Maya had never done anything like this. Being a part of the militia had been strange enough, with all of its regimentation and the frightening presence of a killing tool in her hands. But now, according to the hastily hand-crafted badge pinned to her shirt, she was a drill sergeant.
"The police can't handle all of the recruits," Tongana had told her. "So now we have to teach them."
Maya had expected an ordeal of rowdy outsiders shouting and making chaos while she tried to organize them. Instead, she was having the most fun she had had in years. She called her soldiers to line, and a dozen serious faces arrayed themselves on the ditch she had scratched into the dirt. She told them to fire, and they did, with flawed technique and poor aim, but with earnestness. These men and women remembered the battle, and they knew what failure would bring.
One woman backed away from the line, even though Maya had not ordered her to yet, and lowered her gun. She brushed her cornrow-patterned hair forcefully back from her sweat-stained face and stared miserably at her rifle. "Sergeant," she said, "I don't know what to do. This is all just going wrong."
Maya smiled mischievously. "I know what to do. Turn the safety on while you're off the shooting line."
"Oh." The woman fumbled dangerously with her gun, then clawed at the safety switch. "I... I'm sorry, Sergeant. I just don't like shooting."
"It's natural to be frustrated by things we find difficult."
"No. No, that's not it..." Her face went red. "I don't want this, alright?" she screeched. "I came here to get away from all this! I don't want to be part of a war! I don't want to be shot at! I don't want to do this! Any of it!"
Maya waited patiently for her to finish, then said, "I understand. Fighting is not for everyone. But your gun, of all things, is not something to fear. It's only a tool-- an extension of yourself. There's no need to fear something you control." Before the woman could argue, Maya raised her voice and said, "One more round! Reload!" She watched the recruits fall back into line. "Ready!" A dozen guns rose to the targets. "Fire!"
When the shooting ended, the cornrow-haired woman's eyes grew with amazement as she lowered her gun. "That was better," she said.
Maya smiled. "It was." She looked at the others. "That's enough for one day. Store your things the way I showed you, and you can..." She stopped short of telling them to go home; many of them were vagrants without real homes. "...and you're free to go."
With a collective sigh of relief, the dozen soldiers put away their weapons and dispersed in groups of two or three. The fighting spirit dissolved from their faces, and the soldiers turned back into cashiers, mechanics, and beggars-- the things they had been before the attack changed them.
A young man ran up, slipping through the thin crowd with a torrent of "Excuse me," and "Can I get through?" He stepped up to Maya and asked, "Are you Maya Aski? Sergeant Maya Aski?"
"Yes, that's me."
"Good. The rest of the old militia wants to see you by the hospital."
"The hospital? What's happened?"
"I don't know. Nobody's hurt... they just told me to come get you."
Maya set her face. "I'll go there now." She began for the hospital, forcing herself not to be hasty, as haste was for children.
Outside the hospital, all of Maya's friends gathered under a tent where a bundle of cheap projectors hung like grapes from the tarp roof, projecting maps, charts and reports onto wooden panels, bright in the late-year darkness.
