Kira shifted in place and not just from the cold. Was it weirder that a disinterested entity with inscrutable motives controlled her fate, or that Diana had figured out how to hustle it?
Kira put her elbows on the rail, turning her back to the window and facing the pond again. Beside her, Diana did the same.
Diana broke the silence. “The Cup prize was high this quarter. Forty-five thousand unis, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Where was Diana going with this?
“I heard your signing bonus was low. Most people get around fifty thousand unis. Didn’t you get a little more than half that?”
What was this nonsense? Diana probably knew Kira’s bonus down to the penny. “Well, most people aren’t about to be foreclosed on when they sign up. I didn’t have much leverage.”
Diana turned toward Kira. “So, if you’ve saved a little over the past year, you could use your Cup prize to pay off your signing bonus and quit. That doesn’t happen very often.”
Kira stiffened. This would be harder than she thought. “Diana, I—”
Diana raised her finger. “If that’s your decision, I’m OK with that.”
“What?” Kira’s tension turned into confusion. “All that work . . .”
“My job is to get my clients through gunfighting and on to whatever comes next. If I helped you buy your way back to the life you want, that’s a win. Even if you never fight a real match.”
“I’m not sure it’s the life I want.” Kira sighed and looked down. “I’ll still have all that debt. I’ve been to the point where they were ready to send a property recovery team to take me away.” She rolled her shoulders to clear the tension from remembered fear. “I don’t want to be in that situation again.”
“I can’t tell you what to do about that. If you decide to be a gunfighter, I’ll do my best to get you through. If you decide to leave, good luck and Godspeed. I want you to know that.”
“Thanks.” Kira weighed a possibility. “What does the AI say my chances are?”
“For twenty-six matches, you have a 59.12 percent chance of being alive after the last one.”
“You know this off the top of your head?”
“It’s been on my mind.”
“What about Chloe?”
“51.48.”
The next question was the most important one, the one Kira had never had the guts to ask, and it might be the one Diana wouldn’t answer. Still, now was the time. “What’s it like to pull the trigger on another person?”
Diana drained her wineglass and turned. Light from the windows played across her face. “Probably not as hard as it should be. A lot of the training is desensitization. Like when we tell you to imagine the targets and the mechs as real people. That’s so when you go up against real people, it feels like shooting at targets and mechs.” She shrugged. “It’s a cheap mental trick, but it works.”
Is that who Kira really wanted to be? Someone who could shoot people as if it was nothing? Death’s Angel. “How is that OK? I mean, killing them just so TKC doesn’t have to pay the claims?”
Diana snorted. “That’s just a matter of degree.”
“What?”
“No matter what you think you’re doing, and no matter who you think you’re working for, you’re turning somebody’s life into somebody else’s money. We’re just unusually direct about it.”
“How can you say that?”
Diana twirled her wineglass between her palms. “When I was an undergrad, I interned as an assistant archivist for a company being sued for contaminating water near their plants. Big, old, well-thought-of corporation. Made a lot of those ‘most respected’ lists. The contaminant was long-lived and hard to filter out. It caused cancers, neurological problems, birth defects, immune system disorders—the bad shit. They’d known about the risks for years. There was even a memo saying they shouldn’t change the process because change would be expensive and they’d contaminated the water supply so thoroughly, stopping wouldn’t reduce their liability very much.”
“Didn’t somebody blow the whistle on them? Didn’t you? I mean . . .”
Disdain flickered across Diana’s face. “That was my job. The archivist and I organized the information and turned it over to the lawyers representing people suing the company. It’s called discovery.”
“So, how did they not win? With all that in there?”
“They did win.”
“So, wait. What?”
“They won a couple bellwether trials, scored some good-sized settlements, and then the plaintiff’s lawyers called for group trials to determine final damages. The company convinced the court the cases were potentially different enough they should all be tried individually. That could take as long as forty years.”
