The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition Page 3

  Peterson licked his lips. "Sir, I don't want to do this."

  Frowning slightly, Johnston shook his head sadly. "Sorry lad. There's no way out for you. I warned you of that. You took the challenge. Now you have to be a man and carry it through. Start shooting."

  Moving with frightened deliberation, Peterson stooped and collected his rifle. Juggling it clumsily, he brought it to his shoulder, and stood there, the barrel wavering in Johnston's direction. His hand convulsed. The barrel jerked inches sideways. The rifle did not fire.

  Johnston smiled gentle encouragement. "Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it. That little button by the trigger is the safety. Now why don't you click it off? I'm not a monster, Peterson. I'll give you another chance. Two free shots, just like I promised."

  Peterson fumbled for a moment and then looked down the length of the barrel.

  "Do it!" Johnston ordered.

  The gun fired.

  Johnston nodded approvingly. "That's better. Your rifle went boom, only you missed. Fortunately, you get one more chance. Why don't you try aiming this time? God only knows where that last bullet went." He allowed his eyes to flicker to the side. Yes, the other recruits' attention was fastened on him. They noted his iron-jawed calmness, his courage, and they admired his casual attitude as he placed his solid six-foot frame directly in the path of danger. Best of all, they saw his refusal to flinch when Peterson's rifle fired. This was part of the lesson. There wasn't one damn thing they could do to intimidate him.

  Peterson fired again.

  Sighing disappointment, Johnston shook his head sadly and momentarily wished he smoked because a cigar stuck between his lips would have perfectly complimented the image he wanted the recruits to remember. "I really hoped for better from you," he called for the benefit of his audience. "Too bad."

  Peterson's eyes grew huge. With his rifle barrel swinging without a pretense of control, he jerked on the trigger once and then again.

  Lazily raising his pistol, Johnston shot the kid between his eyes. His shot echoed directly after the kid's fourth and last trigger pull.

  Peterson's head snapped, and then his knees folded and he crumpled loosely to the ground. Johnston nodded with silent satisfaction. His bullet had gone exactly where it was supposed to go. The kid had died very quickly.

  Turning his gaze, he took in the remaining four recruits. One of them looked shocked and wary. Two others looked interested, and something that was almost lust gleamed deep behind Paxton's eyes. Those last three were the ones he was interested in. They were the natural killers. Perhaps the most promising one of the group was Paxton. Though slightly built and not very tall, the man oozed bloodlust.

  Walking slowly over to them, Johnston gave them a lazy once over. Even the frightened one did not wince. With a little work he might become something worth keeping too. A couple weeks would show if he needed to be weeded.

  Stopping immediately before them, Johnston allowed the survivors to look into the dark orbs of his eyes. Their unemotional depths had cowed more than a few of these children.

  "This is not a game people," he snapped. "This is the real thing. In six months or a year you will leave Jefferson and teleport into another world. When you are there you will have to kill. You won't kill one person, or two, or even three. You will kill them by the dozens and the hundreds. Most of those people will be women. Live with the idea of killing women. Learn to have wet dreams over it."

  "Some of you," Johnston continued, "will wind up in a country called Chin. You won't have to fight hard because the Chin groundwork has been well laid. Unfortunately, the Isabellan theater will not be so simple because Private Turner has not been very effective. Unlike Colonel Klein, his strength is not sufficient to carry the weight of another human being into Isabella. Don't worry. We're working on a way around his small problem."

  He gave them his sternest look, though anyone who needed more incentive to pay attention than the dead man he had given them was not the type of soldier the General wanted. In Johnston's experience, dead bodies tended to be a fairly reliable focusing agent.

  * * *

  "No Sir," Johnston said, "I don't think that was a little harsh. It was exactly what they needed to put some backbone into them."

  Drumming his thick fingers on his desk for a few moments, General Field felt lost inside the interior of his own mind. Overall, Johnston was a good man. He was dedicated, and his total lack of ideals was perfect. In fact, the only fault Field could see in the man was that he lacked perspective. Johnston saw the trees but ignored the forest. It was that limitation that kept him a Sergeant.

