Steven D. Fisher - Fragger Sparks 01 - A Ranger Leads the Way.pdf - Steven D. Fisher - widez2

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CHAPTER 1

The chittering voice of an angry squirrel interrupted Fragger'srecurrent dream. Annoyed, he

ordered the rodent to shut the fuck up. The animal didn't belong in his sleeping mind, and, above all,

Fragger wanted to finish the dream because he was never able to complete it, and that fact pissed him off

beyond all reason. He was a soldier—a U. S. Army Ranger, by God!—and a Ranger always

accomplished any task set to him, even a creation of his own rebellious brain. To his frustration, the

squirrel ignored the order and rambled on in a bizarre fashion.

"—specifics, they always want the ripping specifics. As if anyone cared about a Rerun, for Corporation's

sake, even another so-called ‘special’ one! As if anyone was present to hear me talking to myself. ‘Oh,

get on with it, Leery.’ That's what Supervisor Wetz would say, if he were here, the fat coward. To take a

man of my capabilities and stick him all alone in the middle of the Khanwati Desert—as if there were

anything but desert on this dirtball planet—with the enemy in orbit ready to up-and-off me. As if I had

anything to defend myself with except a pistol. As if ... all right, all right, Leery, calm yourself down. Just

record the specifics. It'll take your mind off the situation and maybe, just maybe, a little attention will

come your way."

There was a faint click, and the squirrel continued, “Recording.

Revival Technician Lakwirth Leery is the RT of record. Date..."

Leery's voice paused at series of faint thumps. Fragger scowled at the familiar sound—explosions. He

frowned a second time when he couldn't figure out how his mind had come up with something so strange

as a squirrel, especially a squirrel who could talk and also be a Revival Technician, whatever that was.

"Oh, rip the date!” Leery resumed nervously. “The recorder will note it, anyway. Damned protocol. And

if I survive and you hear this, Wetz, I don't care about protocol. Bird you, you officious, incompetent

prick! Okay, here's the basic information while I wait for the HSP results. HSP. Don't know what that

term means, do you, Wetz, you idiot? Well, I'm not going to tell you what the acronym stands for. No

more stealing of my ideas! Let's see you explain HSP to the Regional Planetary Manager and try to take

credit for something you haven't got a prayer of understanding!

You're such an imbecile, such an incompet ... oh hell, what's the use? I haven't got enough words in my

vocabulary to adequately describe your stupidity. Back to the task at hand. Uhhmm ... let's see ... I

implanted the translator as required although the module isn't exactly OEM, that's for sure. So, the

subject may experience slowness in understanding a few subtle language concepts, but then I had to

re-configure somewhere. Anyway, Reruns are dense by nature, aren't they? In this case, our subject is

Sergeant First Class Jonathan Sparks. Nickname ‘Fragger,’ according to records. He's typical mongrel

Earth Stock, nearly two meters tall with a weight of close to 80 kilograms. Hair, black. Eyes, blue. He'd

be handsome if he weren't a Rerun. Just your type, Wetz, you faggot. The subject hasn't spoken yet, but

I gave him the standard voice marker so he'll have the typical Rerun rasp. Skin—light brown as a result

of miscegenation, apparently a mixture of Irish-European, Mexican, and American Indian bloodlines as

defined in 20th Century terms. Obviously, Old Americans were more than a little careless about purity of

race."

Fragger started at the mention of purity of race. Shit, what the hell is my mind doing dredging up such

crap? As if Amanda and I haven't faced enough racism in our lives! And coming from asquirrel!

Stop such thoughts, damn it!

The contemptuous monologue continued, anyway.

"Well, this Rerun might be a mutt, but OldNet military personnel files as well as those nuisance family

sites that clutter ancient electronic records indicate he has strong potential. For one thing, he served in a

highly elite military force geared to dangerous missions and still survived two wars in radically different

Terran environments—one tropical and one desert. In addition, the words ‘luck’ and ‘lucky’ occur

repeatedly, not only on the family site but also in his personnel file. To put it mildly, “luck” is not a usual

military term so that indicates definite promise. Then, there's the unspecified ‘detachment’ to

DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—an agency with an affinity for grandly

stupid projects like sleepless soldiers ... Okay, here come the HSP results, finally. Bloody computer is

damned slow. You know, Wetz, if we're going to do up-to-date research, you might invest in some new

equipment instead of skimming the money to feed your fat face. Okay, the HSP results read ... can that

be right? Let me verify."

Another click sounded. Apparently, Leery had turning his recording device off. Fragger marveled at the

ability of his mind to generate such realistic details in a dream even if it—"Sparks! Wake up, Rerun!”