“Oh dear God.”
“So, they went to sick people with life expectancy of five to fifteen years and said, ‘You can wait for your day in court, or you can settle for pennies on the uni now.’” Diana folded her arms. “What do you think most of them said?”
Kira nodded. “I see.”
“So, the plaintiffs gave up a chunk of their lives for a pittance, the shareholders got their profits, and the execs got their bonuses. Maybe the rest of us saved a little on kitchenware.” Diana paced in the open deck. “In this job, we’re dealing with people too stubborn to quit. People who won’t accept the outcome of the process. Usually because they think they’re being cheated—and to be clear, they’re not always wrong. But we deal with them honestly, we don’t hide behind a phalanx of publicists and lawyers, and we don’t take cover behind a stack of legal briefs. We shoot at them; they shoot at us.”
“So that makes it all OK?”
“It’s legal, and it’s what they choose. One way or another, it’s always about turning lives into money.”
“Well, I don’t think a performance of Hamlet is going to kill anybody.”
Diana made another one of those joke-that-only-she-got smiles. “And where do you think the money for that comes from? Who funds the grants, and what does it do for their agenda?”
Kira rubbed her temples. “This would be easier to figure out if I knew whether you’re my hard-assed fairy godmother or Mephistopheles.”
“I don’t think I offered you all knowledge in exchange for your soul.”
“No. But I’d probably let it go for a lot less than that.”
Diana smiled. “How about this? I’m not an angel or a demon, just a person trying to do right by the people who matter to me.”
“That might be the scariest answer of all.”
Diana zipped her jacket all the way up. “It’s chilly. I’m going back in. Join me?”
Kira shook her head. “I’ve got some things to think about.”
“Suit yourself.”
Kira stared out over the pond. Split futures, like the two sides of the combat area. In one, she emptied her bank account, paid off her signing bonus, and went to live in the theater, like Erik in Phantom of the Opera. Working for Marla. How much pull did Marla really have with her board, and how long would it last? She’d only been on the job a little over a year, and Kira didn’t know her all that well. Sure, they’d hit it off at the Shores of Superior Theater Fest and kept in touch, and she’d gone out of her way to offer the position. But still . . . Would Marla be able to keep the grant money flowing and protect Kira’s special arrangement?
And, even if all that worked, would she find another job like it when the grant ran out? And another, and another, until she was forty-four, and her loan was all paid off. Then what? And what if there wasn’t always another job? Then she’d have struggled and saved for nothing, and she’d wind up as a debt slave. Like the survival rates, it was the cumulative odds that killed you. She might pull off this transition, and the next one, but how many after that?
If she stayed, though? She’d have enough to keep her creditors at bay. With a little luck and some endorsement contracts, she might pay them off completely before she fought her last match. But every t
wo weeks, someone would try to kill her. Unless she killed them first. But it was only another year. Maybe a little more.
Two more futures split from that one. In one, the day came when she was just a little too slow or not quite accurate enough, and she died. Chloe and Diana would come to her funeral. Maybe a couple of other gunfighters. She rolled that over in her mind. Odds of seeing that one play out were a little more than two in five.
In the other, she walked away free. Debts paid. Some money in her account. Free to go back to the theater or live any life she wanted to live. Only about a year from now. Nearly a three in five chance of that.
No debt. Not unless she counted the blood on her hands.
Kira’s handset made a ping noise, interrupting her musing. High-priority personal message. She frowned and pulled the device from her belt. Eastbrook Talent Agency. Kira’s breath caught. Eastbrook. How many times had she sent a picture and credits to them when she was in New York? Had she ever gotten so much as a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” generic response? She keyed the message to open.
Ms. Clark:
Congratulations on winning the Midwest Regional Cup!
As I’m sure you’re aware, your accomplishments open a world of exciting possibilities, including endorsements, merchandising, and appearances. I’m Adrian Connell, and I’d like to be your guide to that world. Please use my contact information below to arrange a meeting at your convenience to discuss . . .