  "I wish," Field finally said, "that you had not killed the man." Raising a hand, he gestured Johnston to close his suddenly open mouth. "It isn't that I placed any value on him. It's just that there is always the possibility that we have a spy in the camp somewhere. I don't know who that spy is, but I do know that there must be one. Field's Everlasting Life Militia is too influential with all the other Militias for the government to ignore us entirely. All it will take for the bastards to invade us is for some unknown spy to report that we murder our own people. After all, the government and the press already think of us as crackpots since we leaked out word of our plans so we could draw in new recruits. It wouldn't take much for them to believe we're capable of killing our own."

  "All our people have been screened."

  "There are always turncoats," Field said pointedly. "Always. Some people are more impressed with money now than promises later."

  "Turncoats." Johnston grimaced with distaste. "Like Turner?"

  "Turner is a loyal member of this militia," Field insisted. "We raised the boy, so he only knows what we allowed him to learn."

  "The damned cripple knows Isabella, and he refuses to carry people over there. General, I've seen them both work. You can't make me believe Klein is all that much stronger than Turner."

  Running his finger across his graying goatee, Field studied his inferior. "As best we can determine, Klein is stronger, and we have the tests to prove it. Over the last year more than twenty scans have been run on Turner's brain while he transferred. Those scans are exact and thorough. They had to be. We're using their results to build up the software and set the configuration for the machine."

  "How," Johnston asked, "is the project coming?"

  Frowning, Field tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. The Sergeant's tone almost bordered on disrespect. "It's coming slow, but we're making progress. We even have some people lined up who might have the technological know-how to pull the thing together. If things go as planned, we'll eventually have as much influence inside Isabella as we do in Chin. Maybe even more."

  Field watched while Johnston rubbed the back of his neck and peered out the window. Night was falling. Right about now the new recruits were sitting at mess and telling the tale of how Sergeant Johnston had allowed Peterson to fire at him several times before Johnston put a bullet between the man's eyes. After today the legend of Johnston would grow even further. His nerve and judgment were legendary among the common rabble. Of course, that had been part of Johnston's plan, and it was clear the plan was working. Not once in all these years had anyone in the lower ranks realized that these confrontations never happened except with someone whose gun had been personally loaded by Johnston himself. The rounds in the weapon were always three live followed by four blanks, and then more live rounds. Field knew Johnston was a brave man. He was also smart--too smart to be suicidal or totally trusted.

  "What if Turner is a traitor?" Johnston finally asked. "What if he's handing us nothing but lies?"

  "He isn't a traitor," Field insisted.

  "But what if he is?"

  "If he is," said General Field, "I'll give him to you. You can kill him just like he's any other recruit or member of the militia who tried to leave the compound or contact the outside world without authorization.

  Johnston gave Field a slightly confused look. "Forgive me for asking, sir, but doesn't shooting people
for trying to leave give a spy as much reason for calling in the government as does my killing unacceptable recruits?"

  "Well, we want to be careful, but there's no reason for us to be too paranoid about shooting somebody every now and again," Field explained. "Besides, it's safest if we just assume anyone trying to leave the compound without permission is the spy we've been looking for. They can't report us to the government if they're dead."

  "Getting back to Turner, sir?"

  General Field grinned and slapped Johnston's shoulder. "Traitor or not, before long you'll be able to do anything you want to him. Once we get the machine working I won't have any further use for the little cripple."

  Johnston nodded and then frowned. "Not always a cripple. He looks pretty straight when he first comes back. I don't like that."

  "Neither do I," Field supplied in a more subdued tone. "There's more to him than we suspected that he's not showing us. That's why I don't completely trust him. That's why I'm giving him to you."

  Johnston smiled quiet satisfaction. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

  "You'll have to beat the rush," Field warned. "Aimes hates him, and even Hill has made comments from time to time."

  "I understand, sir. All I want is the chance."

