“Are there any further questions?”
There weren’t.
“All right, when it’s your turn, come to me. I’ll be standing here like your second. Load and holster your weapon, and then it’s the standard dueling rules we’ve all seen on vid. Mr. Abrams, Mr. Sanchez: Would you please demonstrate?”
The two gunfighters came to the table, loaded their pseudoguns, and assumed their positions on either side of the centerline that split the field in half.
“You and your opponent get into position, and the Wall goes up.” The instructor made a sweeping gesture, and a featureless gray hologram the same height as the barrier walls covered the centerline, rendering the other side of the simulator field invisible from where Kira and the trainees stood.
“Walk to the start point when you’re ordered to do so.” The instructor pointed to the center of the combat area, where half of a large red circle protruded on the side of the barrier the trainees could see. From a speaker just below the cab and just above the score displays, a recorded voice spoke. “Combatants, please advance to the start point.”
Sanchez walked along the Wall. Presumably, Abrams was doing the same thing on the other side, although no one on Kira’s side of the hologram could see. Sanchez reached the start point and turned, facing away from the barrier.
“See how he’s standing inside the circle with his back to his opponent?” Sanchez stood with his toes on the edge of the red area, placing him as close to the kill box—about ten paces away—as he could get. The class nodded.
“Good. Now, he’ll be told to march, and he’ll walk to the kill box.” The instructor pointed to the two-meter-deep area marked off on their end of the field. The trainees turned, like sunflowers finding the light.
“When you get to the kill box, pivot and fire as soon as you’re ready. Remember, your opponent is doing the same thing.”
The recorded voice sounded again. “Proceed on my count. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .”
Sanchez timed his strides with the voice’s cadence, but he departed from the strikeline that showed the shortest distance to the kill box. He reached the box and became a blur as he turned. He stopped with his gun drawn and at eye level. It flashed, two pistol reports sounded, and Sanchez jumped slightly, as if he’d been goosed. On the other side of the field, Abrams frantically rolled his shoulder and patted his chest, as if he was trying to get a bee out of his shirt. Eventually, both men stood upright and still.
The recorded voice spoke again. “Please return to the table area, if you are able.”
The two gunfighters holstered their weapons and jogged back to their starting positions.
The screen displayed their scores: SANCHEZ, 58; ABRAMS, 44.
Sanchez grinned and punched Abrams in the shoulder. In an actual gunfight, the match would have been a “bleed-off,” the winner determined by who could remain standing the longest with the injuries they’d received. The simulator handbook said the score was the system’s best estimate of how badly they’d damaged each other, based on the location of the hit. The scale awarded 100 points for an outright kill, and anything over 90 indicated a severed spine or shattered bone that would guarantee a fall and an immediate loss.
The instructor signaled for attention. “All right, for today, you’ll be on the gunfighter’s side of the field.” He pointed his clipboard to the open side of the combat area. “Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Abrams will trade off on the mech’s side. You’ll each get one match to start, and you can repeat as many times as you like. Any questions?”
There were none. TKC’s allocation of only two professionals to duel against ten trainees was a clear indication of what their chances were.
The instructor waited a few seconds, and then pointed to the patch of pseudograss on the left of the control cab where they’d first assembled. “Wait there until I call you.”
Kira went over and sat, cross-legged, to watch the drama unfold. Soft popping noises sounded from other simulators nearby. Were those demonstrations, or were the other groups from their class that much faster?
“Chas Evans.”
The first up was a tall, wiry guy built like a basketball player. He tried to outdo Sanchez by barreling straight down the strikeline, using his long legs to get to the kill box first. He lost time on the pivot, and Sanchez’s shot left the trainee doubled over and clutching his belly, the pseudogun still in his holster.
“Timothy Ramirez.”
Despite a fast walk down the strikeline and a rapid pivot, Tim wasted his shot, firing straight back the way he’d come, only to discover Abrams standing a few feet to the right.
“Thabo Young.”
