The Gravity Keyper 50

Chapter 50 Buck Wilder

Copyright© 2025 by Lynn Patterson All rights reserved.

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Chapter 50 Buck Wilder

Early dawn broke on the horizon. A pin prick of light that turned the snow dusty pink for just a moment. This world was frozen, empty, and raw in its beauty.

I slipped on icy rocks. Stumbled. He waited until I steadied my footing. Then marched ahead.

Finally, frustration got the best of him.

“Switch on your ski shoes Wilder.”

“Ski shoes, sir?”

He reached over and touched the controls on my suit’s armband. A pair of vertical lift skis sprang from the boots. Now I hovered on top of the snowpack. He pushed another button, and snow poles popped from the gloves.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before sir?” I asked.

“We both needed a workout. I’ve had mine.”

Okay asshole. Whatever. Hold my beer.

I learned to ski as a kid.

“Eat my snow dust or catch me.” I gunned the ski shoes forward throwing up a spray of snow in my wake.

“You didn’t say sir.”

Halfway down the mountain, my proximity sensor showed him gaining. Closing. I crouched, tightened to the fall line, and reached the bottom of the hill a full ten seconds ahead of him. Slid to a stop, kicking up a wave of white powder behind me. Jubilant, I took off again cross country with snow flying. He trailed in hot pursuit. Five hours later we reached a frozen plain within sight of the waiting shuttles.

I got there first. Feeling great. The product of Beldan conditioning.

“You’re running a little slow there, sir.”

He caught up three minutes later. Winded. Breathing hard. “I will address your lack of respect for command later. Expect a vigorous debrief.”

Duranar and Howell loaded their gear on to the shuttle. Other teams approached from all around.

“Almost their Lieutenant Duranar. Get a head count.” Ambiyon let out a whistling click that didn’t translate. Duranar replied with a similar click. Other Beldans laughed over the com-link.

We were the third group to reach the shuttle. Bjork and Lieutenant Nybok arrived fifteen minutes ahead of us and engaged Duranar in a not too friendly game of skeet shooting with conventional rounds. Duranar, the better shot, destroyed both the clay targets and their egos.

“Here’s someone who can whip your ass,” Nybok said as Ambiyon and I approached the group.

Nybok’s comment referred to Ambiyon Sern, who could hit his marks with the computer targeting devices in his helmet turned off.

Bjork directed the comment towards me. Most sarcastically and uncalled for.

“Come on Nybok,” he replied. “We all know that Wilder’s the crappiest shot in the unit. Even worse than you.”

This knuckle-headed douche needed his ass kicked. Why would he start a pissing match in fresh snow? I tried to think up an equally sarcastic reply but couldn’t, kept quiet and headed for the shuttle to store my gear.

Howell sat in a seat already strapped in for flight. He looked tired, and worried but waved at me when I shelved my pack and sidearm.

Yaso and Descani arrived and tossed their gear into the shuttle. I turned my attention back to the shooting contest. Ambiyon did not join in, and Duranar continued to dominate the competition.

Nybok called for a skeet, raised his shotgun, fired. The round grazed a corner of the target and reversed the trajectory. It flew back in our direction at a steep angle. Everyone scattered, and kissed the snow.

Howell uttered a string of vile curses when the partially shattered mark disintegrated noisily, but harmlessly on the top of the shuttle.

Bjork sat up and shook the snow off his gun. “Watch it will you moron!”

“Hey Dork. That’s what they call you right? Why don’t you just shut up and shoot,” Nybok replied. “And I meant the boss anyway, not Wilder. "

Duranar called for a target. “My turn.” She blew the skeet apart.

"My name is Bjork! And try not to kill us huh bitch? You shoot worse than Wilder, like I said.” Bjork raised his shotgun. “Pull!” The target flew into the air, and he shattered it smartly.

I despised Bjork at that moment, his words stung so much I wanted to cry. Nybok and Bjork loathed each other’s company and their enmity escalated in the last forty-eight hours. They vented on me.

“All you do is talk about Wilder,” Nybok retorted. “I’ve heard more about Wilder than I ever want to hear again in my life. And you can’t shoot worth a damn by the way. Fling it!” Nybok missed by a mile and cursed an untranslatable epithet.

The shooting spectacle and the unrestrained inter-species trash talking continued for several minutes.

I tired of being their whipping bitch. Today it passed from annoying to unacceptable.

I glanced over at Ambiyon. He leaned against the shuttle with arms folded and the wisdom of a leader who knows when not to interfere.

Salvage my own honor? Why not.

I un-holstered my shotgun and took a deep breath. Duranar and I played this game many times in simulation. I checked the wind conditions and adjusted my targeting to compensate for the slight breezed that blew towards the southwest.

“Step aside,” I commanded. Fighting back my tears I boldly strode forward. Determined to silence them completely or make myself a total laughingstock. I let anger replace my pain and welcomed the Adrenalin rush. Nice. Not scared, just resolute. Steadied my footing in the snow and raised the shotgun.

“Flip it!” I pulled the trigger and the target shattered instantly. I lowered my gun and blinked. Oh, this felt good.

“Flip it!” I shouted again, and my projectile shattered another target. “Let it fly!” Again, I hit the mark and the shards crashed into the snow.

Joy. Full on orgasm. Power.

I lowered my gun and secured it. “Suck it.”

Silence.