Corporate Gunslinger

by Doug Engstrom

  Left boot planted, she pivots and reaches for her weapon. Her right foot stops just inside the boundary, the Wall comes down, and she pulls her left toe into the kill box while drawing her pistol. Her hands come together at midbody, prepared to rise and aim.

  The muzzle of Niles’s weapon flashes.

  Shit. Shit! SHIT!

  A hard punch to her gut announces the hit; burning pain confirms it. Kira bends and braces her left elbow against her knee for support. Her breath comes in gasps.

  A distant part of her mind screams: What happened? What happened? What happened? Did Niles break the pattern? Had she been slow? What?

  She moderates her breath and calms the mental screaming. What happened no longer matters. The only important question is how she’ll respond.

  She lifts her tunic to examine the wound. It’s a crappy hit. The entry point is about belly button height and well to the right of center. All told, it’s at least a foot from her heart, maybe more. Another inch or so and it would be a clean miss.

  He probably didn’t bother to stabilize his sights when he swung back toward her, and then jerked the trigger and shot low to boot. How the hell is it that Niles can half ass everything and still make it work?

  The fluids leaking from the wound are purplish rather than red, with no sign of spurting. It isn’t an arterial hit, although it’s possible he’s nicked a kidney or the lower lobe of her liver and she’s losing a lot internally. Probably nothing worse than a perforated colon, though. Even untreated, it would take her days to die from that, and she’ll be on her way to the hospital as soon as the match is over. Kira puts her hand on the wound and the fluid wells between her fingers, though she can’t tell if it’s venous blood or the remains of yesterday’s lunch. Maybe a little of both.

  The pain worsens. She looks for Diana. Her second is out from behind the transparent barrier and leaning on the judge’s table, as close as she can get until both pistols have been discharged or somebody falls. Diana says nothing, but nods toward Niles, as if reminding Kira of unfinished business.

  Kira is alive, she’s upright, and she holds a pistol.

  The match is still winnable.

  Chapter 18

  The scene on the hospital vid monitor made Kira’s chest hurt. It showed her sprawled across her kill box, Diana holding her still while two EMTs worked on her leg. The chyron said “Fallen Angel” and the analysts chattered, dissecting every aspect of her loss. More than a full day after the match, this was still apparently the biggest story in gunfighting.

  One definite casualty was the aura of invincibility she’d cultivated over the past ten months. At least nobody called to ask about it. Of course, that might only be because her handset was still locked in her personal effects bin back at the arena, waiting to see if she died or not, and the hospital wouldn’t give her a loaner. Or rather, they wanted to charge fifty unis for it, which amounted to the same thing.

  No one had come to visit her, either. Despite her promise on the field, Diana hadn’t been there when Kira came out of surgery. With a full day of lying in bed behind her and visiting hours about to end, she hadn’t heard from Chloe, or Gary, or anyone.

  A rap on the door. “Ms. Clark?”

  The nurse’s thick black hair matched his mustache.

  “Come in.”

  He lowered her bed’s side rail and examined her wound. He swabbed away some drainage, made some notes in his data pad, and changed the bandage. After another consultation with the data pad, he adjusted the drip rate on her IV. “I’ve upped the rate on your QuickHeal. That should get you out of here a little faster.” He folded the pad shut and faced her. “Do you have any questions?”

  Kira pushed herself a little more upright. “Has anyone stopped to visit?”

  The nurse looked away. Why was he so uncomfortable?

  An attention-cough came from the door, emitted by a big man in a red-trimmed Association uniform. He carried a slim briefcase. “You’ve been isolated until you and I have had a chance to talk.”

  His face was vaguely familiar. Where had she seen him? The greasy-looking red hair, soft, round face, and watery blue eyes fit somewhere, but where?

  He held up his handset, displaying the official Association seal. “I’m Deputy Investigator Arnold Jenkins from the Association for Dueling. I’ve been assigned to your case.”

