20 Systems Alliance Calendar years later
I pressed my back against the cold hull of an overturned carrier, knees drawn up, rifle across my lap. The firefight was maybe two hundred meters east, close enough that I could hear individual shots breaking through the sustained roar, close enough that stray rounds occasionally sparked off the wreckage around me. I was the only one left. I didn’t know exactly when that had happened. At some point between the ambush and here, the team had simply stopped being a team.
I pulled off my helmet and set it down without a sound. The grey of the sky matched the grey of the road, the grey of the rubble. My ears stayed flat, my tail tucked in close. I pressed my muzzle into my hands and breathed slowly, trying to think through the route back to the FOB, how much open ground, where the sight lines were, whether any of it was even possible alone.
A loud crack snapped near my head, interrupting my peace, followed by a sharp sting on my cheek. “Fuck!” I shouted as bullet ricocheted off the wreckage next to me. Adrenaline surged through me as I realized I had dozed off for a moment while lost in thought.
Fear, sharp and unfamiliar, coiled in my gut. I checked my gear, my hand brushing the hilt of my combat knife. A blade was a last resort; the trigger was where I lived. A flash of Dad’s face, of Caisteal, of everything I was fighting for. But nostalgia was a luxury, and the enemy was closing in.
He would have been delighted to witness me taking my position with a rifle. The cold metal of the cheek piece pressed against my fur, and all of us standing in line. Our precision rifles chambered in 408 rested on our backpacks lying on top of some barrels. Eyes fixed through the scope at the large paper target across the cold grass field. On the instructor's command, we shot simultaneously. Cold, stoic, focused. Command was given to rise with our rifles into standing position and fire on cue. We returned to our kneeling posture with the hand guard resting on our packs. An order was then issued to shoot at the next furthest paper target. Trigger, recoil.
The range staff behind us, another from behind me viewing my shots through binoculars. Eyes spellbound by the target. A trigger pull with a solid recoil. A repeating dance. We were ordered to hold fire. I remained still, still in my trance-like concentration, watching my breath mist in the freezing Bethian air. I didn't realize that everybody else had set their rifle to rest and stood at attention, except me. I was lost, spellbound by the black and white rings of the target downfield.
The range officer shouted my way, his soft Caistealian fox voice breaking the air - "Narro." I blinked a few times coming back to reality, then faced him standing up. "Sir," I inhaled deeply, "I drifted off a mome-"
"Lost concentration?"
"Sir, I didn't see the others rise to attention. I was focu-"
"Narro!" he suddenly called out. He then gestured to the other officers that were monitoring me, and they quickly passed them their binoculars.
My cheeks grew warm as flushed with embarrassment at my wandering mind. The other cadets held ready positions after his call for a cease-fire, while I felt like I had been daydreaming.
Lowering the binoculars, he looked over at me calmly. "Narro, do you know how to use a long rifle?"
I nodded, voice trembling slightly. "Yes, sir... but I'm a little rusty."
He let out an exhale of acknowledgment before continuing. "Lost focus, you said?"
I swallowed hard, not sure what he wanted from me. "Sir?"
"Show me your kneeling firing position," he commanded.
The other cadets watched as I drew in a breath and began to prepare myself for what seemed like some kind of test. Reaching forward, I grabbed the handles of my rucksack and pulled it off the prescribed barrels we used for practice. A box a few feet away offered more stability than the rucksack did, so I walked over to it and knelt down. Placing the box beneath me, then packing on top of it before setting my rifle on top of the pack; I was ready. With a long nervous sigh, I signalized my readiness.
“Rio Narro,” yelled the range officer. “100 yards!”
I hastily raised my arm up to the scope and twisted a dial. Cheek pressed firmly against the stock, I peered through just in time for him to say, with a more calm and steady voice this time: “One shot. Fire when ready.”