Thabo looked like he might have outdrawn Sanchez, but his shot went wide and Sanchez administered a sting on his leg that forced him down on one knee, triggering the fall indicator and a loss.
“Curtis Johnson.”
He fouled out by drawing his pseudogun before he got both feet in the kill box.
“Kira Clark.” She scrambled to her feet and jogged to the table.
“Give me your left wrist.” Kira held out her arm, and Peterson held his data pad near it until the device chirped. He spoke gently. “Ready for the suit test?”
Kira nodded, and jumped slightly at the tickle on her bicep.
“OK, your suit’s synchronized. Go up and load your weapon.” He pointed to the judge’s table.
Kira went through the load and holster routine, and Peterson nodded. Good. That probably meant she had full credit on this part of the exercise. She assumed her position, Sanchez assumed his, and the Wall went up. What should she do? With her relatively short legs, there was no way she’d get to the kill box first. What if she took a diagonal route? It would take longer to get there, but the rules said the Wall didn’t come down until both combatants were in their kill boxes. She turned pretty fast and might have a chance if Sanchez had to spend time looking for her.
The recorded voice sent them to the start point. There, she stood in the circle, pointed forty-five degrees off to the left. The voice called cadence, and she began her march to the far corner of her kill box. She turned and drew. Sanchez turned toward her as her gun came up. A flash from his muzzle. She pulled her trigger and a burn started over her heart. The burn became agony and she dropped the gun as she brought her arms to her chest, desperate to make the pain stop.
When it was over, she found herself folded over her own knees in the kill box. Peterson knelt down next to her. “You OK?”
Kira sat up and drew a ragged breath. “Yeah. I mean, I think so. What?”
“You took one through the heart. You died.”
“Oh. That’s why I feel so bad.”
“Yeah.” Peterson smiled a little and patted her on the shoulder.
Would getting hit in the heart for real be more or less painful than what she just experienced? She pushed the thought away; she didn’t need to deal with that right now.
She started to stand and stopped. A faint whiff of ammonia, and her crotch was damp. Damn. On top of everything else, she’d pissed herself.
She looked down as heat rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry . . .”
Peterson pulled her to her feet. “It’s OK. It happens. You took a jolt at 80 percent of max. That’s enough to mess up anybody. Go back to your room, clean up, and get some lunch. I’ll take care of the pseudogun and mark you complete. I know you’ve got that part down.”
“But I want to go again. You said we could.”
Peterson shook his head. “There’s no point. It takes twelve to fourteen hours to recover after a hit like that. What’s your afternoon class?”
“Self-care first aid.”
“That’s good. I’ll sign you out until then.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Food, rest, and a shower. You’ll be fine.”
Her voice came out small and ragged. “OK, thanks.”
Fuck it all. Pity. Only two weeks in, and she was getting pity. She faced the expanse of open space between her position and the dou
ble doors leading out of the simulator area. The audience on the catwalks turned their attention to other simulators, and her group of trainees shifted their attention to Peterson, anticipating his next call. Best to make a run for it now.
Once through the doors, she found her locker and retrieved her purse. In the empty hallway, sounds and thoughts echoed. What would this be like when the bullets were real? She’d be someplace else by then. And if she wasn’t, this was still better than foreclosure. Wasn’t it?
She shut the locker and sagged against it, squeezing her purse close. Inside, her handset buzzed for attention. After a couple of deep breaths, she fished it out and checked the message. It confirmed she hadn’t been selected for an arts education liaison position she’d interviewed for just before leaving New York. “. . . a large pool of well-qualified candidates, and at this time we have decided to move forward with a candidate whose skills are a better match . . .”
Another door closing. How long did she really have? She’d been telling herself gunfighter training would last a year, but after today, what were her chances during the big cut next month? When they winnowed her class down to its final size, would she even be in it? And if not, then what?