  Jenkins. The barfly from the Lounge.

  Holy fuck. Jenkins was a shark. Chloe would never believe it.

  “Wait . . . If you’re Association, why are you always at Gunslinger’s instead of Libra’s?”

  He smiled an indulgent smile. “Investigators have access to both. You’d be surprised at what you can learn listening to people talk after their third drink.” He put his handset back in its carrier. “And Gunslinger’s has a better selection of IPAs.”

  Jenkins placed his briefcase on the foot of the bed and opened it. “I’d like to discuss your match with Gabriel Hernandez, but first I need to ask: Do you want either Guild representation or legal counsel present for this interview?”

  A lawyer would cost something, and the deductible on the hospital stay was going to eat into her cash reserve enough. Waiting for a Guild rep would mean a reschedule, and it would be that much longer before she could talk to anybody. Besides, if Hernandez had somehow cheated, or even if they thought he might have cheated, the faster that story got out, the better it was for her. “No, I’m fine.”

  The nurse addressed Kira. “You’ve got water there if you want it.” He pointed to a carafe on the overbed table. “Hit the call button if you need anything else.”

  Kira thanked him, and he left.

  Jenkins reached into his briefcase and withdrew a data pad and omnidirectional microphone. He set them up on Kira’s overbed table and ran what looked like a sound check.

  “Now, Ms. Clark, will you please repeat your consent to recording this conversation and state that you’ve waived your right to have legal counsel or Guild representation present?”

  He hadn’t asked if it was all right to record the conversation before, but she let it go. It would be good to get this over with. “Sure. It’s fine if you record, and I don’t need a representative.”

  Jenkins nodded. “Ms. Clark, in your own words, can you tell me about the events leading up to the match?”

  Kira sat up a little straighter in bed. “Scheduling made the assignment ten days ahead.”

  “That’s normal at TKC?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you change your training routine once you knew Mr. Hernandez was your opponent?”

  “Diana set the simulator mechs to be about his height, and quick.”

  “Did you know Mr. Hernandez has four children?”

  “Yes, I saw them on the profile and we talked about them in the waiting room.”

  “That’s interesting.” Jenkins paused and made a note. “Were you aware his children’s mother is dead as well?”

  “Yes. We talked about that, too.”

  Jenkins kept fiddling with the data pad. “Your parents are dead, aren’t they, Ms. Clark?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you when they died?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Do you think of yourself as an orphan?”

  Heat flushed in her lower neck. “I . . . I guess. I don’t think about it that often.”

  He studied her for a few more seconds, and then looked down at the data pad, where he made a note. “Did you try to communicate with Mr. Hernandez before the match?”

  Kira frowned. “We’re not supposed to do that.”

  “But did you?”

  “No. Why would I do that?”

  Jenkins ignored her question. “Did he try to contact you?”

  “No.”

  “What about Jacob Carver?”

  “Who?”

  “His second.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “He’s a Guild member.”

  “I don’t see the freelancers
much.”

  “But you could have seen him at Guild meetings or in the common areas of the arena. Maybe the Gunslinger’s Lounge?”

  Kira shrugged. “I suppose. Like I said, I don’t know him.”

  Jenkins consulted his data pad, made a few notes, then returned his attention to Kira. “Very well. Can you tell me about the match and the waiting room?”

  “There isn’t much to tell. We got there at about the same time, we went through security, and then we talked in the waiting room.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Like I said, his wife, his kids. How bad it would be for his family if he died.”

  “Why were you talking about that?” Jenkins’s eyes narrowed.

  Kira looked at him as if he’d asked why she’d loaded the gun. “I wanted him to fixate on the risks and quit.”

  “That’s something you normally do?”

  “I always try to talk them out of it—that’s the best outcome for everyone.” Kira looked rueful. “He wouldn’t give me a chance.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He just kept repeating about how TKC owed him, and how he had to see this through for his family.”

