Chloe shot her a vicious side-eye, and Kira laughed a real laugh.
They reached the ready box.
“Hey.” Chloe squared herself up and showed Kira a hard, serious face. “Cut ’em down . . .” She made a blade-like slicing gesture with her right hand. “. . . and walk away.” Her hand became a fist with an upright thumb.
Kira grinned. “Thanks.”
She handed her gear bag to Chloe, who took it, consulted her handset, and set off in the same general direction as Diana. Kira waited in the ready box, letting her mind go blank until the results alarm she’d set on her handset sounded. She thumbed the unit. The net total it displayed couldn’t be real. She called up the match results and stared at the details as they appeared on her handset. A 38–94 outcome had put Julian Gomez 54 points ahead of her. He’d dropped his mech by either severing its simulated spine or shattering one of its simulated leg bones while receiving only a minor injury.
She would have to both kill the mech for the full 100 points and escape without a serious hit herself if she wanted to avoid killing real people in just a few weeks. Only first prize was enough.
Kira put her hands on her head, closed her eyes, and breathed. Concerns about the outcome passed through her. A series of slow, steady breaths relaxed her body and whisked her consciousness clean. She summoned the reservoir of cold and calm within herself. I am a heart of ice in a body of fire. I am the unmoving center of the storm. I am serene, I am invincible. I am—
“Ms. Clark?”
She opened her eyes to find an instructor standing in front of her.
“Ms. Clark, it’s time.”
She gave him an ice-cold smile. “I’m sure it is.”
The instructor synchronized Kira’s shock suit with the simulator and helped her load the weapon and test the holster. On the other side of the centerline, the mech waited to morph into a new shape for the match. Its face, the same as all the other mechs used in training, offered only a hint of a nose and some eyebrow ridges near the big, flat optical sensors that served as its eyes. The standard wig, brown hair in a unisex cut, did little to humanize it. Combined with the drawn-on tunic and pants, the suggestion of a face gave the device a menacing but somewhat cartoonish appearance, like the evil sidekick in an animated adventure. It embodied the way the company wanted gunfighters to think of their opponents—threatening, but not precisely human.
The morph began, and its pseudo-flesh exterior drew taut as the underlying frame extended. It was going to be tall and lanky. Long legs would make it fast to the kill box but slow to turn, and long arms meant it would be slow to bring the gun to bear and stabilize its aim.
Kira took another cleansing breath and thought her way through the problem. The mech’s pseudogun couldn’t inflict any serious damage, just a mild shock she could recover from pretty easily. Her mind picked at that fact like a tongue returning to a ragged tooth. Why did that seem so important all of a sudden?
The Wall went up.
“Combatants, please advance to the start point.”
She marched to the red half circle poking out from under the Wall and turned, facing away from the mech and toward her kill box.
The mech would expect her to travel straight down the strikeline and try to recover from her slower walk by turning and aiming faster. Any delay would tell it she’d deviated from that route and would be off to one side or the other when the barrier disappeared. The longer the delay, the farther off center it would expect her to be, and the larger the movement it would prepare to make. It would hedge its bets by keeping its gun aimed toward the middle of the field and sweep back and forth with its eyes to locate her. Once it spotted her, it would try to align its sights and fire faster than she could draw and aim. If it thought she might fire first, it would fire with whatever alignment it happened to have. The hits to Fred’s leg and Chloe’s lower chest suggested that even at this setting, the program would settle for a quick, decent shot rather than holding out for a great one.
The recorded ward’s voice called out again. “Proceed on my count. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .”
No rule said the participants had to follow the ward’s cadence, but everyone did. If someone tried to sprint for the kill box, that would draw a foul and a penalty, but getting out of step, weaving around the combat area, or stopping were all permissible.
“. . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . .”
Kira picked a spot five feet to the left of the strikeline, enough to force the long-armed mech to make an adjustment from center.
“. . . 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . . 10 . . .”
