Chapter 8 - THE FIFTH ROUND
The first time I saw Ryan teach again, he did not know I was coming.
I preferred it that way.
Not undercover.
Daniel had invited me to observe the new scoring software during final acceptance.
My role was clear this time.
Technical adviser.
Names on the schedule.
No diagnostic ambush.
Ryan stood beside Lane Two with eight trainees.
He looked older.
Probably because I knew him now.
A trainee missed a sequence and swore the target had registered late.
Old Ryan might have said:
“Steel doesn’t care about your feelings.”
I had heard him use the line before.
Instead he called cold.
Walked down the data with the range technician.
Two minutes.
Four.
Six.
The trainee looked mortified.
People were waiting.
Ryan returned.
“Controller lagged.”
No drama.
“Rerun.”
That was it.
The trainee reran.
Passed.
Ryan did not praise himself for believing him.
Good.
Later, another trainee complained.
This time the system was correct.
Ryan showed him the replay.
The trainee looked embarrassed.
“Sorry, Master Chief.”
Ryan said:
“Don’t apologize for asking. Fix your shot.”
There.
Pressure remained.
Contempt removed.
Better.
After the block, Ryan found me near the rifle benches.
“You checking up on me?”
“Software.”
“Liar.”
“Mostly software.”
He smiled.
Then noticed I was looking at the same rifle model from our first afternoon.
“You want another five?”
“No.”
“Scared?”
“Terrified.”
He laughed.
Then:
“I never asked.”
“What?”
“Why only four?”
“You know why.”
“The screen gave you five.”
“Yes.”
“But you stopped before Daniel saw the score.”
There.
He had been thinking.
Why?
Because the third stationary hit sounded wrong.
Not the shot.
The target response.
Too close to the previous register.
Then the moving plate registered instantly with no usual processing delay.
I did not know the system was corrupt.
I suspected the display had become information I could not trust.
So I kept the fifth round.
“Why?”
Ryan asked.
“Because once I didn’t trust the feedback, another shot wasn’t going to teach me anything.”
He looked downrange.
“That’s annoyingly Raven.”
“No.”
I smiled.
“That’s basic testing.”
He nodded.
Then his face became serious.
“I’m sorry.”
I knew which apology this was.
He had already apologized administratively.
This one was later.
Cleaner.
“For shoving the rifle at you.”
“Okay.”
“For making it public.”
“Okay.”
“For deciding you were ridiculous before you touched it.”
There.
Good.
Then he asked:
“If you’d missed all four, would I still have been wrong?”
I looked at him.
He had remembered.
“Yes.”
“I know.”
There.
That was the change.
Not because he discovered I was important.
Because importance had finally become irrelevant to the original wrong.
I said:
“Good.”
He laughed.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Then:
“Do you forgive me?”
“Mostly.”
He looked offended.
“Mostly?”
“You’re still annoying.”
“Fair.”
Daniel approached from behind us carrying the old black envelope.
Ryan noticed.
“Why do you still have that?”
Daniel held it up.
“Archive transfer.”
The Raven files had been reviewed, digitized and moved into the proper historical repository.
No desk relic.
No legend folder traveling around in a commander’s jacket.
Inside was the photograph.
Daniel offered it to me.
“Want a copy?”
“No.”
Ryan said:
“I do.”
We both looked at him.
He shrugged.
“My dad’s in it.”
There.
History.
Not ownership.
Daniel gave him a scanned copy authorized for release.
Ryan studied Patrick Cole at the edge of the photograph.
Young enough to still believe every argument mattered forever.
Then he looked at me.
“You hated him?”
“At least twice a week.”
Ryan smiled.
“He would’ve liked that.”
“Maybe.”
I did not tell him his father would have been proud.
Dead people are already overused as approval machines.
Ryan could decide what to do with the photograph without making Patrick endorse the present.
Daniel sealed the original envelope.
This time I did not put my hand over it.
Nothing inside needed protecting from the people standing there.
The file had done its work.
Then a trainee called from Lane Two.
“Master Chief, display’s off again.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
“Of course it is.”
He walked over.
Not running.
Not angry.
The technician checked.
This time the score was fine.
The trainee had misread the lane assignment.
Ryan corrected him.
No humiliation.
Training continued.
I watched for a few minutes.
Then started toward the parking lot.
Daniel called after me.
“Emma.”
I turned.
“You disappearing again?”
I almost answered with something dramatic.
Instead:
“I have a dentist appointment Tuesday.”
He laughed.
“After that?”
“I don’t know.”
There.
A good answer.
I had spent too many years believing every uncertainty required a mission.
Maybe I would keep consulting.
Maybe teach.
Maybe finally stop accepting calls that began with:
We need someone who remembers the old system.
Competence can become another assignment nobody formally gives you.
I was allowed to leave before being useless.
Behind me, steel rang.
One hit.
Then another.
Normal.
No legend hidden in the sound.
At my car I noticed a brass casing in the cuff of my pant leg.
Probably from the first afternoon.
Or any afternoon.
I pulled it out.
Looked at it.
For about two seconds, I considered keeping it.
Then tossed it into the range brass bucket beside the gate.
A spent casing.
Nothing more.
The fifth round had never been fired.
May you like
That mattered once.
It did not need to matter forever.