  “Do you think he was right?”

  “About what?”

  “About TKC owing him?”

  Where was he going with that? A textbook response was safest. “I don’t really know. By the time we get to the waiting room, people with way more information than I have made a decision. I’m just standing up for it.”

  Jenkins seemed disinclined to pursue that angle and focused on his data pad. “So, that’s the waiting room. You go through the changing room, where you’re alone, and then out on the field. There, we have video.” He tapped the data pad, and an image from the dueling field cameras appeared on the room’s vid monitor. It zoomed in on Kira and Diana meeting outside the changing room door. The image zoomed to Diana’s fist and froze. “Tell me what’s happening here.”

  Kira swallowed. “Diana is telling me he’s got a Guild second.”

  The image advanced to Diana extending a finger.

  “She’s telling me he’s good.”

  “Who is?”

  “The second.”

  Jenkins grunted and made some more notes on the data pad.

  The image switched to Kira’s response signs.

  “Tell me about these.”

  “I’m telling her I’m ready and my opponent is determined.”

  “Because of what he said in the waiting room?”

  “Right.”

  Jenkins chewed on his cheek and made more notes. He let the images play until Kira drew her pistol. At that point, he halted the playback and brought in a close-up of Kira with a two-handed grip on the dueling pistol, looking over the gunsights. “Tell me what you’re thinking about, here.”

  “I’m thinking about firing.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “What?”

  Jenkins made an impatient gesture. “Up until now, you’re half to three-quarters of a second ahead of him. Here, you hesitate. It’s like you’re waiting for something.”

  She should have expected that question. The commentators had certainly been going on about it.

  “I had trouble stabilizing my sights.” The lie was both harmless and small.

  Jenkins shifted inside his uniform, becoming more upright and tighter. He squinted at the screen. “While you’re hesitating, Mr. Hernandez fires.”

  He let the video run again. Kira’s leg buckled and she fell, her face twisting in agony. Jenkins froze the image.

  Jenkins looked a little distracted. But it was like he was trying to look distracted. Kira shifted in the bed, her muscles tensing. On the monitor, her heart rate jumped, and Jenkins’s eyes flicked up to read it. He tapped something into the data pad.

  “How tight a pattern do you normally throw, Ms. Clark?”

  She tried to match his nonchalance with her own. “I can usually put ten bullets in an eight-inch circle. I can get it down to six inches if I’m having a good day.”

  “With a two-second draw-to-hit clock?”

  “Right.”

  Jenkins killed the vid image, then looked up from the data pad. “Tell me again about when you were notified Mr. Hernandez would be your opponent.”

  He went through the details, stopping to question her about different parts of the story, supplying new facts, such as her drink order at a time when Jacob Carver was also at the Gunslinger’s Lounge, and skipping around to ask about details at different times and places. He fired up the video again, starting in the middle, running forward and backward, asking for the same information in different ways and with different degrees of detail.

  Kira pushed off the blankets. Why was it so hot in here?

  Again, he stopped the vid on the frame where she stood with her gun drawn. “You’ve got an opponent coming into firing position, and you’re taking half again as long as your average time in the simulator.” He pointed to her gun on the image. “I’m going to ask you again, Ms. Clark: What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for . . . Oh, fuck it. I’m waiting to get a good shot.” It was technically true—she wanted a good shot at his shoulder.

  “A good shot? Your gun is up and aimed. All you have to do is pull the trigger and you’ll hit him in the chest.”

  Kira sighed. “I wanted it to look good.” She waved toward her bandaged leg. “Look, it was a boneheaded mistake, and I paid for it, OK?”

  Jenkins sucked on his cheek again, squinting at the image. “All right, let’s go through this again. There’s a few points I need to clear up.”

  Kira frowned. “I just told you what happened. Why do you even think I’d let myself get shot like that?”

  Jenkins paused, then spoke as if he were addressing a very slow student. “If you know you’re going to get hit, where are the best places?”

