1stLt Samuel Woolheater - Counterpoint
Radamio
1stLt Samuel Woolheater - Counterpoint
(( Weapons Range and Armory – Deep Space 14 ))
The range corridor was cool and quiet, brushed duranium doors lining both sides in identical rows. A low hum of containment fields vibrated through the deck plating. There was the usual noise of people talking and banging of lockers. The hype.
Woolheater stopped at locker 7-Delta-540.
Thumb to plate. His biometric confirmation. It was confirmed. Authorization accepted. The door slid open.
He was dressed for work, not attention in a dark training shirt, fitted but plain, the fabric stretching clean across his shoulders when he moved. Sleeves ended mid-bicep, revealing the ink that traced down into forearms dusted with pale blond hair. Olive field trousers. Reinforced knees. Broken-in boots that had molded to his stride long ago. He lifted the rifle case from the locker and set it on the prep counter beneath the vault lights. The clasps opened with a soft click.
His civilian longarm phaser rifle rested disassembled in foam cut to its shape. It had long ago been registered to his Grampa, then to his dad and now to him. Registered clean and legal. The rifle had a clean housing. And the power cell stored separately.
The dark webbing lay coiled along the edge of the foam. Broken in. Compression lines where they had once ridden over armor. A faint abrasion near one buckle. Stitching intact. He ran his thumb along the seam once. Still solid. Good times and good memories. He assembled the rifle methodically, upper housing seated, emitter coil aligned, screws torqued down by feel. Diagnostic wand traced the focusing channel.
Emitter integrity: nominal.
Pulse regulator: stable.
Power cell: 83%.
He clipped the straps into place last. It was a different rifle. Civilian mod of a Type-III(d). This was harder because it was older and well used. He could zero targets with this. It had the same carry as his regular load out..
He slung it once. The webbing crossed his back, settling against muscle beneath the training shirt. The fabric pulled slightly across his shoulders as he adjusted the tension by instinct alone. Right where it should sit. oO Good. Oo He powered it down, secured the case, and headed for the range.
(( DS14 Controlled Weapons Range ))
Lane four was open. The reinforced plating downrange shimmered beneath holographic overlays. Distance markers cycled quietly through 100, 300, 500 meters.
He logged in and presented his authorization at the console. The console logged the entry and on the screen in green digital IDent fonts it read:
Private civilian longarm.
}}Registry verified.{{
Precision pulse mode.
Sporting output cap engaged.
~~Approved.~~
He stepped into position. And his boots planted shoulder-width on the range deck plating. The olive fabric at his knees creased as he shifted weight and set stance. Clear range lenses resting on his head, he repositioned and settled over his eyes. He brought the rifle up. The dark shirt tightened across his back as the straps took tension. Webbing pressed lightly against his shoulder, distributing weight without bite. He stood there as others took their shots and he reduced the distractions. First Inhale.
Then a long exhale.
105 beats per minute.
The gigue fugue moved beneath his breathing…not delicate, not polite. Reeds in
the pedal. The bass line danced. He didn’t hum it, it was in his bones now;
like a heartbeat with a pedal board that danced. He didn’t need to sing it
either. It was just there, Bach’s structured cadence behind his eyes.
Target: 300 meters.
He micro-adjusted beam focus. Ventilation draft slight right to left. Compensated. Two measures to settle. On the downbeat of the third measure, the trigger pressed straight to the rear.
Pulse. The pulse broke clean. A flare bloomed against the plate. Slightly high. He adjusted to 0.2 down.
Setup...exhale…the second pulse. Centered.
He lowered the rifle briefly, breathing steady. The straps shifted subtly against the cotton and muscle beneath, familiar and unintrusive. Zero wasn’t perfect. It was confirmation.
He ran controlled pulses at increasing distance…300. 500. 700. Each shot deliberate. He didn’t rush. There was no need for flourish. This old rifle responded cleanly, emitter cohesion stable, pulse compression consistent.
Between strings he let the cadence run a few silent beats.
105 BPM and he could hear the pedals dance in his head. It brought him steadiness and joy. Familiarity, it was measured.
Final string. Cold hold at 500 meters. Half exhale. Pause.
Press.
Impact.
Centered.
Done.
Thirty-minutes later, he powered the rifle down and logged the discharge count. Removed the power cell. Cleared the chamber. And de-energized the residual charge.
Confirmed zero.
He broke the rifle down with the same controlled movements, coiled the straps last, and secured the case. The dark training shirt relaxed across his shoulders as the weight came off.
Calibration complete. That was enough for today. He had a few long-distance calls to make.
--
Scout Sniper / Infantry Officer
MARDET, Starfleet Marine Corps
USS Octavia E. Butler NCC-82850