A Dark Shadow

'Not like that,' said Ulyanov gently, 'no need for all that tension in your hand and forearm.'

Misha tried again at the chord, his fingers drumming out a rapid-fire tremolo like an insect's wingbeats. He grimaced as his fingers caught in the strings. It was something all beginners went through when learning to play stringed instruments: picking exactly the right amount of force with which to strum. Too little and you made hardly any sound. Too much and your hand cramped from exhaustion.

'Can I just sing?'

'Sure, son, you've done plenty of practise, just have fun for the rest of the evening. You should come along and join the male voice ensemble with me tomorrow. Your voice is stable by now.'

'I might, if I'm feeling confident.'

Ulyanov took his own balalaika and set his hand on the strings, and the opening notes of Kalinka took flight, a wild turbulent reel that dated all the way back to Old Earth. Misha's voice dropped to join his, gold-bronze now, a lyric baritone. The evening flashed by as they belted out all their ancient favorites: Ey Ukhnem, the barge-hauling song, Ochi Chorniye, a love song about a woman with dark eyes, Black Raven, a battlefield requiem.

Nastja flashed him a small, constricted smile as she walked past. It didn't quite meet her eyes.

\*\*\*

'Kane,' she said awkwardly as Misha left for bed. 'I don't want to bring this up again, but...'

'I know, I know.' He gently set his hand around her hip and walked them both up the stairwell. 'Dangerous unearned things. Free hug from his dad when he came home from school. Free music. Free balalaika lessons.'

'Dr Meerschalkewaard says doing reaction time drills will help,' she said uncertainly. 'But I just...I don't see how...'

'Babe. Listen.' They reached the top of the stairs, and he stretched his arm all the way around her and reached to his sleeve panel.

'Kane, what are you doing?'

'I can tell you things, but your brain is in anxiety mode, and it won't listen even if you do. So. I'm scheduling us all a session at the Yamanaka-Verhoeven center tomorrow.'

'Isn't that only for the military?'

'Not any more. They're rolling it out for everyone, and lots more training centers like it.'

\*\*\*

The Yamanaka-Verhoeven center was a harsh bare place like everywhere else on Mors. The five walked across the grounds after double-checking one last time that they'd all armed up: Ulyanov with the standard Harrier, Nastja with the narrow Buzzard built for a woman's smaller hands, Misha with his own Harrier and the twins with their Bumblebees. Spiked coils glittered at them as if in greeting as they stepped inside the perimeter gates. LRADs lined the fence; so did tall Gyrfalcon stations.

'Hi, Captain Ulyanov. Thanks for coming,' said Xenobiology Sergeant Verhoeven as they walked in the lobby, as if Ulyanov were kindly doing him a favor by testing out the facility.

'Sergeant Verhoeven. Good to see you.' He swiped his ID card at the counter and a green light pulsed.

'Bay Five, Six and Eight are free right now. Help yourselves.'

He chose Bay Eight at random and opened the door. A concrete labyrinth lit by icy fluoro lights waited for them inside.

'Captain Kane Ulyanov reporting for training exercise, sixteen hours,' he called out. 'Please initialize.'

The lights dimmed. A computer voice answered. 'Initializing. Which module would you like to use, Captain Ulyanov? Standard mode, or base reflex testing?'

'Base reflex testing, please.'

'Kane, what the hell are we doing?'

'Okay, babe, so it works like this.' Ulyanov drew his weapon and balanced his weight evenly on the balls of his feet. 'So we worked through this in therapy, and the reason it doesn't work is you're trying to solve it with logic. Logic doesn't work on people's primal fears. You know Misha can handle himself, and it's really not a big deal if I give him a hug. You understand that here -' he pointed to his temple - 'but not here -' he pointed instead at the base of his skull, where the ancient parts of oneself lived. 'So -' he slapped a magazine into place - 'we'll do a little brainstem training today.'

Nastja looked uneasy and drew her Buzzard. 'Exercise beginning in sixty seconds,' announced the computer voice.

'It works like this: the training uses subliminal images. Before any hazards attack you, the system will first show you a one-twentieth-of-a-second flash, a life-sized image of *M. terribilis*. You'll panic, that's the point. You're supposed to panic. Whatever's inside you, the exercise will dig it out and test it. If you're the kind of person to shit your pants and run, you'll know.'

'Kane, is this really necessary?'

'Yes, babe, it's necessary. Let's go.'

'Thirty seconds remaining,' announced the computer synth voice.

'I'm going first,' said Ulyanov. 'You see a dark flash and feel absolute horror, that's normal - hold it for a few rounds. I'm going to do a bit of training, then you, then Misha can go next.'

'Ten seconds remaining. Nine...eight...seven...six...'

'Lads, you locked and loaded?'

'I'm good, Dad, already put a spare magazine in.'

'Good.'

'Three, two, one!'

'Let's move!'

Ulyanov took point into the maze. A faint dark flutter rippled across the walls, and he felt the bright flash in his retroperitoneum, the adrenaline gushing into his bloodstream. He hadn't seen any actual image of a spider; the fifty-millisecond flash was too short for the human forebrain to register. He swung up his weapon and put two rounds between the eyes of the paper target that glided towards him on a massive beam.

'That's fucking nasty,' commented Misha. 'That...thing...the dark shadow...'

'It's supposed to be. That's the point.' Another near-imperceptible ripple. Ulyanov opened fire. Two shots between the eyes.

'Nastja, you go next. Do a few yourself.'

He stepped back so she could take point, and followed her further into the labyrinth. A dark grey pulse, and gunshots. A neat headshot to the seam between the eyes.

Her shoulders visibly relaxed as she shot a few more targets. Then it was Misha's turn.

Further into the core. The difficulty levels would go up as they advanced. The system waited until Misha had half twisted his tall body over a high turnstile, then the dark pulsed into all five of their brains, telling the deep hindbrain that death was coming for them on eight limbs.

Misha snapped up his weapon and fired three times into the paper-spider's head. A narrow metal catwalk over ice water was next; the software waited until the most disadvantageous moment possible before the dark flash and the eight louring limbs. Next was an irregularly shaped steel girder, designed to mimic crumbling and dangerous infrastructure. A faint grey shudder went through the passageway, then the spider appeared. Misha calmly put two rounds between its eyes.

Ulyanov felt Nastja's hand on his right forearm. He moved his weapon to his left hand and offered his right for her to hold.

'Kane...I...he did it...'

He nodded. 'You can let go now, babe. Misha can take care of himself. The fifty-millisecond shock doesn't lie.'