It felt good to be doing something other than running the obstacle course. Instead, after breakfast and classes, we went up to the second tier of the mine and began marksmanship training. It was not any less brutal, but at least was something different than the past month.
The first morning of the training, after our classes, we were taken to the armory and given a set of thigh plates like the warriors wore. Holstered on each plate was a Westar-35 blaster pistol. Their sleek silver and gray bodies were heavy, but didn't feel that bad when the thigh armor was magneto-sealed to my coverall.
One of the kids pulled his pistol out and immediately shot himself in the head, which caused some of the warriors to laugh around us. Another pulled his out and shot one of the warriors in the chest, which caused even more laughing as the blaster bolt struck the armored plate uselessly. The warrior's full-powered blaster killed the foolish kid on the spot, though.
The weapons we were issued were little more than target blasters. The boy that shot himself came to a few minutes later with major burns from the blast, but little else. The blasters were identical to those carried by the warriors in all other respects, though. They were now our responsibility and we would be punished severely if we lost them.
We spent a couple of weeks on how to aim and fire the pistols, since they didn't have sights. Mostly, it was firing by feel and reflex, but we were also told it would be much easier when we received our helmets. Not that it stopped the instructors from beating those who were bad marksmen.
We spent another week on dual-firing the pistols. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, but was definitely more fun. I was one of the few that had a hit rate higher than 80%. For the last part of that training, we were all put in a group and told the last one standing would win. I wasn't the last one standing, but I was in the top five. Not that the burn to my right shoulder didn't hurt. One kid was hit in the head and lost an eye; he was still unconscious when the Rally Master killed him.
We practiced on the Westar-35 Blaster Carbines, as well. They were also under-powered, but were enough to kill at close range. They had a greater range than the pistols and were more accurate. It was easier to sight along the length than the pistols. I think I was a little more accurate than others. I guessed this only because I wasn't beaten as badly the few times I missed.
At the end of the marksmanship training month, the Rally Master has us all form up into a group. He had me and two others separated from the rest of the mass, and had another three taken aside away from us.
"You three are free," he spat toward the other group. "Start running and make your way out of the pit."
The trio of stunned recruits looked at him for only a moment before he fired a shot at their feet, causing them to take off running for the ramps up toward the rim of the strip mine. Before they were even a dozen steps away, a warrior tossed a rifle to me.
It was medium weight, but not Westar design like the other Death Watch weaponry. On the contrary, it was a sniper blaster rifle. It had a longer range and precision optics for taking enemies out at a further distance than most common blasters.
"You three are the best shots here," Rally Master Farr said. "They are the three worst shots. Prove your skill is justified by killing them. He added, "or die," and an afterthought.
The first kid took aim and fired almost immediately. It was too quick. The shot missed by two meters over all three of their heads. The kid was dead before he even looked away from the scope, a smoking hole where his spine used to be.
The second kid was more careful with his shot and caught one of the three in the small of his back. The sniper rifles were full power because the boy slumped forward and hit the ground while his legs ran two more steps.
I got down into a prone firing position, like my father showed me, and let the rifle rest on my forward hand before using it to pull it into my shoulder. My father showed me how to shoot the small game in the forest near the house, this wasn't really any different. I just sat there, the target reticule centered on the back of the rear runner's neck and waited.
I heard a warrior draw his pistol behind me, but ignored it. Likewise, I ignored the low grumbles of voice in an internal comm from Farr to the warrior that caused the pistol to go back into its holster. I disregarded the green light in the scope telling me it was linked to Farr's heads up display. I just waited until the boys were in the right position.
The only way I would be able to defeat Death Watch is by being the best. The only way that could happen was to give in to the training, the blood thirst, and the brutality. I lightly brushed my finger over the trigger until the blaster bolt flew from the barrel.
I had waited for just the right moment, when both boys were turning to climb the last ramp to the edge of the pit. The bolt tore through the neck of one, taking out enough to put him down before slamming into the head of the other. Buir always told me I had a special skill with lining up shots.
"Clean hit," Rally Master Farr said before jetting off the landing and back into the main camp.
My revelry was short-lived, though. He hadn't even landed before the sniper rifle was ripped out of my hands and I was kicked for lying down. We were run around the obstacle course a couple of times before Technical classes to learn how to perform basic maintenance on the weapons.