Leery's squirrel voice shouted at him, “Fuck off!” Fragger muttered. He didn't care how realistic his

dreams got; he wasn't about to obey a command from a squirrel, especially an order interfering with his

ability to get back to the persistent dream. It was maddening that it never changed and exasperating

because it was always so vivid, painted in the toobright hues of an old Fifties Technicolor movie. In it,

Amanda Whitefeather Sparks, his second wife, stood outside base housing which, in the absurd logic of

dreams, was painted in camouflage colors against an orange sky and chartreuse grass. The dream made

Amanda beautiful, and she was chuckling about it because she knew she was not attractive—not on the

outside anyway. She was short, 20 pounds overweight, and still bore the scars of untreated acne,

courtesy of life on the rez. Sparks chuckled with her because Amanda was a great believer in the power

of dreams and would appreciate starring in his, especially one that made her gorgeous.

He'd never been able to convince her that that was how she always looked to him—beautiful. God, how

he missed that woman and the smell of her lilac perfume! How he missed his family!

"Sergeant First Class Jonathan Sparks! Stop laughing!"

"Screw you, man!” he swore at the squirrel as he concentrated on the images generated by his mind.

Libby, their 15-year-old with the same silken black hair as her mother, stood next to Amanda and was

busy complaining that her Dad was the dumbest father to come down the pike in history of parenting

while simultaneously wondering why he never came home any more. On the other side of his wife, his

son, John, nodded his head in vigorous agreement. Sparks swallowed the anger he always felt at the

changes in his boy since he'd gone off to Berkeley—Berkeley, for Christ's sake, a yuppie liberal haven!

John had shaved his head, grown a goatee uglier than a camel's ass, and become a pacifist during his

freshman year. Fragger knew it was all part of the separation crap psychologists talked about, but it still

pissed him off. It was no way for a soldier's son to act. He brushed aside the thought as he tried to figure

out why his family all of sudden cried out, “Come home!", then burst into tears that began washing away

the camouflage colors and—

"Sergeant First Class Jonathan Sparks! Fragger!"

"Shove it where the sun don't shine!” Fragger snarled at the squirrel, turning his attention back to the

dream. Why the hell was his family telling him to come home? He hadn't been deployed since Desert

Storm and had been at DARPA when.... when what?

Fragger groaned in frustration as he tried to remember. The effort was giving him a terrible headache. He

needed more bunk time to get rid of it, and this puke creation of his brain kept nagging him worse than

Emily, his first wife!

"Fragger Sparks! I've implanted a translator in your head, so I know you can understand Standard. On

your feet, soldier!"

Now Fragger was mad enough to wake up even if it was into a dream. This maggot of a squirrel, Leery,

was using his nickname and hadn't earned the right to do that. His Nam team had rewarded him with

“Fragger” in Cu Chi. The Rangers had stepped into an NVA ambush, and machine guns in well-hidden

bunkers chewed them up until 20-year-old Jonathan Sparks gathered fragmentation grenades and

limbered up his All State high school pitching arm.

He'd thrown strikes into the bunker ports and then led a flanking maneuver to rout the attackers. It'd

been the most embarrassing and yet proudest moment of his life when after the fire fight, Colonel

Tennison had called him the “fastest and luckiest fucking maniac I've ever seen” in front of the surviving

Rangers and tagged him with the nickname he'd carried up through Desert Storm and DARPA and...

Fragger shook his head, trying to remember what had happened next, but nothing specific came, only a

vague recollection of some “special” project. The inability to recall any details made him angry so he

snapped, “Stop calling me Fragger'! My correct name is Jonathan."

Fragger forced his eyes open as he made the demand. His voice sounded harsh and grating as if his

vocal cords were vibrating in gravel not air. It also seemed detached from his body as if it were floating

around the bright lights on the ceiling. He squinted through gummy lids trying to get a better look at Leery

and laughed at what he saw. The Revival Technician wasn't a squirrel. He was a man—a sweaty little pile

of crap who looked squirrel-like—but a man nonetheless and wearing a strange uniform.

"On your feet, soldier!” the order came again.

Fragger attempted to get up to brace the little fucker right up against the wall, but either he didn't have

any feet or he couldn't feel them. Dream terror surged.

"A mine?” he asked, forcing his body upright and discovering he was naked. He hated being naked,

even in dreams. “Did I step on a mine?"

"What? No,” Leery answered. The Revival Technician couldn't seem to decide where to place his focus.

