"Time! Weapon down!"

Flicking on the safety, which engages with its usual satisfying snick, I place the little Sig on the padded bench top, slide locked open and muzzle pointed downrange. The lights come up fully from their dimmed setting as the air cleaning system vents the artificial smoke from the lane, allowing me to clearly see my targets as they glide toward me on their motorized tracks.

Diana whistles. "Remind me not to get you mad at me, Doc. Not bad, not bad at all."

Deliberately taking deep breaths to calm myself down, the sharp, strangely pleasing smell of burnt gunpowder prickles my sinuses and the back of my throat. Noting that we have the range to ourselves, I pull off my earmuffs and remove my protective glasses, wiping the condensation from the edges of the lenses as I lean forward to inspect my shot placements; next to me, Diana does the same. On two of the targets, most of the holes are concentrated in a roughly grapefruit-sized cluster in the middle of the torso of each silhouette; however, on the third, the one farthest to the left that had approached quickly at the last second, the shots are widely scattered. "Jerking the trigger and swinging in too wide an arc of movement," I say, frowning at the randomness of the pattern.

"That's exactly right. Most shooting encounters take place at less than twenty feet; at that distance, if your sight alignment is off by even 1/16th of an inch, your POI will be off by a full four and a half inches. But for the most part you're controlling the muzzle flip really well, which is hard to do with such a light, short-barreled pistol. And see, even if they're offline you still managed to get most of your shots center mass — this guy might not go down immediately but you've certainly spoiled his day. We'll continue to work on rapid target acquisition in different scenarios for the next few weeks. In the meantime, I want you to practice dry-firing while focusing only on front sight alignment. Concentrate on keeping your breath even and your movements small and smooth. No yanking at the trigger; the penny drill should help you a lot with that."

I nod, wiping gunpowder residue and fingerprints off the slide and frame before zipping the Sig into its rug and putting it into my range bag along with my earmuffs, glasses and what's left of my plinking ammo.

"And keep working on mag drops and reloads. You're getting better at moving more efficiently, but you know, it actually is okay if your mags hit the floor every once in a while. Real shooting situations are messy and chaotic — the bad guys aren't going to give you time to square everything away just so."

Looking down at the row of empty magazines lined up neatly on the bench, I smile slightly. "I guess I'm a bit OCD about some things." I tuck the mags into their slots on the front of my bag.

"Where's your girlfriend today?' Diana asks casually, unclipping the targets from their frames and tossing them into the recycling bin.

A pang grips my chest at the memory of Cosima, just a week ago, her arms crossed, expression like a small thundercloud as she had closely observed my every interaction with Diana throughout my lesson. And then made good on her promise to claim her territory in front of all and sundry. "She's... busy."

"Too bad. She's cute."

She's an impossibly stubborn, unreasonable, ungrateful, illogical little shit. Out. This is my lab. My body. I'm the science. Get out! "Yes, she is."

"And intense. I'll bet she can be pretty intimidating, for someone that tiny."

I can feel my face flushing, the bewildered miasma of disbelief and hurt and anger still just as galling as it had been this morning at her childish, self-satisfied spite in informing me that she had blocked my passcard access. I just really don't want you here.

"Doc? You okay?"

I shake my head to clear it. "I'm sorry, I, euh, zoned out for a second. What were you saying?"

"Nothing much, only that you should ask her to join you for your lessons. If she works as late as you do, she really needs to think about being able to protect herself."

"I suggested it, but she said the only thing she was interested in shooting was 'Plants Vs. Zombies' on her PS4."

Laugh lines crinkle around Diana's deep-set eyes and stern mouth, softening the hard planes of her face, which still bears traces of sun damage sustained during her posting in Qatar years ago. "Well, if she ever changes her mind, tell her I said that most video gamers have superb hand-eye coordination and tend to be excellent shots."

"Yes, try to get her to change her mind about anything," I mutter under my breath.

"If you want to leave the Sig for a while, I'd be happy to clean it for you. I could bring it by your office after I get off work."

I deliberately fail to notice the obvious overture. "Thank you, Diana, but I should really spend some time getting more familiar with taking care of it myself. I did want to ask you something." She raises her eyebrows. "I looked it up. Concealed carry is illegal in Canada, isn't it?"

"It is." Narrow lips purse into a wry smile. "But I'd rather that you be around to deal with the consequences than the alternative. And if I do my job properly, no one will be able to tell that you're carrying. Do you have a problem with that?"

Considering the surreptitious murmurs that run rampant through Dyad, about specialists and directors and high-ranking executives who were abruptly replaced, or who simply disappeared and were subsequently never heard from again, I think consequences are infinitely preferable to the alternative. "I can live with it."

"That's the whole point, isn't it? All right, Doc, I'll see you next week." As she has at the end of every lesson, she shakes my hand, her palm rough and calloused against mine. It's a reassuringly capable hand; and as before, I can't help noticing the splendid definition of her forearm and the biceps that admirably fill out the sleeves of her black polo shirt.

"Next week, yes, at the usual time, unless something comes up. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me early today."

"No problem." Wide dark brown eyes regard me keenly. "You look like you're feeling a little calmer now. When you first got here I could almost see steam coming out of your ears."

