Chloe didn’t respond. Instead, she opened another box, set a picture frame on top of her dresser and turned it on. A gray-haired man and woman stood together, beaming. Two younger men stood to their left, with Chloe standing in front of them. Standing next to Chloe, Lorenzo looked even younger than he had a few minutes ago.
Kira smiled at the image. “So that’s your family.”
Chloe brushed the edge of the frame wistfully. “Yeah, that’s us all right. Mom and Dad, Michael and Desi, and me and Lorenzo.” The picture shifted. An older man hefted a red wooden ball a little smaller than his hand, his gaze focused outside the frame. “That’s my uncle Luca, about to whip Desi’s butt in bocce ball.” The picture shifted again, this time to a baby on a blanket. The camera had caught the infant with a smile breaking out on its face and its pudgy hands in midwave. “That’s my nephew, Alex.”
“What do your parents think about you being a gunfighter?”
Chloe shrugged. “They’re worried about me. But they can’t take care of me forever.” Chloe slumped into her desk chair. “Ever since I dropped out of school, it’s been the same thing. I get a job, or I get two jobs, or I get three. I get a little money together, get a place and maybe I get a roommate, and things go pretty good for a while. Then I get laid off, or my hours get cut, or I get sick and miss a couple shifts or something and boom! I’m back in Mom and Dad’s basement, or somebody’s couch, and I crawl out again, and then . . .” She waved her hand, as if to push her own words away. “Mom and Dad can’t work that much longer, and if they quit, they can’t have me showing up to put a hole in their groceries. Michael and Anna have the baby now, so crashing there is out. I’ve gotta figure out how to take care of myself.” Chloe’s face brightened a little. “I’m doing it, too. I used my signing bonus to put a down payment on one of those duplex places. It’s a dump, but Lorenzo and Desi are fixing it up. I’m paying for some of their school, so it helps all of us.” She went to the frame and brought up a picture of a nondescript brick building with two entrances and a battered exterior. “I want to rent out one side and live in the other. So, when I’m done here, it’s all paid for and I’ve always got a place to be, and I’ve always got some money coming in.” Chloe worked her fingers, as if they were stiff.
“But they’re OK with you shooting people?” There. It was out.
Chloe sat up straight. “The way I figure it, we’ll be kind of like cops, you know? We’ll deal with the people who won’t follow the rules and keep insisting they’re right after everybody’s told them they’re wrong. It’s better if they duel with one of us instead of showing up at an office someplace and gunning a bunch of people down, isn’t it?” She looked to Kira for agreement.
Kira maintained a neutral expression.
Undeterred by the lack of an answer, Chloe kept her attention on Kira. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Kira squirmed. Might as well go with the truth, as ugly as it was. “I got behind on a lifetime services contract loan and the property recovery teams were coming for me.” She shuddered at the notion of becoming property that had to be recovered by enforcers working for her contract holders. “The signing bonus was enough to stop it.” She pulled into herself. What would Chloe think of her now?
Her roommate’s eyes went wide. “A lifetime services contract? For what?”
“Student loans. I went to Paget for undergrad, then I got an MFA . . .”
Chloe’s brow wrinkled. “Couldn’t your parents, like, help you out a little bit?”
Kira took a deep breath. “My parents are dead. Staph infection. Dad got it after surgery, Mom got it from him. I’ve been on my own since I was nineteen, and I guess I made some bad decisions.” People were usually less judgmental if you took some responsibility.
Chloe looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”
“It’s OK. That’s just how it is for me.”
Chloe’s tone shifted toward incredulity. “Don’t you have any people at all? I mean . . .”
“Some cousins in Portland, but we don’t see each other much.”
The shock didn’t fade from Chloe’s face. “How much debt do you have, anyway?”
Kira looked at the floor. “That’s kind of personal.”
“Sorry.” Chloe sounded genuinely pained. “I forgot. Rich people don’t like to talk about that stuff.”
Kira frowned. “Rich? I just told you; I’m broke on my ass.”
Chloe waved the objection away. “That’s not what I mean. You get out of this, you get the right job, or find the right guy, and you’ll fit right in.” Chloe rolled her shoulders. “Me? I could have more money than the president of TKC, and the minute I open my mouth, people would know right where I come from and wonder why I don’t go back there. And that’s if they can’t tell just by looking.”
Kira squirmed again. “I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do. But it’s OK.” Chloe stood. “Do you really want to come to Sunday dinner?”
Kira nodded. “Yeah, if you’re going. I guess I’m afraid that on Sunday this place will clear out and I’ll be here by myself while everyone else is away, and . . . I don’t know, I don’t want that right now.”
“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. T
he 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.”
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.
&n
bsp; 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.
Corporate Gunslinger Page 2
