I point the scope just above the center of the target and fire before my muscles have a chance to sag. A dot lights up almost dead center, but it’s still too high.

“Close.” Sergeant Marnell starts moving toward Glacia’s lane. “Soldiers have to hit eighty-five percent of their shots to advance through their training. Keep trying.”

I pay careful attention to my muscles. My arms tremble with each breath I take, and drop in tiny increments under the weight of the gun. I readjust my grip. Breathe in. Pull the trigger.

Phewwwwwm!

The target flashes green.

“Target hit,” a voice says in my headset.

Glacia hits her mark on the fourth try. Down the row, Michael, Ellin, and John fire their B-Class rifles at solid targets hanging from the ceiling. A muffled bang sounds off whenever one of them fires. Michael hits his target on the second shot, and Ellin hits hers on the fourth. John, however, fires seven rounds before he drops his rifle on the podium, furious with himself. He backs out of his lane, fists clenched at his sides and head turned down. His mouth moves but no words come out.

Lucas and Sergeant Marnell hurry over to speak to him. Glacia glances at me and raises her eyebrows. I turn away and tap an icon on the podium to reset the target at fifteen yards. Glacia stays at thirty yards and hits her mark on the third shot.

Show off.

I aim. Fire. Miss by about six inches. I rest the rifle on my shoulder and relax my muscles and feel the weight of the gun in my arm. I close my eye and look through the scope. Fire. Miss it high. Glacia fires another at thirty yards. Hits it almost dead-on.

Not even fair.

She sees the look on my face and raises an eyebrow. “Need lessons?”

I raise the rifle and aim high. Hold my breath.

“That won’t do me any good!”

I nearly shoot the ceiling. At the far end of the room, John is pacing, his feet slapping on the floor. Lucas and Sergeant Marnell stand to the side, trying to calm him until finally Ellin sets her gun down and jogs over. She whispers to him for several moments while the rest of us try to ignore them. At long last, John hangs his head and the fury leaves his eyes. He nods, relaxes his fists, and heaves a long sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Lucas says. He pats John’s shoulder. “Want a different gun?”

John retrieves an L-Class rifle. Sergeant Marnell helps him test a few practice shots. It takes six, but John finally hits the center of the target. He calls to Ellin and points at it, a smile stretched across his face.