Kira placed both feet on the boundary of the kill box and stopped. Habits beaten into her brain and body over the last year screamed to enter the box, to turn, to fire . . .
“. . . 11 . . . 12 . . . 13 . . .”
By now, the mech would be wound up to snap to either edge of the kill box as soon as it could seek a target. She put her hand on the pistol, careful not to pull it from the holster, and executed a half pivot. The maneuver placed her traveling foot deep in the kill box and left her facing sideways, presenting a narrow profile and looking over her right shoulder.
When her foot touched the pseudograss of the kill box, the Wall came down.
Kira pulled her pivot toe inside the boundary line and drew one-handed. Although she extended her firing arm, she kept the safety on and her finger outside the trigger guard. At twenty paces, the mech couldn’t see those details, but it would sense her muzzle facing its direction.
The mech’s weapon swung toward her.
Her reflexes begged to fire. Her sights weren’t stable.
The mech’s pseudogun flashed.
Moment of truth . . .
The suit administered a light shock across her midriff, and Kira’s body twitched in response. Enough to send her shot wide if she’d been squeezing the trigger.
A recovery breath, a flick of her thumb to turn off the safety, and she was in alignment. The sting probably represented no more than an abdominal graze. Not the clean miss she’d hoped for, but not many points, either. She focused on the front sight. The mech began to turn so it could present a narrower profile. Kira’s sights traced a gentle figure eight on its chest. It wasn’t turning fast enough to matter.
Finger to the trigger, a soft squeeze, a sharp report, and the kick of recoil.
The mech shuddered and then staggered, tripping over its own feet and falling to the pseudograss, inert.
A thin puff of gun smoke hung in the air. Kira’s nose wrinkled at the acrid smell.
She reholstered her weapon and rested with her hands on her knees. She’d eventually pay for her in-match calm with a cumulative attack of the willies, but she needed to keep it together just a little bit longer.
“Please return to the table area.”
Kira stood upright. The scoreboard read: CLARK, 100; MECH, 32.
She walked back toward the table. No need to jog, this was the last match of the day. From somewhere behind her, up on the catwalks, a clap began. Someone else picked it up, and by the time she reached the table the applause spread all the way around the simulator. She kept her head down, as if she were still wrapped in her cocoon of total focus.
The instructor took her gun and belt, and the clapping persisted. She needed to do something, but what? The dueling etiquette classes hadn’t covered this situation.
She raised her head and turned, her arms behind her back. The clapping died down. She used a sweeping motion to indicate the instructor at the table, the trainee at check-in, and the anonymous operators up in the booth. The clapping intensified. She bowed to the people crammed on the catwalk on the mech side of the field, and then repeated the gesture with the larger group on the long wall opposite the control cab. Finally, she bowed to the mob gathered in the walkway beyond the open end of the simulator. The applause grew to a crescendo, accompanied by whistles and indistinct shouts. Training discipline held, and no one crossed from the walkway into the combat area.
When i
t had gone on long enough, Kira turned her face up to the control cab and nodded, hoping the operator would understand. The field lights went down, leaving her in post-show stage darkness. She sagged against the table, letting it all soak in as her audience dispersed.
It was a more dramatic close than she could have hoped for, and a good way to end her gunfighting career.
Chapter 11
Kira, Chloe, and Diana stood in a little knot near the punchbowl, each holding a cup of nondescript pink liquid and a tiny plate adorned with a few mints and a miniscule square of the New Gunfighter Reception cake. Diana had already introduced her new clients to most of the important people in the room—TKC managers, Guild officials, and some staff members such as the scheduling clerk and the second-shift facilities manager. The roster largely confirmed Chloe’s stated belief that while Diana might not know everyone, she did know everyone who might be useful.
