Sanchez timed his strides with the voice’s cadence, but he departed from the strikeline that showed the shortest distance to the kill box. He reached the box and became a blur as he turned. He stopped with his gun drawn and at eye level. It flashed, two pistol reports sounded, and Sanchez jumped slightly, as if he’d been goosed. On the other side of the field, Abrams frantically rolled his shoulder and patted his chest, as if he was trying to get a bee out of his shirt. Eventually, both men stood upright and still.
The recorded voice spoke again. “Please return to the table area, if you are able.”
The two gunfighters holstered their weapons and jogged back to their starting positions.
The screen displayed their scores: SANCHEZ, 58; ABRAMS, 44.
Sanchez grinned and punched Abrams in the shoulder. In an actual gunfight, the match would have been a “bleed-off,” the winner determined by who could remain standing the longest with the injuries they’d received. The simulator handbook said the score was the system’s best estimate of how badly they’d damaged each other, based on the location of the hit. The scale awarded 100 points for an outright kill, and anything over 90 indicated a severed spine or shattered bone that would guarantee a fall and an immediate loss.
The instructor signaled for attention. “All right, for today, you’ll be on the gunfighter’s side of the field.” He pointed his clipboard to the open side of the combat area. “Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Abrams will trade off on the mech’s side. You’ll each get one match to start, and you can repeat as many times as you like. Any questions?”
There were none. TKC’s allocation of only two professionals to duel against ten trainees was a clear indication of what their chances were.
The instructor waited a few seconds, and then pointed to the patch of pseudograss on the left of the control cab where they’d first assembled. “Wait there until I call you.”
Kira went over and sat, cross-legged, to watch the drama unfold. Soft popping noises sounded from other simulators nearby. Were those demonstrations, or were the other groups from their class that much faster?
“Chas Evans.”
The first up was a tall, wiry guy built like a basketball player. He tried to outdo Sanchez by barreling straight down the strikeline, using his long legs to get to the kill box first. He lost time on the pivot, and Sanchez’s shot left the trainee doubled over and clutching his belly, the pseudogun still in his holster.
“Timothy Ramirez.”
Despite a fast walk down the strikeline and a rapid pivot, Tim wasted his shot, firing straight back the way he’d come, only to discover Abrams standing a few feet to the right.
“Thabo Young.”
Thabo looked like he might have outdrawn Sanchez, but his shot went wide and Sanchez administered a sting on his leg that forced him down on one knee, triggering the fall indicator and a loss.
“Curtis Johnson.”
He fouled out by drawing his pseudogun before he got both feet in the kill box.
“Kira Clark.” She scrambled to her feet and jogged to the table.
“Give me your left wrist.” Kira held out her arm, and Peterson held his data pad near it until the device chirped. He spoke gently. “Ready for the suit test?”
Kira nodded, and jumped slightly at the tickle on her bicep.
“OK, your suit’s synchronized. Go up and load your weapon.” He pointed to the judge’s table.
Kira went through the load and holster routine, and Peterson nodded. Good. That probably meant she had full credit on this part of the exercise. She assumed her position, Sanchez assumed his, and the Wall went up. What should she do? With her relatively short legs, there was no way she’d get to the kill box first. What if she took a diagonal route? It would take longer to get there, but the rules said the Wall didn’t come down until both combatants were in their kill boxes. She turned pretty fast and might have a chance if Sanchez had to spend time looking for her.
The recorded voice sent them to the start point. There, she stood in the circle, pointed forty-five degrees off to the left. The voice called cadence, and she began her march to the far corner of her kill box. She turned and drew. Sanchez turned toward her as her gun came up. A flash from his muzzle. She pulled her trigger and a burn started over her heart. The burn became agony and she dropped the gun as she brought her arms to her chest, desperate to make the pain stop.
When it was over, she found herself folded over her own knees in the kill box. Peterson knelt down next to her. “You OK?”
Kira sat up and drew a ragged breath. “Yeah. I mean, I think so. What?”
“You took one through the heart. You died.”
“Oh. That’s why I feel so bad.”
“Yeah.” Peterson smiled a little and patted her on the shoulder.
Would getting hit in the heart for real be more or less painful than what she just experienced? She pushed the thought away; she didn’t need to deal with that right now.
She started to stand and stopped. A faint whiff of ammonia, and her crotch was damp. Damn. On top of everything else, she’d pissed herself.
She looked down as heat rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry . . .”
Peterson pulled her to her feet. “It’s OK. It happens. You took a jolt at 80 percent of max. That’s enough to mess up anybody. Go back to your room, clean up, and get some lunch. I’ll take care of the pseudogun and mark you complete. I know you’ve got that part down.”
“But I want to go again. You said we could.”
Peterson shook his head. “There’s no point. It takes twelve to fourteen hours to recover after a hit like that. What’s your afternoon class?”
“Self-care first aid.”
“That’s good. I’ll sign you out until then.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Food, rest, and a shower. You’ll be fine.”
Her voice came out small and ragged. “OK, thanks.”
Fuck it all. Pity. Only two weeks in, and she was getting pity. She faced the expanse of open space between her position and the double doors leading out of the simulator area. The audience on the catwalks turned their attention to other simulators, and her group of trainees shifted their attention to Peterson, anticipating his next call. Best to make a run for it now.
Once through the doors, she found her locker and retrieved her purse. In the empty hallway, sounds and thoughts echoed. What would this be like when the bullets were real? She’d be someplace else by then. And if she wasn’t, this was still better than foreclosure. Wasn’t it?
She shut the locker and sagged against it, squeezing her purse close. Inside, her handset buzzed for attention. After a couple of deep breaths, she fished it out and checked the message. It confirmed she hadn’t been selected for an arts education liaison position she’d interviewed for just before leaving New York. “. . . a large pool of well-qualified candidates, and at this time we have decided to move forward with a candidate whose skills are a better match . . .”
Another door closing. How long did she really have? She’d been telling herself gunfighter training would last a year, but after today, what were her chances during the big cut next month? When they winnowed her class down to its final size, would she even be in it? And if not, then what?
Nothing to do about it now except what Peterson said: clean up, food, rest, and keep at it. For right now, get clear of the hallway before classes let out and everyone saw her with wet pants. She shambled toward the dorms. Her handset buzzed again.