“I get that.” Chloe grinned a little. “Though if you tell Mom your whole story, she may decide you’re a project and try to fix you up with somebody.” She gave Kira an appraising look. “Not that it would be hard. You’re pretty enough for three people. Who do you date?”
“Guys.” Kira laughed a little. “Just guys.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Chloe made it sound like yet another limitation on her prospects.
Heavy, running footsteps pounded down the hall. Something big hit their door with a hard, meaty sound, followed by a slap, laughter, and a shouted response with “asshole” as the only intelligible word. A gasp, more laughter, and the footsteps thundered on.
Chloe pointed to the door. “You know we’re the only two girls in the class, right?”
“No.” Kira folded her arms across her chest. “There was an Adrian and a Rory on the class list. I thought maybe . . .”
“They’re a couple big, beefy guys from someplace in Kansas. Lorenzo and I checked.”
The room suddenly felt like a small and rather fragile lifeboat in a large and rather hostile sea.
Chloe continued. “I think our chances are better if we stick together.”
“I think you’re right about that.”
Chloe’s voice became even more earnest. “So let’s say we do everything we can to help each other graduate. Deal?”
Kira grinned. “Deal.”
Chapter 3
Kira enters the scanner, closes the door behind her, and confirms her identity with her thumbprint. It’s the third time today she’s verified who she is, as if anyone would trade places with a gunfighter about to face another top-line professional.
Hanging at her side, her left hand trembles. Apparently, her body doesn’t like the fifty-fifty odds she’ll face on the field. No question this will be more dangerous than a duel against an untrained citizen with a complaint over corporate policy and a loss in arbitration. With those, her chance of dying is less than one in twenty-five. But the rewards for the encounter ahead are also far greater . . . beginning with the freedom to never do this again.
She steps into the circle inscribed on the floor of the cylindrical space and faces the AI readout. The scan begins.
The AI searches for hidden body armor, velocity-blunting fibers, implanted aiming aids, or even a button or snap that might alter a bullet’s course through her body. Her pullover tunic and drawstring pants are as comfy as a pair of nice pajamas, and they offer about as much protection.
The AI continues its work, and Kira steadies herself by using scene analysis to break down the part she’s about to play.
The one-act drama “Death’s Angel on the Dueling Field,” starring Kira Clark, is about to unfold for a vid audience that might run into the tens of millions. No matter. The tools she used when playing in a basement theater for a few dozen people will still serve.
The questions:
What is Death’s Angel literally trying to do?
Win a duel.
What action is she going to perform?
Escape the life. Hundreds of millions in corporate unidollars will flow in response to the outcome of this match, cascading into billions in share price changes, options, and related derivatives. Only a tiny slice will be hers, but that slice will be enough to buy her freedom, with plenty left over to purchase any life she wants. She’s been conned by the system, she’s been an enforcer for the system, and this will be her final payday. Whether it comes in the form of a huge bank deposit or a cheap plastic body bag is yet to be determined.
It’s as if—
This is always the hardest part. The “as if” is the touchstone of the scene, the emotional prompt to guide her words and actions. It should be an event from her life, emotionally similar to the scene, but not close enough for direct comparison.
It’s as if I’m auditioning for the Forrest University MFA program.
She’d succeeded on pure craft, using training and technique to show the admission panel the grief of Andromache from The Trojan Women. “But to die is better far than to live wretched.” It helped that Euripides got that right, and it went well enough she beat out 304 applicants for one of twelve slots.
Today, she’ll show the cold, calculating indifference of Death’s Angel. Every word, every gesture, will demonstrate she’s come to claim what’s hers and stepping over Niles’s body to do it is all in a day’s work.
She puts her once-trembling left hand through the signs she will use to communicate with her second when the door opens. I’m OK and opponent ready spill from her fingers. Perfect.
Diana’s fondness for her homemade hand signals probably comes more from her days as a Marine directing troops in close combat than the needs of the dueling field, but Kira has always gone along with them. Today, they provide a comforting click of routine.
With a crescendo of nearly inaudible hums, the AI completes its work and reports that Kira is free from any prohibited material or equipment. It opens the door to reveal a white dome covering a field of green pseudograss a little larger than a basketball court with very generous sidelines.
The space is both chilly and acoustically dead—as cool and still as the place in her chest where Kira Clark kept a wide variety of feelings, but Death’s Angel maintains only an iron determination to win.
Chapter 4
“All right. Listen up!” Alan Peterson held up his data pad to get everyone’s attention, like a football coach calling on his team. The tight little knot of ten gunfighter trainees, the portion of Kira’s class assigned to Simulator Four, turned to face him. After two weeks in the program, their skill set consisted largely of showing up on time, speaking when spoken to, and maintaining an attentive silence while directions were given. That, and what Senior Instructor Briggs described as “loading and holstering a weapon without endangering yourself or those around you and achieving intentional discharge in the general direction of the target in somewhat less time than it takes my grandmother to locate her handset and remove it from her purse.”
Kira maneuvered to the outer edge of the group, where she could see and hear without the taller bodies of her classmates in the way. At last, she had a clear view of the instructor in his green-and-gray uniform; right down to the black bar across his chest signifying Guild-certified status and the one red slash on his right arm indicating his junior rank.
Someone moved in front of her. Kira shifted again, trading a more oblique angle on the instructor and a little more distance for an unobstructed line of sight. With luck, Peterson would have enough audience awareness to speak up and turn enough to make sure everyone got a good look at anything he had to show them. If this session stuck to the pattern of earlier classes, verbal instructions and demonstrations would be the only reliable sources of information. Handouts and other written materials seemed to be produced and maintained with the idea no one would ever read them, and hardly anyone did. Like Chloe, most of the class struggled with any text more complex than the cafeteria menu, but most of them could repeat a series of physical steps after seeing it just two or three times.
Satisfied he had the group’s attention, Peterson continued. “This is the dueling simulator. Some of you may remember it from the tour. The combat area behind me is exactly like a dueling field. It has pseudograss, and it has a centerline, start point, strikeline, and kill boxes all laid out.”