As the excitement drained out of the reception, instructors and new graduates made for the door, exhausted by the ordeal of Qualification Week. The newly minted gunfighters would have two days of paid leave, during which they were supposed to review their contracts and consider their new career. The snatches of conversation Kira overheard suggested most of her class would dash off the contracts tonight, either with or without a cursory read-through, and devote the balance of their time off to drinking, sleeping, nursing hangovers, and trying to get laid. Kira would spend hers packing, waiting for the deposit for the Regional Cup prize to appear, and getting ready for her move to Minneapolis.
Like the reception, the ceremony that preceded it hadn’t amounted to much. The eighty-one qualifying members of the TKC class had filed into the facility’s largest classroom, minor functionaries from TKC and the Guild local said a few words, and Kira was called to the front to receive the Regional Cup. They all got their Guild cards and gunfighter’s jackets—both mostly ceremonial—while the important action happened on their handsets. The new graduates each received a digital key proving their membership in the Gunfighter’s Guild to any system that cared to check for it, along with employment contracts requiring thumbprint certification, committing them to twenty-six gunfights of TKC’s choosing.
Diana surveyed the thinning crowd and apparently found nothing worth her attention. “Join me in the Lounge? You can make sure your Guild keys work, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Chloe brightened. “That’d be great, Ms. Reynolds.”
“My clients call me ‘Diana.’”
A look of momentary confusion crossed Chloe’s face, and then she smiled as if she’d just been given the key tokens to an exclusive private club. “That’d be great, Diana.”
Kira offered her assent to the plan and then unfolded her jacket and tried it on. It fit perfectly, with sleeves ending just below her wrists, lower hem covering her belt, and comfortable accommodation for her shoulders.
It wasn’t a bad-looking jacket, though the Guild’s predilection for two-tone styles and company colors was on full display. TKC’s slate gray covered the front, back, yoke, and sleeves, while forest green provided contrast via the sides, collar, and cuffs. A subdued version of the TKC logo dominated the left front panel. A quick tug pulled out some of the wrinkles from the unpacking, but it seemed shinier than the jackets worn by the experienced gunfighters, and still carried the chemical scent of new fabric. She might as well wear it now; there wouldn’t be many other opportunities.
Diana called Chloe and Kira in close for a conference. “You’re Guild members now, but remember you’re still unbloodied.”
Kira nodded but looked to Chloe to see if she understood what Diana was talking about.
Diana touched an enamel pin on her collar. “You’ll get one of these when you complete your first match.” She held out the pin so Kira and Chloe could see the inch-wide red circle contained the outline of a dueling pistol.
Well, that’s something I’ll never have. The faintest tickle of regret played at the edge of Kira’s mind.
Diana continued. “. . . the veterans will expect some deference. If you want to talk to someone who isn’t a new grad, let them start the conversation, or let someone introduce you. Listen more than you talk. OK?”
“So it’s like we’re new fish again?” Chloe’s voice carried a little disappointment.
“It doesn’t last long.” Diana gave them a reassuring smile. “Any questions?”
Kira couldn’t think of one, and Chloe shook her head.
By this point, the reception had entered full shutdown mode. Only a few small conversation groups remained, scattered around the edges of the room, and the staff clearly intended to usher them out soon. In the center, the servers and room attendants began their cleanup routine, sweeping trash into bins, taking down tables, and folding chairs.
To avoid the early September chill, Diana, Chloe, and Kira crossed to the arena complex using the skywalk. The crowd thickened as they approached the Gunslinger’s Lounge. TKC jackets seemed to be the most abundant, although the red and gold of Lucky Pig Financial and the royal blue and silver of United Reinsurance were well represented. Consolidated Trust seemed to be out in force tonight as well, although their obnoxiously bright orange-and-neon-blue jackets might have made them seem more numerous than they were. The line outside the Lounge also contained a small smattering of black-and-gray jackets that identified the wearer as a Guild official or one of the instructors, evaluators, and shop stewards charged with maintaining standards across companies.
