Furnace (Hunter-Killer #1)

Chapter 04 - What Doesn't Kill You

The surprise of yesterday's events was quickly driven from the Hunter-Killer recruits when they returned to the training field for their punishing morning regimen. The drill sergeant (whose name, they had eventually discovered, was Mulrough) had them out in the baking heat, racing through their endurance drills at a breakneck pace. Whatever her skills in as the Dead-Eye of the platoon, Amelia still flagged physically, reliably stumbling along in dead last at the end of their morning run. 

     Ryke tried to stay civil with her and not join in the sneers and jibes that flew behind her back when she couldn't hear, but he couldn't deny a twinge of indignant jealousy. Seeing a simpering, rich-guts like her bag the accolade of Dead-Eye sat all wrong in his stomach. He tried to remind himself that she'd passed all the same tests as him. She'd earned her spot.

     But the twinge wouldn't shift.

     He threw himself into the drills in an effort to take his mind off of it. After pounding through the initial gruelling hour that Mulrough affectionately referred to as a 'warm up' they were back at their hand to hand combat training.

     They gathered around him in the small break in between, passing around hydro-cubes to suck on. While normal water had its place, at the pace their training now moved the recruits needed a faster, more reliable way to stay hydrated. They were like enhanced ice-cubes; Ryke took in a sharp breath at the stunning cold as he popped one into his mouth, its structure coming apart like a melting glacier on his tongue. 

     "You need to unlearn everything you think you know about fighting," Mulrough thundered without preamble as they sucked away. "Fighting a human is nothing like fighting a Scraegan. Things that would kill me stone dead won't as much as tickle one of those shaggy bastards." His beady, cold eyes flickered over the group, and one hand shot out like a striking snake, pointing at a boy from Squad Yellow. "You, off the top of your nugget – a Scraegan's coming at you and you've got time for one shot from your big swanky anti-armour rifle. Where do you aim?"

     "I... err..."

     "Spit it out!"

     "The head!" the boy blurted out of panic more than anything else, it seemed to Ryke.

     "Wrong, and you're dead," Mulrough boomed, a knowing smile splitting his vulture-like face as he continued. "The front of a Scraegan's skull is a six inch plate of solid bone harder than an airlock bulkhead, wrapped in another two inches of armour-alloy – not that they need it. I have seen armour piercing shots bounce off like tennis balls. Anybody else?"

     "The throat?" Kazem ventured, speaking around a hydro-cube, hands on his hips and chest heaving up and down as he got his breath back.

     "Better!" Mulrough turned on him, pointing. "But again, no – and you're dead too. An advancing Scraegan comes at you with its head lowered like a god-damn battering ram, keeping the throat concealed. Face to face there's no shot to take."

     Ryke frowned, trying to logic out the problem. One shot and one of those things coming at you? A single shot was useless – he'd seen it firsthand. Once a Scraegan got up a head of steam the only thing to do was get out of the way or get trampled into the dust. Around him others threw out more suggestions only for the sergeant to effortlessly swat them away. Then Ryke realised what the only correct answer could be and he felt a tremor of unease shoot up his spine.

     "It doesn't matter where you aim," he called, but it came out shrill and high, like a plea for attention. He winced, coughed to clear his throat and swallowed hard as Mulrough rounded on him. 

     "In my good ear, son," he growled, tapping the right side of his head with two fingers. 

     "It's a trick question," Ryke continued, his voice firming up as he met Mulrough's gaze. "It doesn't matter where you aim. If you are on your own with a Scraegan charging at you, you're dead."