He waved toward the space behind him. Unlike the real dueling field, this one was open-topped, allowing an instructor to see the entire space from a control cab well above the combat area. High walls surrounded the field on three sides, topped by walkways where a smattering of advanced trainees, instructors, and staff watched the proceedings.
“Follow me.” The group, a loose gaggle of beige ducklings, fell in behind Peterson. He reached a table below the control cab, counted his charges, and continued his presentation. “Today, you’ll be armed with a pseudogun.” He pointed to a device sitting in the safety stand, its action open. Except for its bright-blue color, it looked exactly like a dueling pistol. Beside it, a rack of thirty bullets sat in a carrier. They were also bright blue. “The pseudogun can’t fire a round. However, you are expected to treat it exactly as if it were a real gun.” The instructor lifted the device, loaded it, and placed it in his holster, taking care to keep the barrel pointed down throughout the operation. “Just like we practiced, OK?” He surveyed the class, checking for their attention. “The pseudogun makes a flash, but it’s just a thing called a diode. There’s a speaker that simulates sounds, too.” The instructor drew the device, aimed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle emitted a white flash and the sharp report of a 9mm pistol.
“As long as you’re inside the simulator, the system can tell where the bullet would have gone if this had been a real gun. That’s how we keep score during a practice duel.”
Peterson scanned his audience before proceeding to his next point. “When you’ve finished with your match, go back to the judge’s table, remove the bullet, and put it in the case bin.” He carried out the action he’d just described, tossing the bullet into the blue plastic receptacle on the table. “These rounds don’t have any powder. They just tell the pseudogun it’s loaded.” Peterson placed the device in the waiting cradle, where it emitted a small chirp. “If you don’t hear that chirp, that means the capacitor didn’t recharge. Press this.” He touched a recessed button just above the grip. “That way, it’s ready for the next person. When you’re done, go sit with the group.” He waved his data pad toward the area where they’d been standing earlier. “Proper handling of the pistol at the judge’s table is the only part of today’s exercise that will be graded.”
In response to that revelation, a ripple ran through the trainees. Upperclassmen had been hectoring them with stories of their first simulator combat since training started, and they’d all assumed their performance in the upcoming duel would have a big impact on their scores.
Peterson stepped closer to the group. “Today is your introduction to the simulator. This is where we provide the most realistic training we can offer. Normally, you’d face off against a mech running a program selected by your trainer, and you’d fire at it with a real gun.” He pointed to the three walls of the enclosure. “If you don’t hit the mech, one of those walls would stop your bullet.” He used his clipboard to indicate the open fourth side. “Since the mech only fires a pseudogun, we don’t need a wall on that side.”
It was hard to tell for sure at this distance, but the walls appeared to be coated with the same spongy, bullet-absorbing material as their range targets. When tickled with an electrical current, it gave up all the bullets embedded in it. Scooping them up from the ground was a job for trainees whose attention wandered in class or who mouthed off to the instructors.
Two men wearing gray-and-green professional dueling uniforms descended the stairs from the control cab. Peterson introduced them. “Today, you’ll be dueling against either Mr. Abrams or Mr. Sanchez.”
The men nodded in acknowledgment and took up positions across the centerline at the other end of the judge’s table while the trainees watched in rapt silence.
Peterson reclaimed the group’s attention. “You may recognize them as professionals in the TKC stable. Because we aren’t ready to lose you quite yet, they’ve only got pseudoguns.”
Collectively, Kira’s group emitted a nervous chuckle.
“When they squeeze the trigger, the simulator figures out if the bullet would’ve hit you. If it would’ve grazed you someplace, you get a tingle. If they score a substantial hit, you get a shock. If they hit your head or heart, you get a big shock.”
A hand went up.
“Yes, Mr. Lopez.”
“Are they wearing shock suits, too?”
The instructor paused, as if he might offer a comment, but instead he pointed to the gunfighters, and Mr. Sanchez held his arm out and pulled the sleeve back, revealing the wire-laden skin suit beneath. It was the same gesture the trainees used when they arrived this morning, to show the instructors they’d dressed as ordered.
Petersen addressed Lopez. “In the unlikely event you or one of your classmates manages a hit, these gentlemen will feel it.”
Peterson’s tone left little doubt that Lopez had stepped in it, and put himself about one impertinent question away from spending some of his precious off hours scooping bullets or scrubbing toilets. Another ripple passed through the group, this one created by trainees reflexively putting some distance between themselves and Lopez.
“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 . . .”