Ahead of them in line, a handset alarm warbled. The owner, a short but muscular man who looked about thirty, froze as a towering Samoan bouncer confronted him. The bouncer established the guy was a new ward and gave him directions to Libra’s, the watering hole for the neutral staff, on the other side of the arena complex. The trainee handbook said that, by mutual agreement, the combatants of the Gunfighter’s Guild and the staff employed by the Association for Dueling kept to their separate facilities, with only a tiny group of Association fraud investigators given access to both. A few of the new graduates openly snickered at the ward’s mistake, provoking rebukes from the seconds and trainers. There was no good reason to earn the enmity of an official who served as the judge’s eyes, ears, and muscle on the field.
With that obstacle cleared, traffic flow resumed, and they passed through the wooden double doors and into the Guild members’ exclusive preserve. The Gunslinger’s Lounge looked like a place that had trouble deciding what it wanted to be. Wood tables, thick carpet, candlelit booths, and a long, sumptuous mahogany bar with brass fittings suggested it was a watering hole for the financial elite. Which, given the income of its clientele, it certainly was. On the other hand, the video screens encircling the room suggested a sports bar. It was certainly that, too.
Currently, it served as the main venue for the Qualification Week after-party. People in small, inward-facing groups filled the floor, while others piled in around booths and tables. Most wore gunfighter’s jackets in various stages of removal.
Diana navigated the room with Chloe and Kira in tow. As patrons recognized Kira, she received the occasional hand wave or nod, and caught bits and pieces of the discussion going on around her.
“. . . see her try that shit with a real bullet . . .”
“. . . she froze . . . but brilliant, is what I’m saying . . .”
“. . . balls the size of fucking watermelons.”
A tall, athletic man in his early twenties made his way toward the group. Diana flashed a joyful smile as he approached. They shook hands, and Diana became more sober. “I’d say I’m happy you’re back, but you should have finished three months ago.”
The young man shrugged and looked at the floor. “I just have to set myself up a little better, that’s all.”
“Get that done, OK?” Diana swatted him on the shoulder.
She reached out to include Kira and Chloe. “This is Gary Thomas. He was my client in the last quarter before I rotated to instructor, and now that I’m a second agai
n, he’s back.”
Kira and Chloe smiled as if meeting a new stepsibling. Gary did the same. He nodded toward a cluster of tables on the far edge of the Lounge, near the big windows looking out over the deck. “Claire has some spaces saved. I’ll go help her hold them down.” He addressed Diana again. “If you want your drinks sometime tonight, put in a direct order. Floor service is ungodly slow.”
Diana acknowledged his advice with a nod, he departed, and their little column resumed its march toward the bar. Diana got the bartender’s attention and pointed toward Chloe and Kira. “These are my clients from the new class, Kira Clark and Chloe Rossi.”
The bartender became focused.
“This is Steve Olsen, the assistant manager.”
In near-perfect unison, Kira and Chloe piped, “Pleased to meet you.” Steve awarded them a small smile.
“Steve, I’m buying the first round tonight.” She turned to her charges. “What are you having?”
Kira hadn’t thought about what she’d be drinking. Now, people waited to hear her choice. Her second, a combat veteran. Steve, who routinely served gunfighters after a match. Beyond them, all the other Guild members who spent their days either engaging in life-or-death encounters, or preparing for them.
This wasn’t the moment to order a Pink Squirrel.
Kira put on her best imitation of nonchalance. “Well, what do winning gunfighters drink?”
Diana smiled and addressed the bartender. “That’ll be Angel’s Envy for Kira and me.” She pointed to Chloe, who responded with, “Same.”
“Neat for me.” Having clarified her order, Diana gestured toward Kira and Chloe. “You two?”
“On the rocks.” Whatever Angel’s Envy was, it was probably strong, and Kira wasn’t ready to drink it without at least a little dilution. Beside her, Chloe nodded.
Steve bestowed the drinks, and Diana hoisted hers toward her clients. “May you live to learn.”
For a split second, Kira drew a blank. Then the response came. “And learn to live.” They clinked glasses.
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