (Black Guard Series 2) (2 page)

Having been notified that the Deathstalker was in orbit and a
shuttle had been dispatched, I made my way up the trail that led to the shuttle-landing
pad at the top of Sasser Mountain. The chilly morning made the trek to the top
invigorating. The sky was clear except for a few puffy clouds, allowing an
unobstructed view of the terraces that formed the Guard's compound and the
mountain range with its snow covered peaks, gushing waterfalls, and rivers of turbulent
water racing to meet the distant valleys below.

As the small executive shuttle approached, I stood alone like
a sentinel, dressed in the typical Black Guard uniform: black pants tucked into
black-leather boots, black shirt with my rank on the right sleeve, a Jax laser
strapped to my right thigh, an Mfw—multi-functional weapon—strapped
to my left thigh, and an Mfi—multi-functional interface—strapped on
my left arm. The dragon whip I wore around my waist like a belt and the red
stars on my right sleeve identified me as an officer in the Guard. I felt like
I stood on top of the world.

"Thank you, Hada," I said, looking up into the
vastness of space, wishing she could hear me at her present assignment. She had
dragged a dejected six-year-old Rivka Sapir into her dream of becoming a dragon
in the Black Guard. Fourteen years later, it was no longer a beautiful dream
but a beautiful reality.

The sound of the shuttle settling on the landing pad jerked
me out of my musing. A marine lieutenant threw open the door of the shuttle and
saluted as I strode up the steps.

"Captain Sapir, I'm Lieutenant Granger. If you are
ready, General Lerman awaits you on the Deathstalker." He took my duffle
bag and followed me into the shuttle.

I stopped to survey the inside. To my surprise, the shuttle
was configured like an executive conference room with leather seats that swiveled,
a couch, and seats with tables. And I appeared to be the only passenger.

"This is the general's private shuttle. I assume it's your
first time aboard the Deathstalker," Granger said. "The Deathstalker
is a scorpion class cruiser. They are classified as light cruisers; however,
they have larger engines and more weapons than our standard cruisers."

I nodded and sat in the first single chair. He took the seat
across the aisle from me. The lieutenant loaded a schematic of the Deathstalker
onto my Mfi and spent most of the two-hour trip explaining its layout and
informed me the trip to Outpost would take two days.

When we exited the shuttle, Granger escorted me to the general's
office, where two marine special security guards stood at attention outside the
door. When they saw us coming, one of the guards knocked on the door, peeked
in, and then stood back for me to enter. I walked in and bowed low while still
keeping him in sight. Only for Wexler was I required to divert my eyes.

When I straightened back to attention, Lerman rose from
behind his desk.

"Welcome aboard, Dragon Sapir," he said as he
neared. "Please get something to drink and have a seat. We have much to
discuss." He waved to the sideboard, which had a variety of drinks, and then
to two armchairs, which sat facing each other with a small table between them.

As I poured a cup of hot tea, he continued, "We are
going to a meeting with the leaders of the nine known inhabitable planets that
constitute the Helix Coalition of Nations. The protocol for this meeting
permits each representative to bring two cruisers into the system and a
contingency of twenty to the planet for the meeting—advisers, security,
and whatever. The coalition currently has no formal government; we form ad-hoc
committees when necessary to address issues of mutual interest. But men tend to
like having power and control, and that means formal navies, governments, and
rules, so I expect that is the purpose of this meeting." He stopped and
took a drink from his kaffa mug while scrutinizing me and waiting for a
comment.

"You're anticipating alliances have been formed to
coerce the other planets into forming a coalition government. So you've decided
to make a statement. The Jax have no equal—not even against a piffling
twenty-to-one odds."

Lerman laughed. "I thought you would understand.
Unfortunately, my statement puts you more at risk than me. Killing me could
create a civil war, whereas killing you wouldn't."

"That may be true, sir, but I would still like to
proceed as if the threat will be against you. A civil war wouldn't benefit Jax
financially." The general's scenario assumed the attack would appear to
come against him but the real target would be me. And that also assumed people
were logical, assassins could hit the target they were aiming at, and that they
didn't have an entirely different agenda.

"You're in charge of my security. What do you
suggest?"

"I stay with you night and day, beginning now. That will
not only mean I will be near enough to you to effect the action if trouble
happens, but it may help me anticipate potential problems before they occur. As
you are well aware, surprise is our enemy's greatest advantage." Logically,
the two security guards outside the general's office couldn't protect him from anyone
the general invited into his office. Lerman was silent for a long time before
speaking.

"I chose you because I thought you were the one person
who could survive the risk I'm putting ... us in. Therefore, I have to let you
do it your way. You're in charge, Dragon Sapir. You make the rules."

"Thank you, sir." I stood, found a spot where I had
a good view of anyone opening the door, and leaned back against the wall.

"Surely you can rest while we're on the
Deathstalker," he said while frowning.

"I would like our routine to be normal by the time we
depart for Outpost."

* * *

"You could join me for dinner, Sapir," Lerman said,
waving to the seat next to him. We were alone in his private dining room. His
server, a petty officer, had laid out a platter of steak, potatoes, greens, a
salad, and red wine on the table in front of him. I had served myself after the
general had been served and went to the end of the table, which could accommodate
eight to ten, and sat.

"Sir, we are establishing our routine on Outpost. I will
not be eating with you whether you are with someone or not. I will find a place
where I can keep you and the area in sight. If I sit with or near you, I'll not
only be distracted but also unable to watch your back."