"I've been, ah, under a lot of stress lately. Some of my... colleagues are being difficult."

"Just be glad that you have the opportunity to beat the crap out of a piece of paper — has a lot fewer complications than taking it out on the people who've pissed you off. Although for an exercise like this, it's actually not a bad thing to learn how to control your shooting when your adrenaline is pumping."

I wave goodbye and head for the exit. As I push through the airlock doors, I pass a tall broad-shouldered crewcut man on his way in to the range. "Afternoon, Gunny," I hear him say to Diana, before the heavy doors whisper shut.

In the elevator, I nod at passing acquaintances and chat briefly with Silvio, one of the friendlier security guards; we're not really supposed to talk with them, but I've seen him nearly every day since I started working here and it would be rude not to respond. Examining the gunpowder residue staining my fingers, I entertain the cynical thought that Dyad's encouragement of its employees to learn to arm themselves might be their way of giving their potential targets a sporting chance.

Could I really shoot someone, even in self defense? If Diana is to be believed, and I have no reason to suspect otherwise, I am rapidly becoming a proficient shot. But it is one thing to be good at putting holes in paper; it's quite another to use that skill to intentionally put those holes into a human being. The underlying principle of Primum non nocere had been pounded into me from the first day of med school. But the very fact that I own a weapon and have been training rather intensively in its intended use would seem to indicate that I am at least considering making that leap across a yawning chasm of uncertainty.

So much deadly potential in such a small object.

Reaching my office at last, I listen to my voicemails while field-stripping and cleaning the little gun at my desk. Rather than regarding it as a chore, I have found that I actually enjoy the process of scrubbing grime off each precision-machined part, then wiping it with a cloth lightly dampened with FrogLube to leave behind only the barest film of the minty-smelling fluid on the gleaming metal.

Most of the messages have to do with routine administrative business: updates on pending test results, background check reports on potential candidates for hire, reminders about upcoming staff meetings. There is a call from Sophie, an unexpected pleasure. "Toi, t'es une sacrée emmerdeuse. J'espère que le manque de nouvelles signifie que tu te fais enfin drôlement sauter. Donnes moi un coup de fil à un de ces quat', OK?"

Hearing my best friend's voice makes me laugh with delight, though it's a nagging reminder that I haven't been entirely candid with my family and friends about certain recent events.

A knock on my door startles me just as I finish reassembling and sparingly lubing the Sig. My heart leaps, but I tamp down the flare of irrational hope. "Come in."

Samantha pokes her head in. "Don't shoot!" she says, throwing up her arms in mock surrender when she catches sight of the gun in my hands.

I smile wryly, setting it down and snapping off my nitrile gloves to drop them as well as the sheets of newspaper protecting the top of the desk into the trash. "Don't worry, it's not loaded. Besides, I would much rather shoot your boss. What does Aldous want?"

She makes a face, her animated features at odds with the severe elegance of her tailored suit and sleek thick chestnut hair swept up into its impeccable chignon. "I don't know," she says in her best Received Pronunciation, which always tickles me; after a few beers or glasses of wine, her native Essex accent starts seeping through. "He hasn't been in all day and no one's been able to raise him, which is causing hell's own amount of bother. It's not him, though, it's Miss Duncan. Sorry to disturb you on your lunch break, Delphine, but she wanted me to ask if you would meet her in Dr. Leekie's office at your earliest convenience."

My pulse starts to pound. "Do you have any idea why?"

"I'm just the messenger. Evidently I'm not on the need-to-know list," she says wryly. Peering at me, she tilts her head. "Are you all right? You look a little tense."

I suppress a wave of irritation. "Just tired, I guess. I... didn't sleep very well last night."

"A bunch of us are meeting at Bar Volo later — it's Valerie's birthday. You and Cosima are welcome to join us, if you like."

"Thank you, Samantha, but we may have to, euh, take a rain check."

"Well, the invite's open if you change your mind. Don't leave the Rachel-bot waiting too long, all right?" The door closes softly behind her.

I start to put my gun away but then reconsider. Reaching into my range bag, I pull out the DeSantis holster that Diana had loaned me to practice with and a box of Hornady hollow points. Thumbing six bullets into a flush mag, I chamber a round, drop the mag to top it off, then seat it back into place with a firm slap. The little pistol nestles snugly into the lightly padded nylon sheath. Silently cursing the tight fit of my pants, the holster's textured exterior grabs at the lining of my pocket; once I finally get it settled, though, I'm glad for the friction, which helps keep it in place as I run through a few trial draws.

In my bathroom mirror I verify that the Sig does not print, especially with the hem of my sweater draping loosely over it. Looking more closely at my reflection, I am a little startled by the determined set of my jaw, the unfamiliar hardness in my eyes. All right, Rachel Duncan. Let's see what you have to say for yourself.

Grumpyirath over on Tumblr has ID'd Delphine's gun - woohoo! According to The Firearm Blog, the Shark subcompact is made in Turkey and chambered in 9mm PA; as this designation refers to nonlethal ammo such as blanks, tear gas and rubber bullets, its utility as a self-defense weapon is somewhat questionable. So for fictional purposes, I'm letting Delphine keep her 938. ;)