Stained Glass
Chapter 1: Fire
"I wasn't born a Sheppard Mal…"
Lieutenant Colonel Derrial "The Rabbit" Book glanced around the darkness of his environment with a comfortable whim. It was shady in more ways than one, the slightly clouded night sky littered with the peaking lights of distant stars of faraway solar systems, glittered in near malice at those below them. He leaned against a crumbled down building, his hand gripping his firearm, a Tam and Caliston 54R-Revision C digital-trigger Sniper Rifle complete with laser sights, with an almost lazy grace. He was in his element.
"Book," his Second, Major Myers as most called him, whispered from his perch in what was left of the two-story estate's loft. Book cracked his neck gently, cursing his aging body as he looked up towards his subordinate.
"What you see Myers?
"I can't really say. It's a little dark. Want to launch off a flare?"
"You want to launch a flare and give away our position," Book scoffed at the thought.
"It was just a suggestion," Myers pointed out, "from what I can see, looks like they've set up a small camp under the cliffs by the river. By the lights of the fires, and judging from their size, I'd say three companies, 60 plus change."
"We're not here for the 60 plus. We're here for one man, leave the others to our grunts," Book checked his weapon, flicking out the seven round chamber to make sure the rounds were locked in place, he popped it back in, and looked at his rifle's maintenance manager:
Weapon Charge: 89
Ammunition Count: 7 Rounds Accounted
Magnetic Guidance System: Green
Hydraulics: Green
Acoustic Sensors: Green
Acoustic Silencer: In need of replacement within 3 weeks
Optics: Green
"Myers. You have a replacement Acoustic suite?" Book asked, climbing up the make-shift ladder – 50 mm bullet marks in what was left of a concrete wall – and into the loft.
"No. What do you think I am an armory?"
"Never crossed my mind," Book said, as he lay prone in the loft, and leveled his rifle, "keep looking, and let me know when you have the target in visual."
"What this guy do anyway?" Myers asked, still crouched behind a small pile of rubble, his eyes locked in his binoculars.
"He's a supplier. Intelligence marks him moving weapon shipments to the independents."
"I wonder if he has a family."
"You always talk so much Myers."
"I thought 10 years in the service would have taught you that," Myers laughed, but his cheerfulness evaporated in an instant, replaced by the hard grit of a career soldier, "I got visual. Eight points to the left of the Command tent. Do you see him?"
"I see him," Book whispered, adjusting his scope as he zoomed in. The target was an elderly man, his body rounded, his clothes tight fit around his large body, giving him the illusion of a balloon. He had thinning hair receding towards the back of his scalp, and he wore an expression that made Book wonder what the camp smelled like.
"What's the wind?"
"Wind is at," Myers glanced at his sensor systems, "six miles heading east with a northerly trade."
"Give me the range."
"2020 meters, approximately."
"What's the pull?"
"Spin is 0.07 millimeters spin right, per meter."
"Count me off."
"Sir?" Myers said quietly, still looking through the binoculars.
"You got a question Myers," Book whispered as he locked eyes on the target, memorizing the man's every expression, movement, and mannerism. There was an almost stalker like intimacy between shooter and target that Book respected. He could always see it, the eyes of his victim, the relaxed expression that sighed across their faces as the bullet connected the slight surprise the way their muscles relaxed as death took its toll.
"Are we at war sir?"
"Officially?" Book asked, his voice dropping in tone at the formality of his subordinate. His finger eased on the trigger, the cool touch of metal seeping through his gloves as he focused his entirety into the one pull, the one shot.
"Yes."
"No."
"Then why are we here."
"We're here because of a belief."
"What belief is that?"
"A belief in a better world, in all, better worlds."
"Fire. Fire. Fire."
Book's finger tensed, the weapon tugged as the shell ripped from its barrel, searing like humanized judgment towards its destination, and the quiet echoed into the night.