  Kira frowned. “Upper arms. Shoulders. Outer thighs.”

  “Why?”

  Kira made a dismissive gesture. “No vital organs.” She resisted adding, And quit talking to me like I’m the slowest trainee in class.

  Jenkins continued. “When someone is facing you in a two-handed stance, how large a target are the arms and shoulders?”

  “Pretty small. But if he hits the inner thigh instead of the outer, I get . . .” She pointed to the bandages on her leg.

  Jenkins nodded. “How wide are your thighs?”

  What the fuck kind of question was that? “Wide? I don’t know. Five or six inches, maybe?”

  “You told me your shot pattern fell in a six-to-eight-inch circle against a two-second clock, correct?”

  “Right.”

  “What if there’s no clock?”

  “No clock?” Kira frowned. “When I practice just mechanics and aim, I can get it down to a two- or three-inch circle.”

  “So, from your own experience, you know that given enough time, a well-trained marksman can shoot accurately enough to hit either the inner or the outer thigh at twenty yards.” Jenkins paused, as if assessing her response. “And you know that Mr. Hernandez had an excellent trainer.”

  The room became much, much warmer.

  An hour and a half later, the water pitcher was empty, Kira’s sheets and gown were damp with sweat, and the pain in her injured leg spiked with every heartbeat. She ran her hand over her neck. The muscles were rock hard.

  Jenkins returned the microphone to his briefcase, calm as if he’d just completed a presentation on disability insurance. The data pad went in next, and he zipped the case shut.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Clark. I’ll be in touch if we need anything further from you.”

  He turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

  Kira flopped back in bed and looked at the ceiling.

  Sweet Jesus, how much trouble am I in?

  Chapter 19

  Kira entered the control cab of Simulator Twenty-Three. Diana glanced at the system clock. “You’
re late.”

  Kira flinched. “I’m sorry. I guess I lost track of how long things take while I was in the hospital.”

  Diana sniffed and kept working at the control panel, but said nothing.

  Kira pulled a dueling pistol from its mount by the door, checked the chamber, and put it in her holster. At the control panel, she presented her wrist and Diana gave the simulator control over Kira’s shock suit. The system administered a confirming tickle on Kira’s bicep. Diana set the shock level to 50 percent.

  Kira frowned. “Half? What happened to ‘twenty percent is good training’?”

  Her trainer ignored the question.

  Irritated, Kira pushed her point. “I thought you might take it easy on me my first day back.”

  Diana worked some additional controls as she replied. “You thought wrong.”

  It was time to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Kira took a deep breath. “I heard about Gary. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry all over the place this morning, aren’t you?” At least Diana faced her when she said it.

  Kira folded her arms across her chest and looked at her feet. “I know it’s hard for you to lose a client, that’s all.”

  Diana let out an exasperated sigh. “You sound like Howard.” Despite the exasperation, her faced softened a little as she said her husband’s name, as if hearing it made her a little bit happier. Or in this case, a little less angry. “I appreciate your concern, but I put on the jacket and I made the call. It’s part of the job. I’m OK.”

  “You made a casualty call this morning?” Kira frowned. “I thought Gary’s parents lived in Arizona.”

  “They do. I went to see his sister last night. She’s not technically next of kin, but they were close. I owed her the visit.”

  Kira kept her voice steady. “What did she say?”

  Diana shrugged. “She cried. Then she yelled at me. Pretty normal reaction.”

  “I’m s—” Kira stopped and gathered herself. “That must have been hard for you.”

  “Everyone grieves their own way.”

  But what about you, Diana? How do you grieve?

  Kira shifted her stance. “Look, I just want to say—”

  Diana’s face hardened. “I said, ‘I’m OK.’ That means, ‘I’m OK.’” She tugged at the sleeves of her uniform, pulling them farther over her wrists. “Now quit goldbricking and get down to the field. We’ve got work to do.”