Furnace (Hunter-Killer #1)

Chapter 03 - Dead Eye

It didn't take long for Ryke and the others to realise that it would be a while before they were piloting anything. Before they took to the cockpit at all the instructors were doing their best to push the newcomers to their physical limits in preparation for piloting the deadliest war machines ever designed. It wasn't as simple as getting fit, however. The regimen of training was not focusing on ordinary physical prowess, but on specifically tailoring their bodies to interface with the Hunter-Killers.

Out on the main concourse of the Stamm Basin, Ryke stood where the Drill Sergeant had placed them. The first order of business had been to divide the group into four 'squadrons' of ten recruits each. Then they'd been colour coded.

"Listen carefully, greasers," the sergeant said. His voice seemed to carry up into the dust-ridden air with little to no effort. "Look at the people to your left and right. They are your family. You will work with them, live with them – and fight with them." He strode back and forth, glaring at them from behind a pair of opaque sunglasses. "Understand this: until you complete your training you are not Hunter-Killer pilots. You are rookies, fresh fuel for a Scraegan furnace. You have colours and numbers, and that is how you will be identified until you prove yourself to be more than that. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Then get ready to sweat: we have a lot of work to do! Everybody line up, east-facing. Your training starts now."

What came next was a vicious regimen that Ryke realised would be their daily warm up. As a group they ran the entire perimeter of the main concourse – a distance of well over a kilometre – five times in full view of the ferocious morning sun. While they'd all been treated from birth to be protected against burns and skin cancer the treatments didn't deaden the heat, and it wasn't long before rivers of sweat were flowing down his face and arms.

Before long the physical prowess of some of the others began to show. Half a dozen of them broke away out in front – Jarrko among them – natural runners who easily outpaced their companions. Ryke held his own, charging along side by side with Brigg in the main body of the group while a handful fell behind. A glance back told him that the pink-haired girl didn't have the legs to keep pace and he wasn't surprised.

When they finished the final lap Ryke stumbled to a halt, leaning forward and resting his hands against his knees, sucking in huge gulps of the warm air. The others arrived all around, some slumping to the ground, exhausted. Trailing along at the back was the girl, her pink hair now drenched in sweat, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.

"Who passed her for the Hunter-Killers?" he heard someone mutter. He glanced up and saw two lanky males in with red wristbands giving the girl pitying looks. She was too busy fighting to get her breath back to notice. He straightened up.

"What are you doin'?" Brigg asked, catching his arm. "We don't want to go starting a fight on our first day." Ryke looked at him for a moment, his jaw tight. Then Brigg spoke again. "She'll have plenty of time to prove she's got what it takes. You just need to worry about yourself."

He shook off the other boy's hand, but instead of approaching the naysayers, he turned and walked over to the girl. Stooping down, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"You alright?"

Between coughs she forced out: "I don't know."

"What's your name?"

"A...Amelia..."

"Okay, Amelia." He patted her shoulder. "Just take deep, slow breaths and try keep moving. Otherwise you'll cramp up. We can't all be track stars."