At the bottom, his personal contact info. Direct line. Handset number. Personal message address. The information they didn’t part with until they were serious.
Her handset pinged again. Had she ever purged her high-priority senders list?
The Grace Masterson Agency, this time. No. Not just the agency. Grace Masterson herself. Same deal—congratulations, let’s talk about your future, here’s my personal contact info. From the founding agent. Kira put her handset back in its carrier. A buzz that definitely wasn’t whiskey filled her head.
She turned back to the window. Inside the Lounge, the others sat around the big table. Claire’s long-delayed nachos arrived, two plates of chips and meat and black olives smothered in gooey cheese. Chloe dug right in, Gary right behind her. Two guys from Lucky Pig had joined the group, talking and laughing. Diana arrived, bearing another Angel’s Envy, and took her place. A dark-haired man in First Trust colors tried to sit next to Chloe, and she shooed him off. Because it was Kira’s chair.
She didn’t have to stand out here in the cold, a pathetic orphan with her nose pressed against the glass. That big table full of good food, surrounded by people talking and laughing, with the smell of cooked meat and spices in the air—there was a place for her there. All she had to do was go in and claim it.
She pulled her handset off her belt clip, called up Marla’s contact, and tapped out a message: “Thanks for all you’ve done, but I guess I’m going to be a gunfighter.”
She reviewed the message, hit send, and opened the door back into the Gunslinger’s Lounge, where her friends and colleagues waited.
Chapter 12
During the coming match, Kira will fire from the last place on the field Niles will look, nullifying his advantage in draw speed and maximizing her advantage in accuracy.
When they walk from the start point to their kill boxes, she will slant left, entering her box nearly fourteen feet from the strikeline that marks the shortest distance. This will take her eleven paces. Niles, with longer legs, can reach his box in less than ten if he sticks to the strikeline. Completing his turn before she puts her foot down in her kill box, he will face the disorienting gray expanse of the Wall for about a second.
Assuming his trainer hasn’t broken the bad habits apparent on his match vid, when the Wall clears, he will aim down the strikeline and sweep right, his gun tracking along with his eyes. When he duels citizens, this isn’t a problem, because he’s fast enough to correct his mistake before they can fire.
But Kira isn’t some hapless citizen. In the second or so it will take Niles to recognize and correct his error, she will draw her weapon, stabilize her sights, and fire the shot that will end his life.
At least, that’s the plan.
The judge reaches the part requiring a response. “. . . either of you wish to concede, or abandon this course of action?”
Kira answers with a clear “no.”
Niles’s refusal comes a fraction of a second later.
The judge touches his bench display. “I have recorded your intent.”
Quitting is no longer even a theoretical option.
Chapter 13
From her position in front of the judge’s table and beside Diana, Kira waited with her eyes fixed on the door to her opponent’s changing room. If Rusty Cunningham took just two more minutes to step onto the dueling field, she’d win her first professional match on a forfeit.
In the waiting room, he’d denounced TKC as a bunch of greedy, cheating bastards and Kira as a freak and a bitch no man would ever want. But there’d been wide-eyed terror under the anger, and Kira had played to it.
When he’d exhausted himself on his rant, she’d calmly inquired what he’d done to prepare. He replied that he owned a small arsenal, had hunted since he was eight, and had spent two weeks training in a simulator. She’d responded with a raised eyebrow and obviously restrained amusement, which did nothing for his temper.
He’d started to wind up again when the receptionist sent them to the changing rooms. What had happened there? Had his anger doubled and redoubled on itself until it became incoherent rage that left him with quivering hands and clouded judgment? Or had the doubts hit, depleting his resolve and leading him to take the hallway door?
With just over a minute to spare, the entryway opened. Rusty hesitated on the threshold, blinking in the unfamiliar light and fumbling with the cloth belt of his dueling tunic. His name badge sat slightly askew against the Velcro holding it in place.