Nothing to do about it now except what Peterson said: clean up, food, rest, and keep at it. For right now, get clear of the hallway before classes let out and everyone saw her with wet pants. She shambled toward the dorms. Her handset buzzed again.
This time, it was a rejection from a Des Moines recruiter. They didn’t represent people enrolled in training programs.
Fuck it all.
Chapter 5
Kira adjusted her grip on the cardboard box containing two sets of ear protectors, a misappropriated dueling pistol, and sixty rounds of stolen ammunition. Chloe studied the darkened break area between their position and the entry doors of the Advanced Firing Range as if it were a linoleum-clad no-man’s-land. Two hours before the range’s official opening time, shadows filled the place, and Chloe jumped at all of them.
Under the circumstances, Kira couldn’t blame her roommate for hesitating, but they needed to get moving. Kira pitched her voice to an urgent whisper. “Remember, if anybody asks, a tech told us to carry this stuff over and put it in Firing Point Two. We don’t know anything else about it.”
It was a plausible story if you didn’t think about it too hard. Trainees who hadn’t even cleared their six-week test were fair game for a menial assignment from just about anyone. The door guard hadn’t even bothered to ask when he checked the access tokens on their handsets.
Chloe wavered now, though, peering into the farthest and darkest corner over by the restrooms to see if anyone lurked in the shadows. When she finally nodded, Kira led the way through the neat checkerboard of steel-legged tables surrounded by spindly plastic chairs. Were professionals that much neater than trainees, or was the cleaning service more diligent with them? For the benefit of anyone watching via camera, Kira maintained the slow meander of a person sent on a pointless errand and resisted the urge to look back to see if Chloe followed. At last, they reached the puddle of light near the firing point doors. Chloe fumbled with her handset for the key token.
“Hey! What are you doing there?” The harsh voice belonged to a short, compact man in a green range manager uniform.
Why the hell was he at work so early?
Kira responded with wide eyes, a warm smile, and a soft voice. “Oh, we were just—”
“It’s OK, they’re with me.” All three of them turned to face the voice. A tall, muscular woman emerged from the darkness of the break area, a set of ear protectors hanging around her neck. The three red slashes on her tunic’s right sleeve identified her as a senior instructor. The name stitched on the uniform identified her as Reynolds.
The range manager faced the instructor, fists on his hips. “You’re supposed to escort trainees in the professional area at all times.”
“I’m sorry. I was in the restroom.” Nothing in the instructor’s tone or body language conveyed the smallest suggestion of regret.
The manager looked toward Kira and Chloe as if they were escaping prey and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. “Can we talk about this?”
The instructor keyed her handset, and a green light flashed on the firing point door. She nodded toward Chloe and Kira. “Go on in and set up. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Kira and Chloe entered the firing point vestibule, and the outer door clicked shut behind them. Chloe hissed. “We are in for it. That was Diana Reynolds.”
Kira dredged her memory for the name. Nothing. Chloe stared back at her, wide-eyed. “You’ve never heard of her? She killed somebody.”
“The instructors are former gunfighters. They all killed somebody.”
“I don’t mean like an opponent, I mean like an actual person. They say when she was a Marine in Iran she—” Stirring at the outer door cut Chloe off, and they moved from the vestibule to the firing point, closing the second door behind them and leaving the mystery of why Chloe was so flummoxed by the idea of a Marine who killed people for another time.
Unlike the open range where trainees practiced, each station of the professional facility was fully enclosed by solid, slightly curved walls running all the way from the firing point down to the target area, like a vast hallway coated with sound deadening, bullet-absorbing material, open at the top to give the noise someplace to go. The firing point had enough room for two people to stand comfortably among the controls, a storage shelf, the pistol safety stand, and the hanging gun belts that shared the space. It would be tight with three. Overhead, a ventilation fan pulled so hard it stirred Chloe’s hair. The space felt like a generating station Kira had visited as a kid—immense, clean, and quiet. Ms. Reynolds entered, and the generating-station illusion became complete. The unmistakable thrum of power now vibrated through every particle of air.
