I couldn't even re-read this. Even to me, it's just words. Though, to be fair, despite the fact that it has absolutely no context whatsoever, it could have worked. However, I must admit, wrote it so very ponderously (even though it's the shortest piece on here yet *sigh*). It was supposed to be just an exercise in description, but it kind of failed... *sigh*
Oh well, see what you think.
Bubi
Sharp Shots
The barracks was empty. Everyone was gathered behind the shooting line, hundreds of bows shot by the men and women of the Archers’ Corps lined in perfect order just behind the equipment line. But no-one was about to pick up their bows to shoot, except one man. Around two hundred had stayed behind after the marksmanship training session to continue practising. While much of the rest of the 2nd Brigade ‘Lucullus’ were waiting for a certain Captain Severus Zuijveron to give them a proper display of archer’s precision. To a man and woman, none were better than the taciturn ‘Corps Champion’ (an informal title that members bestowed upon whomever they considered to be the best), and indeed Zuijveron was that rare individual who was not just a bit ahead of his peers, but far beyond.
That day, the entire brigade had turned out to go through some four hours of half-competition/half-practise that crisp afternoon in October when this part of the country, just east of the Meherahki mountain region, was starting to get a bit chilly. Even so, Zuijveron, like all the men (with the women near enough to it), wore nothing above his waist. For an archer (especially an Archer – among those who practised the sport, members of the corps were in a league of their own, hence the capitalisation) Zuijveron was oddly short... and unlike most Brakaans, he was bald, though to be fair, he was not an Immortal. However, this fact made his position as Corps Champion quite an achievement. At thirty-seven, he was a veritable youngster amongst the elites of the Archers’ Corps. Captain Teres Pheislebranque, the former Champion that Zuijveron ‘deposed’ was almost a hundred years old, despite the fact that, if anything, she looked younger than her successor. Still, no-one could take anything away from the newly promoted captain.
Anyway, there was quite a crowd gathered around him as he prepared to shoot. Those from his own company were closest, proudly showing off their commanding officer, albeit subtly. However, those same Archers were quietly making bets amongst themselves, shaking their heads sceptically or smirking while muttering under their breaths. Small amounts of credit chips exchanged hands and they parted to let the captain through to where his bow-stand was. Rubbing his wrists and flexing his fingers, ignoring the flailing of his finger-sling, he paused to crick his neck and spine in front of his bow. After a moment, he hefted his bow and wrapped the tail of the finger-sling around his thumb, securing it snugly. Taking two long strides, he was in front of target eight. Lifting his bow slightly, he rested it against his thigh and looked at the one-hundred and twenty centimetre target. Right then, it look much smaller, being precisely one thousand metres away. He shifted his hand within the grip as he did every time he intended to shoot his perfect shot. His bow was a heavily customised Glademaster Mk XXIV compound bow: just over ninety-five centimetres from cam to cam, with probably the most expensive array of civilian archery components ever. The riser’s old surface of green and black paint from when it was cast was long since chipped and flaked, almost beyond recognition, but its appearance belied a very powerful weapon. A twin-cam bow, set at a wall of more than eighty kilograms with a seventy-six percent let off, Zuijveron was known to hold full draw for anything up to two minutes if he felt it was necessary. The four recurved limbs (two pairs that flanked the cams) were constructed from layers upon layers of carbon and wood and the riser was reinforced with diamond. Stabilisation came in the form of twins and a long rod each constructed from four lengths of pressed carbon filaments linked by weights at each end. The long rod had additional weights at one quarter and one half of its length from where it was connected to the riser below the grip. Just above the grip was the sprung fanged launcher, the ends a mere two and half millimetres apart where the shaft of each arrow would rest. As they tended to be on bows of this power, the launcher was quite inflexible, depressing only slightly under weights of more than half a kilogram. His sight, also custom crafted, incorporated a lens with ten times magnification. And then there was the single most expensive component: the three strings that spanned the length of the bow once each, made from one hundred and eight clusters of single strand molecules of polymer. He was very careful with his Glademaster, so it was no surprise that he refused to allow anyone else to shoot it or repair it. Also, he shot it only very occasionally, since it was specifically designed for very high accuracy for the archer with perfect form. The other veterans had their own customised bows, but they tended to be slightly more pragmatic with their configurations, and they allowed Zuijveron his extravagance for the obvious reason.
