After drone Niklas Loga is banished from his all-male, militant clan for blasphemy, he finds himself thrown into the land of his enemies.
Trapped in a land where propriety and refinement are valued above valor and obedience, he stumbles into making...
Acting calmly under immense pressure was an under-credited art. The discipline of slowing an anxious heartbeat was a skill that came from instruction and practice, not one's nature. Niklas sucked in a deep breath of air slowly. He didn't have much time, but he couldn't afford to listen to his instincts, which cried at him to act quickly.
The tip of his nose was numb and runny, and his hands were still unsteady. That wouldn't do. Niklas exhaled long and deep, and the vaporous plume of his breath bellowed through the filter in his mask, cutting through the frigid air.
Lungs emptied as the last whiff of air escaped. Niklas held his breath for four full seconds. That was the secret. Somehow, holding his breath for a moment between breaths did more to slow his heart than the intake of oxygen itself. Niklas sucked in another slow deep breath. Unable to wait any longer, he let out his last breath. As he emptied his lungs, his hands steadied, and he aligned his rifle's iron sights.
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Niklas slowly squeezed the trigger, and his rifle bucked into his shoulder with a bright yellow flash. Gunshots weren't jarring or surprising anymore. He could hardly remember when they were. A master artisan couldn't afford to be startled by the tools of his trade.
The metal target in the distance let out a sharp ping as it swung back and crashed down onto the bar.
Quickly, he sought another target. There were still plenty left for him. He fired from a kneeling supported position, bracing himself against a brick barrier. Ping. Ping. Ping. The range sang with gunshots and chiming targets as he shot the next three rounds. He had only one bullet left.
A drone hit the ground next to Niklas and began to assemble their weapon frantically. Niklas didn't check to see who it was. His score was at risk, and every second counted. He found his final target and gently tugged the trigger.
Ping!
"Loga, clear!" the drill chief barked.
At his consent, Niklas quickly locked the slide back and disassembled his weapon. His hands moved on their own. He had done it countless times since he was a child. Niklas left the rifle in pieces, snatched up his pack, and threw it on his shoulders. The familiar weight was cold as it pressed the sweat-soaked armor into his back. The time for calm precision was gone. It was time for speed.
Niklas shot off after the others, the cleats in his boots cutting into the ice below. He counted eight drones ahead of him. They had been faster with the range portion of the exam. No doubt, some of them paid for it with reduced accuracy. The final part of the exercise was a sprint, and he intended to finish first. He charged behind the line of shooters, pumping his legs and leaning forward.
Only a few obstacles remained, the foremost among them being a wooden wall that stood nine feet tall. One by one, the drones ahead of him vaulted it, or at the very least, caught the edge and then hauled themselves over.