  Chapter 4

  Bending painfully, Aaron picked up his practice sword with cramped fingers, the one move that had become increasingly familiar. Rising carefully, he favored his side where bruised ribs let him know they were very unhappy with his performance.

  Sarah Townsend shook her head, smiling wryly. She breathed evenly, looking fresh even after the last hour's workout. Of course, Aaron reflected, she should look fresh since she had worked less than half as hard as he. She possessed an economy of motion and a precision of movement he could only admire with unhappy envy. The extent of her skill and speed were impressive, yet she claimed to be nothing more than a poorly trained soldier.

  Gripping the practice sword with very sore fingers, Aaron looked around the empty land surrounding them and felt very glad Miss Sarah Townsend had brought them a half mile outside of town to practice. Instead of a crowd of jeering spectators having fun at Aaron's expense, they were surrounded by tall weeds and grass, a few scraggly trees, distant hills which eventually rose into the cloud capped mountain range, and of course, the far off outline of the town itself.

  In other words, since it was early spring, they were surrounded by the fragile scents of opening wild flowers and budding weeds, which meant plenty of pollen, which meant Aaron had a stuffy nose and the beginnings of a nagging headache. Just what he needed when he was getting the crap beat out of him.

  "I aimed six inches below your eyes," Sarah said. "You raised your shield way too high, and then you took too long to lower it again. Okay, you've rested enough. Back to work."

  Sighing, Aaron readied himself. His arms and shoulders ached even from the light weight of the wooden practice equipment. He thought briefly of begging for mercy due to extreme exhaustion, but the marshal was probably the type of instructor who did not want to hear about such trifles.

  Sarah tried to connect with his left shoulder. With a slight shift, Aaron caught the precise horizontal cut across the face of his shield. Taking the initiative, he tried a strike of his own. Damn. Six inches off his mark. Thank the Gods he managed to maintain some semblance of balance or she would have given him another of her stinging lessons. She swung back, quick, but slow enough so he could get his blade up in time to catch hers against it. Looking good, Aaron. Gods, his arm hurt.

  "Ward yourself," Sarah called. Wearing a sly grin, she quickly swung her sword too fast for him to see. Leaping forward she cracked her wooden blade into his left shin.

  "Hey!" Aaron cursed. "That hurts!" Within moments his shin knotted, making him want to sink to his knees. Thick mucus flowed from his nose. He sniffled, trying to clear his sinuses, but it felt like he had a wooden dowel shoved up each nostril.

  "Use your sword to block, Mister Turner. It isn't just for cutting. Keep up like this, and we'll be burying you within the year"

  "Why," Aaron panted back, "don't you give the blamed sword to someone who can use it? I'm too small for this thing."

  "What?" she asked as she looped around his guard one more time to thump his bruised ribs. "Do you think we expect you to give up personal equipment that's worth more than two months of my wages? No, Mister Turner. We would never ask that of you." Catching an overhead blow, she bent her wrist and deftly twisted it aside.

  "For the public good," Aaron gasped, "take the thing and give it to someone who can use it."

  "Nope. I'm having too much fun."

  Aaron staggered beneath another blow.

  "You're doing good, Mister Turner. We're almost ready to take it up to half speed."

  "What!"

  Using a move too quick for him to see, her practice sword flickered and then slapped against his arm.

  "Ouch!" His sword flew from his hand and landed six feet away. "Hey!"

  "I've always found it awkward to be in a sword fight when I don't have a sword, Mister Turner, but then you are a man, so you probably know more about these things than I do."

  Inching sideways, he reached his blade. Once he stood over the thing he was not sure what to do. His arm ached, and every time he moved to pick the practice sword up she grinned and raised her weapon. Finally accepting that he was going to take punishment, Aaron lowered himself slowly and reached for his blade. She sidestepped and swung.

  "Damn it!" Aaron's voice was muffled by a clump of daisies stuffed into his mouth.

  His butt hurt.

  Sarah laughed gaily.

  "Miss Townsend, did you really have to do that?"

