Healer

12

     Reynolds's hands moved with practiced ease, working the lever, slamming a new round into place. He raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger. The butt of the weapon slammed against his shoulder. He took it in stride, racing forward to the next target, already chambering another round. He was panting as he ran, but his mind was calm and focused. If there was one place he felt at home while training, it was on the rifle range. Even now, being timed and tested against moving targets and dodging enemy fire, Reynolds felt at home. Over and over, the familiar kick against his shoulder. The explosion of noise and burning, sulfurous gunpowder. The impact of his specialized paint bullet against its target. Then he was running, searching, and realized he'd checked every corner. Confused, he looked up. The lights were still down, but now they were coming back up. Behind the transparent containment wall, a crowd had gathered. They were on their feet, clapping and cheering wildly. "Huh?" Reynolds blinked, looking at the glowing clock overhead. He blinked again, not believing the numbers. "Huh!"

     Imbago was charging toward him, leaping onto him with enough force to all but knock him over. "You did it!" she exclaimed. "I knew you could do it."

     "What? Pass?"

     "Stupid boy." She was smiling, barely audible over the cheering. "There was never any question you would pass. You just broke the Foundation's rifle combat shooting record by six seconds!"

     "Huh," Reynolds repeated, looking at the numbers. It still didn't feel real. When Imbago had mentioned the record after they'd made love last night, suggesting he try for it, he'd barely given it much thought. When he looked up and realized he'd beaten the time, his initial thought was that he'd misremembered the number. But now she was confirming it, and he wasn't sure what to think. "So, I passed, then?"

     "Yes, you passed!" She swatted at him, rolling her eyes. "Throwing knives was the only portion you didn't excel at, and you still had enough accuracy to pass. I asked to save the rifle for last because it let the pot build bigger."

     He gaped at her. "You bet on me?"

     She shrugged. "Of course, why not?"

     Reynolds was about to argue just for the sake of appearances. But then he caught sight of a disgusted Conrad counting out bills for a grinning Arthur and decided he no longer had any objections. Anything to see Conrad get taken down a notch, especially since he knew qualifying for swordsmanship would be a challenge.

     By the time Imbago took him by the hand and finished her collection rounds, she had a fat wad of bills stuffed into her coat pockets. Reynolds got his share of sour looks, but most losers still congratulated him. Dr. Klevinski, his project manager, had a massive grin on his face as he approached. "A new Foundation record!" the doctor crowed. "Now, that's something you don't see every day. Congratulations. I'm already looking at some parameters for your first training mission, but meanwhile, I'd like to steer you toward sniping."

     "Sniping?" Reynolds asked, interested. "That actually sounds pretty good."

     Dr. Klevinski clapped his shoulder. "I've been managing new Hunter recruits for about six years now, Reynolds," he explained. "I've seen a lot of them come and go, and I've learned to spot potential when it shows up." He glanced briefly toward the left, where a grinning Pzinski awaited his turn to congratulate Reynolds. "Just remember what you're here for, alright? I'd hate to see someone with your promise wash out, especially for, um, the wrong reasons."

     "What did he mean by that?" Reynolds asked when the doctor walked away.

     "Never mind. No!" Imbago held out a stern hand, warding off Pzinski. "No hugging!"