“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, hurling the private to the floor.

 

“Hey, what the flick, Bitch?!”

 

“Danny!” someone hissed to him.

 

Danny, on the floor, tried to right himself. “What’s your problem? We’re just fool—”

​

The room had gone silent—even the buggy motor. A sharp intake of breath on my left signaled what everyone was now realizing.

​

“M-major,” he spluttered.

​

I towered over the red-faced, drunken private on the floor—a bitchy queen ready to exact punishment on a lowly peasant. He stayed servile, elbows on concrete.

​

A familiar citrus scent reached me, coupled with a burning smell. Hazard negated, I followed the odors. The offending rifle had been mounted with a safety bracket, I noticed. In keeping the weapon perfectly level, it prevented any beam shots taking a downward angle. They would all stay 1.7 legs above the floor, matching a line of scorched holes on the cement wall beyond. This matched the surface of the buggy’s now-empty post platform.

​

In theory, the shooter’s low-yield beams could not have struck and killed his friend.

​

And drunks always follow logical, predictable patterns of movement.

​

Wide-eyed, Danny said, “I’m s-sorry, Major. I, uh, I didn’t…”

​

“This is all a game,” I huffed. “Huh? Is that what we’re doing here?”

​​

“Ma’am,” he stammered in question.

​​

“Come to Ringerra. Shoot some yohlchicca fruit. Pretend we’ll be ready when the real flicking thing comes?!”

​​

“I, uh…”

​​

It was either his foolish helplessness, or the sensation of so many eyes on me, or the voluntary friend on the buggy, or the warm night invading from my right. Prickly hot, I needed to leave this scene before I slaughtered him.

​​

“Do you have any idea, Soldier, how many men I’ve killed?”

​

He looked around quickly, then his eyes rose to mine. “Uh, no. No, Ma’am.”

​

Things left me, wet sand dumped out, emptying all over these children. The coarse bucket remained coarse. “Neither do I,” I growled.

​

A woman in my periphery flinched. I left them like that. Quaking.

​

The Armory watch man stood pry-bar straight, saluting and breathing rapidly. Proper behavior was all that saved him from a trip to the airlock. (At least, I wanted him to think so.)

​

As I strolled past him without returning salute, I sneered, “The admiral would have your head.”

​​

​​

​​

​​​​​To be continued...