  She stopped laughing. "Oh yes I did. You needed a lesson on how to commit. Down! Up! Like a streak of lightning. As slow as you moved, I could have left, had dinner, done the dishes and still had time to get back here to kick your butt."

  Holding out her right arm, she grasped his hand and helped him rise. Her grip was strong. Her calluses felt hard against his rising blisters.

  "Enough for today. I'll walk you to the Traveler's Rest where you can buy me an ale." Glancing around, she frowned at the sight of two half naked figures watching from a distant hill. "The savages are watching us again. I don't like that."

  "Will there be trouble?" Aaron asked, feeling the worms in his belly wiggle once more.

  "No more than normal. They always have someone watching." Her frown lessened. "You owe me for the profanity, Mister Turner, though I guess I'll forgive you this time."

  Aaron flushed when he remembered his words. "Sorry for the mouth."

  "Not the first time I heard a trainee curse," Sarah admitted. "It won't be the last either. Still, it's a bad habit to get into."

  The walk to Flo's took only ten minutes. Even in that short time Aaron's muscles began setting up, but his headache began easing, and that, at least, was good.

  "You show promise," Sarah said after drinking half her ale. "Given time, you might even become a decent swordsman."

  "Right." The woman was impossible. She could lie with a straight face.

  "No," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, you are really terrible. You are slow and inaccurate, and your blows lack any force. You also lost your temper and released profanity in my presence. If you had done that within my hearing inside the town limits, I would have been forced to fine you. Mister Turner, you seem uncomfortable. Is something wrong?"

  "I am sitting on a very painful place." Frowning ruefully, Aaron pointed a finger at her. "You play rough Miss Townsend. I am not entirely sure I approve."

  She laughed lightly and eyed him coyly. "Few people do. I have an ointment that can help. If you like, I'll even rub it in for you. Why, Mister Turner, you are blushing. It's been twelve years since I last saw a man blush on my account and me being only seventeen at the time. I wasn't the least bit serious."

  "It's warm in here." Feeling very warm indeed, Aaron lowered his finger. "I need to get
back to the store and see how Miss Bayne is getting along." He painfully raised his cup and quickly finished it off because past experience had proved that the slight buzz the ale gave him would finish getting rid of his headache.

  Sarah's face turned serious. "It's a good thing you are doing."

  "Thank you." He thought about her statement for a moment while he lowered the empty cup back down to the table. "What good thing?" With a slight groan, he shifted so his right cheek hung off the chair's edge. Better.

  "For helping Miss Bayne and the kids. They've had it rough since their parents died in that raid a couple years back. We all know that you've been overpaying them and giving them food to help with their support. Now you are doing this. Just want you to know, it sits well with us because their parents are dead."

  Aaron frowned. "Dead? All her mothers too?"

  Sarah shook her head. "Hard to imagine that, though I suppose most people don't talk about it much. Lots of bad memories there." Leaning forward slightly, she lowered her voice. "Happened during that Mover raid two years ago. Before the militia was formed. We fought back when they tried to take over our town, and we started winning, but then that Talent Master rose up, and he threw fire all around. A lot of us were burned, and some were killed. I've no doubt all of us would have been if Mister Bayne and his wives hadn't returned from a wagon ride right about then. He saw Cathy and the kids right in the middle of it all, Doyle crying over Jan's body, Jan being his oldest sister. Cathy and Missy were dragging him away, but they weren't dragging him fast enough because there were armed people all around them. When he saw what was happening Mister Bayne whipped his horses up to full speed. Ran them right into that Talent Master. That Master, he burned Mister Bayne and his wives real bad, but Mister Bayne kept those horses running until they crashed into the Talent Master, only the Bayne's were all dead by then, and so were the horses. Broke the Talent Master's back when one horse fell on him. Took the fight right out of him, that did. Took the fight out of the Movers too. They took off, and we buried our dead right after I cut the head off that broken-backed Talent Master and thanked the Lord and Lady he was not particularly powerful."