"Interesting. My normal everyday security follows me but
guards access to the room or the area ... not me specifically, now that I think
of it. Is this normal Guard procedure?" Lerman asked, and stopped eating, awaiting
my response.

I hesitated, thinking back to my Guard training. "Not
specifically. The Guard's normal assignments are to provide building security
for a specific person or persons, so access control is considered adequate.
I've always considered that a weakness easily exploited."

"How?" He absent-mindedly took a bite of his steak,
but his gaze stayed fixed on me.

"If I wore the right uniform, how hard would it be to
walk up to your guards, kill them, and then enter and shoot you?"

Lerman laughed. "We do tend to think in terms of an
armed assault and not assassins. Even an armed assault would have the advantage,
as the guards have no protection in the hallway. So you are saying my security
is mostly pomp and ceremony and not protection."

"It's adequate, since the odds of someone wanting to
kill you are minuscule on Jax. They may not be high on Outpost but certainly
higher than on Jax."

"I also carry a weapon." He held up a standard
shard gun.

"General Lerman, please don't attempt to use it except
as a last resort if I'm dead or incapacitated."

"I know how to shoot the damn thing!" His voice
rose with each word and his face flushed with anger.

"Sir, I'm not doubting your ability to hit a standing
target with more accuracy than the average soldier. Nor do I think you would
hesitate to shoot to kill. I'm concerned you will block my field of vision and
make yourself a target." I almost smiled. This was typical client
indoctrination—educating the client and dispelling his misconceptions.
Although I couldn't tell the general I'd leave if he wouldn't follow my rules.

 
"Come with
me," he said rising from the table with his dinner still only half eaten.
He didn't look in a good mood.

I wasn't sure what he intended as I followed him out the door
and down the hallway with the two marines following. He took the elevator to
the ground floor, and several minutes later we entered the marine area. There a
colonel intercepted us, probably alerted by the general's security guards.

"General Lerman, can I help you?"

"Yes, Colonel Ortega, I want the target range cleared. I'm
going to show my Black Guard security that even army generals can hit the
target." He was still shouting, but now there was a hint of excitement in
his tone. This would tell me a lot about the general.
I couldn't let him win!
I revised that thought. I had to do my best
even though it might embarrass him. His reaction would determine our future
relationship, on Outpost and back on Jax. I concluded it didn't matter. Anything
else would be wrong—for him and for me.

When we arrived, the three marines stopped their practice and
the range officer hurriedly set up new targets. There were ten targets: ten
figures either standing, kneeling, or partially concealed behind some object at
distances between twenty and thirty meters.

The general had the good sense to wait for the young
lieutenant in charge of the range to sound the all-clear horn before drawing
his weapon. He took careful aim and slowly fired six times and hit five of the
closest targets. The pellets had hit the kill zone on three of the five targets
and missed the man and hit the object the sixth man had been partially hidden
behind—a respectable showing for someone who had little opportunity or
reason to shoot at anything. I concluded he took pride in maintaining his
qualifying status. He turned to me with a satisfying look.

"What do you say now?"

"A very respectable performance, sir. I would still
request that in the event trouble breaks out you do not attempt to help
me."

"You arrogant ... Lieutenant, put up new targets."
After the Lieutenant had reset the targets and sounded the all-clear horn,
Lerman waved toward the targets.

I nodded, slapped my Mfw, which released it, fired ten times
in rapid succession, and holstered the weapon.

Lerman stood with his mouth open. The ten shots had taken
about the same time as his first shot. He walked onto the range and examined
each target before coming back to me.

"I'd heard accounts of fantastic shooting by the Guard,
but I've always assumed they were exaggerated and isolated instances. You hit
all ten targets in the kill zone ... without aiming." He stood there
shaking his head.

"Sir, the army trains their troops differently from the Guard.
Your primary weapon is a multifunctional gun. You spray the target in one and
two-second spurts—ten to twenty pellets. If one hits the kill zone you
consider that one hundred percent. The Guard would consider you missed the
target nineteen times. Marine and army personnel need qualify only once a year.
Guard personnel must qualify before each new assignment. And to qualify, you
must hit each target in the kill zone. If you miss one, you must re-test until
you don't." I didn't add,
and half
our targets are moving
.

Lerman laughed.

"I thought I was being reckless bringing only one Guard,
but I wanted to make a bold statement. I guess the statement isn't as reckless
as I thought. I apologize, and if shooting does start, I will get out of your
way."

"Why the fanatical emphasis on accuracy?" Ortega
asked.

"We operate inside buildings where most of the time you
can only expect to get one clean shot. The shooter is crossing a hallway to
another room, shooting from a doorway, inside a room you must enter, etc. If
you miss, the attacker either gets away or gets another chance to shoot you. I
would think the situation isn't too much different for the marines during a
boarding action." What was the difference between a plane and a building,
I wondered.

"A valid point, Captain. We have so few boarding
actions, I think we rely on multifunctional guns and their killing bursts and
forget those that died because we missed the first time." He looked around
the range, and his gaze settled on a broad-shouldered master gunnery sergeant,
who was collecting the targets. "If General Lerman can spare you, I'd like
you to talk to my gunny."

"Sir, I'd be glad to talk to your gunny, but I can't
leave the general's side. We are establishing the protocol for Outpost," I
said, feeling that was the priority.

"It's all right, Sapir. I'll stay. You've convinced me
the protocol is important." Lerman said and nodded to Ortega.

"Gunny!" Ortega shouted and waved him over.
"Gunny, you know General Lerman, and this is Captain Sapir. She makes a
valid point about the similarities between fighting in a building and fighting
in an enemy cruiser."