And then there were the arrows that he used, one of which he drew after twirling his release aid about his index finger and snapping it back into the crook of his fingers. They were made from soft steel and titanium alloy with vulcanised rubber curled vane fletchings. He nocked the arrow and fixed the catch on the release aid on the string loop that linked above and below the arrow. One breath later he tensed the bow slightly and raised it. With a brutal curl of his shoulder, he was at full draw, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense with the strain of just over nineteen kilograms along the axis of his left arm and his shoulders. Everyone could feel his mind and the energy he was feeding into the tip of the arrow, ready to be unleashed upon release. The spectators could see the tip of his elbow ever so slightly move back and around. Blink. There was sharp ‘thack’ noise and the arrow was away. Everyone standing in line with his shot had binoculars or prosthetic viewing lenses tracking the path of the arrow, which decelerated from its release speed of more than two hundred metres per second. Just under five seconds later, the arrow hit the target, burying itself into the wood and polymer target, and within moments, there were ripples of approval going through the crowd as the result came through even as Zuijveron was standing still, his bow dangling from his left hand, held up by his finger sling: ten-ring line-cutter at eight o’clock.
There was applause from a single individual. The one hundred and fifty Archers turned to see a woman wearing the black and silver of the Princess’s Guards. And she was a Princess’s Spartiate Scout, judging from the M&K TPS Bolt long rifle that was slung across her back. And indeed, the Princess of the Arena herself was standing at a distance with a small contingent of Spartiates, mostly armed with silenced assault rifles or long rifles. Sergeant Demeter deVerekahn introduced herself and requested a shot. The Archers looked at her a little sceptically but allowed her through. Zuijveron gestured to shoot at target nine, and waved down the range. The used target was replaced with a clean one so that the shots could be easily observed. The bullets (unimaginatively called ‘bolts’, since they always resembled bolts upon impact, though not for the same reason as black powder bullets did) would probably have no effect on incoming arrows, since the momentum would be so great that they would simply register as a tough patch in the target.
As she neared the target, deVerekahn removed her rifle and cloak, tossing the latter to one of the others who followed her to the shooting line. From a waist pouch, she removed her Project Evolution, a small but oddly bulky looking thing that she put behind her neck, clicking into place on the eight metal connections that all citizens had implanted at the age of twelve. From the ProjEve, she pulled a cable and plugged it into the side of the breach block. She cricked her neck and lifted the rifle to aim, looking down the scope. Satisfied she had the measure of the range, she adjusted the scope slightly before re-aiming. Once again she lowered it and took a couple of breaths, before taking one deep breath and hefting her weapon at last and it looked as though she was aiming ever so slightly high. However, as she slowly exhaled, the muzzle was lowered. It hovered around the target. There was total silence and the only movement seen was deVerekahn’s finger slowly pulling at the trigger. After the bottom of the trigger moved back exactly four millimetres, there was click and a sudden metallic ‘zing’ noise as the bullet spun down barrel, moving with the internal rifling. There was no recoil, no jolt with the shot, showing the True Age Brakaan’s ability with her TPS technology. A couple seconds later, she lowered her gun and cocked it, the expended shell popping out of the breach block. A murmur went around and the Archers gave the Spartiate Scout sniper looks of approval: inside the ten-ring, two widths from dead centre at three o’clock.
Zuijveron nodded with a wry smile, before taking a second shot. Every action that he made, every manipulation of telekinesis was the same. Down to the movement made by his bow after the shot, jerking forward and falling in his bow hand. It landed barely two and a half centimetres above his last shot, full shaft ten. deVerekahn followed him and shot again, making a high ten line-cutter. They continued, matching each other shot for shot four more times, by which time, the Princess’s Guards and Archers were making bets together. A lot of the officers from both groups had in fact taken out notebooks and were keeping score making off-the-cuff comments to each other.
At last, the Princess came along and withdrew her contingent, the two sides nodding in polite respect for each other, while deVerekahn donned her cloak again and slung her rifle over her shoulder. Zuijveron nodded his head as if to say ‘until next-time’. He watched as the sniper and the Arena delegation mounted their horses and leave towards the main Corps headquarters. He looked at his officers.
“Well?! What’s the damage?!” he asked brusquely, grinning.
“One-nil to you.”
“Level terms once again,” he smiled, shaking his head as he started taking his bow apart.
deVerekahn was grinning as she rode as well, marvelling at the skill of an Archer who was younger by more than a hundred years.
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