Continued from The Man Makes a Stand…

Smoke curled from the operative’s rifle barrel as if blowing a kiss to its quarry. The corner of her mouth curled into a slight smile as she watched her target drop and leave only a pink mist in his wake. Her surroundings blinked once and went black as she heard a door behind her swing open.

“Very good, Artyce, very good indeed. I wish you had actually been around for this skirmish. We lost a lot of personnel that day.”

Artyce let the praise wash over as her mind recalled the documented details of the fight. Twenty operatives, including two scouts highly-skilled in long-range engagement, had descended upon the dusty town of Horizon intending to eliminate The Man and his entourage, whomever that may be. Intelligence had been confident The Man would be waiting to board a train headed west to escape the bounty on his head and bolster the efforts of a local rebellion in the Santa Anna Territories. Intelligence was correct about The Man’s intentions, but the background on his skills was fatally poor. Eighteen troopers surrounded The Man but lay dead a mere fifteen seconds after shooting began. Within the next ten seconds, one scout crumpled behind his rifle, the scope shattered from the lead’s penetration. The other scout could never get line-of-sight on The Man and could only watch his comrades’ annihilation. When the other scout went radio silent, the lone survivor abandoned his post, opting instead to report on the day’s events.

Artyce imagined the scene was poetry in motion, a tragedy for her peers but a masterpiece of timing and fluidity from someone who treasured the craft and wasted no effort. Since that day, The Man’s notoriety as a Robin Hood and celebrated freedom fighter had exploded, and he remained the Confederacy’s most wanted target. Artyce spent the last five years studying The Man and training for an eventual confrontation. Now, at 22, she had aced every simulation and felt justified in receiving whatever praise was thrown her way. Artyce was, in essence, the only person in the Confederacy that could challenge The Man.

“Thank you, sir. As you know, I aim to learn from the past, not repeat it.”

“Aim indeed. You opted for long-range this time, hm? That’s curious. Ninety-percent of your simulations have been more traditional, small-arms engagements.”

Artyce was getting annoyed with the questions and second-guessing by this point of her training. Bronson was a skilled teacher, but battlefield perception and ability had either left or been taken from him years ago. Yet, always the diligent student, she gave a true, if somewhat clipped, response.

“Long-range only made sense in ten-percent of the simulations, sir.”

“Just an observation, Artyce, just an observation.” Bronson’s drawl hung on every word as if the extra weight would amplify importance. “You continue to impress, and the simulations obviously bore you. I think it’s time for a field test.”

Artyce immediately perked but showed too much eagerness. Bronson quickly corrected her assumptions, “Heavens no, not him yet, but he does have a vast circle of friends that you really should meet.”