With some prompting from the ward, he found his way to his spot in front of the judge, placing him on Kira’s right. Rusty’s second stood a bit beyond him, dressed in jeans, a dress shirt, and hiking boots.
Rusty caught sight of Diana and sneered. “It figures you’d have some other whore holding your leash.”
Kira turned to her second, flicking her thumb in Rusty’s direction. “You’re right. I’m going for the head shot on this one.”
Diana said nothing, but on the edge of Kira’s vision, Rusty flinched. The judge signaled for attention, and when everyone fell silent, he recited the cause of the action—something to do with an insurance payout for lightning damage—and the rules of engagement. Finally, he came to the part requiring their participation. “Do either of you wish to concede or abandon this course of action?”
Kira responded, “No.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Rusty said the same.
Kira put away any remaining inclination to view him as a person and thought of him only as a target.
“As judge, I have recorded your intent.” He tapped the surface of his bench, entering that bit of data into the Association’s recordkeeping system. “Your holsters and weapons have been prepared by the wards in the presence of your seconds while monitored by an Association AI. Do either of you wish to challenge these arrangements?”
Again, they both declined.
The lead ward spoke. “You may don your gear.”
Diana came to the table with Kira, where their ward gave them the gun belt, holster, and gun, each randomly selected from the four sets laid out for the event. With Diana’s help, Kira put the belt on, clipped the holster into place, and secured it to her thigh with a strap.
Kira ran through the tests with her ward. When she drew, the holster triggered a foul if she was outside the kill box and activated the motion sensor in the gun belt if she was inside. The sensor signaled a foul after only a few centimeters of movement, just as it should. If she fell or ran after drawing her gun, she would lose.
The ward con
firmed the sensor’s reset, making the unit ready for live operation.
With her preparations complete, Kira watched her opponent and his second struggle with the equipment. The ward hovered nearby, insisting they keep the safety on during the equipment checkout to protect everyone else. Rusty announced he would comply during the checkout, but he would leave the safety off during the duel to maximize his speed. Good. With some luck, he might hook his finger inside the trigger guard when he drew and shoot himself in the leg.
At last, he was ready.
The lead ward spoke again. “Assume your positions.”
The seconds and EMTs moved behind the judge’s table, where a transparent shield protected them from stray rounds or a citizen determined to make a political statement. Kira and her opponent returned to their places on opposite sides of the centerline, facing the start point.
If Rusty killed her, he would gloat about it for years. She let that thought slip through her mind, without consideration.
The Wall went up.
On the ward’s command, they walked down opposite sides of the barrier to the red circle. Kira put her toes on the edge of the marked area and waited, her back to Rusty and her face toward the kill box. She tightened her focus, letting all the extraneous parts of her world slip away. She had a duel to win.
The lead ward called out, “You may proceed on my count.” After a pause, he spoke with a steady rhythm. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .”
Kira walked toward her end of the field, following the strikeline and matching her pace to the ward’s cadence.
“. . . 4 . . . 5 . . .”
She kept her breath regular and her mind focused.
“. . . 6 . . . 7 . . .”
She picked a spot between the left boundary and the strikeline where she would enter the kill box.
“. . . 8 . . . 9 . . .”
Kira adjusted her stride to place her pivot foot on the boundary line.
“. . . 10 . . .”
The ball of her foot on the line, Kira executed a full rotation, ending when she faced the far side of the field with her foot planted in the kill box. The Wall disappeared. She pulled her pivot toe inside the box and drew, her hands meeting at waist level and her thumb flicking off the safety. Rusty stood a little off the strikeline, looking down at the dueling pistol he was extracting from his holster instead of looking for her. Kira brought her sights into alignment on his chest. He looked up just as her finger found the trigger and applied smooth, steady pressure. A flash, a bang, and the kick of recoil against her palms.
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