He alternated between gawking at Fragger as if he were some exotic beast and glancing anxiously at a

resumption of the distant explosions while wiping perspiration from a sallow forehead. In the odd logic of

the dream, the detonations appeared to come from a wall-sized painting of a bizarre chilly landscape

dotted with rust-streaked rocks under a dusty pink sky. “You have all your extremities."

Fragger checked his body just to be sure. His feet were still there and all ten toes, but with limited

sensation. “What the hell's wrong?” he demanded. “I can't feel much of anything. Am I paralyzed?"

"No, no, it's a side effect,” Leery reassured him. “It goes away within a few minutes."

"Within a few minutes of what?"

"Revival, Sergeant."

"What on earth are you talking about?” Fragger asked, annoyed by the little man's anxious rubbing at

pale skin beneath a twitching eye, apparently a reaction to whatever the hell was going on outside the

building. As he waited for an answer, the Ranger decided that while Leery was definitely not an actual

squirrel, he was as close to one as a human being could possibly get. The man had puffy cheeks and a

slight lower lip which he sucked at with two long front teeth. His black eyes were buttons of fear. Fragger

guessed the technician was no taller than five-six. An oversized gray uniform trimmed with red epaulets

did little to hide the slumped shoulders and paunchy gut. A big red “EC” insignia was stitched above the

left pocket of the shirt. Leery's name was below it in white letters.

A holstered pistol the likes of which Fragger had seen only on episodes of Star Trek hung from a wide

black belt. Ankle high black boots completed the picture—a picture that made Fragger think of his son

when he was a young boy trying on his father's uniform. Leery was obviously a civilian playing military

dress-up or, more likely, had been pressed into service and was not happy about it.

Scientist, Fragger guessed. Squirrel-face has got the look of another kind of rodent—a lab rat.

Definitely a rear echelon motherfucker. Damn, can't get away from REMFs, even when I'm

asleep!

"Well?” Fragger barked impatiently when Leery couldn't seem to drag his attention away from the noise.

Leery twitched and jerked his gaze from the painting back to the Ranger. “Like I said, man. Revival.

You know. Reborn, rebirthed, revived, cloned, good karma in a previous life, cool, that kind of thing, far

out. Rock n’ roll, booyah, mess up the Mohammeds."

Fragger glared at the jittery technician and snapped, “Are you trying to be funny, you damned squirrel?"

A startled expression crossed Leery's face. “No, why? What's a squirrel?"

"A little rodent, just like you. You're talking like I'm some damned moron. You're aping my speech.

Making fun of me."

The crrump! of explosions grew louder. Leery winced at the noise and explained quickly, “I haven't got

time to make fun of you, Sergeant, believe me. I just used the speech pattern indicated for your particular

part of the Terran Twentieth Century, that's all. Revival Technicians are trained to do such things."

Fragger studied the man's face to see if Leery was playing out a practical joke that wasn't particularly

funny, but the squirrel eyes showed no humor. They had the look of prey certain that a predator was

about to strike.

"My particular part of the Twentieth Century?” the Ranger asked.

Leery flashed an insincere grin. “Happy Day of Second Birth, Sparks. As of today, you're about six

centuries old. I hope you live to celebrate it."

Confusion swirled in Fragger's head. “What? What's going on?"

"Never mind,” the technician replied, his hand hovering over the oddly shaped pistol. “I'll get you some

clothes because we need to move right now! "

Fragger followed the man's eyes toward the wall painting, wondering what Leery found so fascinating

about it. As far as the Ranger was concerned, it was a terrible work of art, all pink sky and red dirt. It

looked like a terribly boring part of the Painted Desert.

Then lightning-quick motion streaked into the middle of the painting.

It's not a painting at all! Fragger realized. It's a window. A very thick window onto a very strange

world.

Outside the window, the blur stopped and transformed itself into a solid object.

This is rich! It's a robot, a damned robot, armed with a sword and a shield of all things! And it

looks like a samurai! I spent way too much time studying military history and obviously far too

many hours on the Japanese military. My mind is mixing the past with the future!

As best Fragger could judge, the robot was close to seven feet tall and unmistakably Japanese in origin.

The sword the machine wielded glittered with unnatural brightness and shimmered with some internal

source of light. Flared like a tori gateway, a helmeted head swiveled toward the window. In a motion so

swift Fragger wasn't sure at first it had really happened, the robot charged the window and laid the blade

into it. Although the glass looked to be at least a foot thick, a single stroke shattered it. Warm air blew

out of the room, replaced by the in-rush of a cold, bitter wind. Fragger shivered under its impact and

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