Kira and Chloe pressed together to make room. In the confined space, the senior instructor seemed even taller and more imposing than she had outside. She had to be at least six feet tall, maybe a little more. Kira searched for an opening in the older woman’s expression or bearing. Nothing but calm gray eyes, a widow’s peak of dark hair setting off a stern expression, a strong jaw, and a relaxed, all-business posture. Whatever Ms. Reynolds had planned for them, Kira wasn’t going to flirt their way out of it.
She pointed to the box in Kira’s hands. “Go ahead.”
Chloe confirmed her view of their change in fortune as a trip from the frying pan straight into the fire by crossing herself and looking down. Kira opened the box.
The instructor leaned forward to inspect the contents and leaned back against the storage shelf. “So, how much did Pete charge?”
Chloe shot a panic-stricken look at Kira.
There was no way out of this but the truth. Kira responded with her best matter-of-fact tone. “Twenty unidollars for the pistol, twenty-five cents each for the bullets. An extra ten if we don’t clean it and return all the brass.”
“The access tokens?”
Kira swallowed hard. “He threw those in for free.”
“He must like you. He usually charges five.” The instructor turned her attention to Chloe. “Or maybe it’s because he’s friends with Niles LeBlanc. Niles sent you to Pete, right?”
Chloe seemed to be making a serious attempt to disappear into the floor.
Ms. Reynolds prompted. “Upperclassman doing his girlfriend a good turn?”
Chloe’s voice came out in a whisper. “I’m not exactly his girlfriend.”
“Ah.” The instructor folded her arms. “So those 2:00 a.m. check-ins from his apartment are friendly visits?”
Chloe remained silent.
“It’s your life, and I’m not telling you what to do, but this job attracts psychopaths.” Real warmth flowed into Ms. Reynolds’s voice as she tried to make eye contact with Chloe. “Be careful, OK?”
Chloe responded with a single nod of her head.
“All right. Explain
to me why a couple new fish are sneaking into the advanced training area at oh-dark-thirty with stolen gear.”
Kira squared her shoulders and plunged in. “We’re afraid of getting cut in the six-week trial. We heard we’re below the cutoff, but we think we can make up for it if we do some extra work.”
“Hmmmm . . . And who told you about your position?”
“We . . .” Kira hesitated. Was she saying anything that might get someone in trouble? “We heard some guys talking at break. One of them saw a class rank, and they said we were down in the bottom fifth.”
“I see.”
“They said we were old and slow.” Chloe seemed almost surprised she’d spoken.
Ms. Reynolds shifted her attention to Chloe. “‘Old and slow’?”
Chloe withered under the instructor’s gaze.
Kira responded. “Look, Ms. Reynolds, we’re six to eight years older than most of those guys, and, you know, reflexes . . .”
A smile played across the older woman’s face. “Let me show you something.”
She put on the gun belt, tapped a command into the control panel, and held her hand out. Kira placed the pistol in it—the weapon’s eleven-inch barrel pointing at the floor and its single-shot break action open. Kira waited while the instructor inspected the pistol, then handed her a carrier with ten bullets. Ms. Reynolds placed the carrier within easy reach of the firing line, put on her ear protectors and signaled for Kira and Chloe to do the same. Once assured everyone had protection in place, Ms. Reynolds stepped up to the firing line with her pistol loaded and holstered.
The drill signal sounded, pitched to the same range as normal speech so the noise-canceling ear protectors would allow it to pass. The instructor’s arms became a blur, fully visible only when she reached final firing position. The gun barked. With a smooth, unhurried, almost mechanical motion she removed the casing, reloaded the pistol, and returned to the ready position. She repeated the exercise until she used the carrier’s last bullet. The ceiling vent sucked away final wisps of gun smoke and a hologram displayed her results—an average of 1.97 seconds from draw to hit, the hits all within the solid black circle around the target’s heart.
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