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Fal’ran grabbed the last solid handhold, popped himself up, braced his boot on it, then launched himself into the air. His heart dropped out of his chest as he went airborne, but before it stopped, he grabbed the edge of the wall and pulled himself to safety.
He whooped in triumph as he skidded down the embankment on the other side. All he had left was another jump, a run, a rope swing across a gap, then he flew across the finish line.
How was that for well done?
Fal’ran straightened up and turned to Smith to say those exact words, when he caught sight of Smith’s narrow, calculating eyes. The cocky words died in his throat.
Smith jerked his head at the beginning of the course. “Again.”
Fal’ran’s mouth fell open. “What?” He glanced at Bar’in and Tar to see them looking as surprised as him. “Why?”
Smith hardened his voice. “Again, Fal’ran.”
Anger flared in Fal’ran’s chest but he stomped back to the starting line. Fine. If Smith wanted to see him do it again, then fine, he’d do it again.
He propelled himself up the ramp and hurtled back down it, his rage and indignation powering his muscles as he tore through the obstacle course for the second time. Smith would not break him. Whatever his commanding officer had against him, it wouldn’t stop him.
His energy flagged as he hit the metal wall, but he pushed on. He couldn’t afford to drop momentum here. With a roar of exertion, he launched himself from the last handhold, and with a relieved sigh, tumbled down the dirt ramp on the other side.
There. Is that what Smith wanted to see? Fal’ran crossed the finish line, whirled to face Smith, and jutted his chin out. Or had Smith wanted to see him fail? Because he wouldn’t go down that easy.
Smith stared back at him with an inscrutable expression, and Fal’ran knew his next word before he even said it. “Again.”
Tar and Bar’in exchanged glances and Fal’ran’s body gave a concerning tremor of exhaustion, but Fal’ran didn’t bother to argue or glower. He jogged to the starting line, cracked his neck, and took off up the ramp again.
Sweat poured into his eyes and his palms nearly slipped from the bars as he swung, but he powered on. This wouldn’t break him. Hell, a part of him loved this. He’d take this challenge, chew it up, spit it out, then take the next one and the next one and the next one.
This time, when he launched himself up the last gap of the metal climbing wall, his heart beat steadily, all fear of the feat gone by his third attempt. He rolled down the embankment and sprang to his feet, ready to run to the finish line, when the bright edge of a blade flashed into view.
“Dodge!” Smith swung his gatlung straight at Fal’ran’s face and Fal’ran flung himself to the side. He hit the ground hard and flipped onto his back, staring up in shock as Smith twirled his gatlung and stabbed towards him. “Move! Don’t stay still.”
Fal’ran leapt to his feet in time to avoid the blade that buried itself in the ground where his chest had been moments before. He grabbed for the staff, but before he got near it, Smith yanked it out and swung its hard metal shaft toward him. Fal’ran ducked and scrambled back to make space between his unarmed self and his clearly insane squad leader.
“Get past me, come on, keep moving.” Smith advanced, his footwork quick, his gatlung spinning and stabbing. The last few obstacles lay behind Smith and his swirling blade, and Fal’ran’s eyes snapped around to gauge his routes and options. “Think faster!”
Smith lunged and Fal’ran feinted left, then dodged right when he saw Smith’s blade commit. He dove under the arc of the gatlung’s shaft, hearing it whistle above him, then clawed across the ground to the final obstacles before Smith found his footing and skewered him.
His chest didn’t loosen until he’d thrown himself over the first hurtle, far enough that Smith wouldn’t be able to catch him before he made it to the end. He soared over the last few jumps, his sudden panic simmering down into frustration and anger.
When Fal’ran planted his foot over the finish line, he clenched his fists and spun on his heel to snarl at Smith. “What the hell else do you want from me?” He jabbed his finger at the obstacle course he’d done so many times he’d be doing it in his sleep tonight. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Fal’ran’s arm dropped bonelessly to his side as he stared at Smith’s crooked grin in utter confusion.
Smith chuckled and shook his head as he holstered his gatlung across his back. “You did it perfectly.” He turned toward a second path out of the clearing—the one they hadn’t come in by—and waved his hand over his shoulder for them to follow. “Come on, you three. One more stop.”
Fal’ran stared after him, his limbs shaking, and his stomach doing funny spirals. He lifted his nose, but Smith was too far now for Fal’ran to catch the scent of his thoughts.
“Looks like you got daddy’s attention after all,” Bar’in said lightly as he passed, an obnoxious lilt in his voice, but Fal’ran was too tired and confused to bother replying.
Once Tar had passed with his slow, plodding gait and oddly content smell, Fal’ran found the energy to trudge after them.
Melting in the heat as he followed the group, he once again sent a thought of gratitude to the trees that blocked the blazing sun from hitting the back of his neck as the damn thing finally descended toward the horizon.
More sunlight was another thing—along with fresh air—that Fal’ran had always thought he’d like about Klah once he got off the moon. The planet blocked most of the sun, so he’d grown up in twilight, except for the few hours a day when the sun shone directly through the grimy domes. He had never imagined that it would be so hot, so bright, and so torturous.
As they walked, the sounds of birds and insects faded, replaced by the activity and commotion of Training Camp Pel’on and Fal’ran realized they were leaving the jungle. They could have been going in any direction at all, for all he knew. His sense of direction in the wilderness was nonexistent. Every tree looked the same and the sky and dirt didn’t have any landmarks.
