Free The Bureau of Time by Brett Michael Orr Page B

kitchen table in their Upper-West Side apartment.
    That seemed like a lifetime ago now, and she would have given anything just to see her mother again. She missed her father’s embrace and his kind words, the way he would always take time to listen to her, or talk about her troubles at school; she missed laughing with him as he struggled to sing ‘ Shake It Off’ on their karaoke machine.
    By the end of the first week, her body had started to change.
    She still couldn’t do more than thirty pushups in a row – much to Drill Sergeant Mathers’ annoyance – but it was fifteen more than her first attempt, and she could keep pace with the company on their morning jog. Her lanky, wiry body – which had always been the subject of bullying and catcalling from the snarky clique of girls at her high school – started to fill out, lean muscles forming around her legs and arms. For once in her life, she was grateful for her flat chest – she could run easier than some of the older women, and her smaller size leant her surprising agility in the obstacle courses. She was always third or fourth fastest amongst the recruits, only beaten out by the larger men.
    In weapons training, however, she was the worst of her entire company.
    “Watch how I’m holding the gun,” Ryan Boreman told her, on the third unsuccessful day in a row. They were in the firing range of Sector 5 – the Temporal Operations division that housed the armory and ranges. The older teenager had taken over from the range master, but so far, it hadn’t made a difference.
    Ryan was standing so close to her that his arm brushed up against hers, making her shiver every time they touched. They each wore over-the-head earmuffs, with one ear partially exposed so they could talk. Cassie flinched at the roaring gunshots from beside her. The paper targets twitched on their rails, the other recruits’ shots neatly landing on the chest or head.
    Cassie looked at her own target, down on the 50-yard line, completely unscathed.
    “A nice, firm grip like this,” Ryan said, demonstrating how to hold the Glock 17C.
    “I’ve got it, ” she said, taking the handgun from him – holding the gun wasn’t the problem, hitting something seemed the hardest part.
    The Glock was surprisingly heavy; she needed two hands just to lift it. She stared down the sight, the barrel wavering. She wiped a hand across her forehead, distinctly aware of how much she was sweating – her gray tank top was soaked through, and a lock of hair hung loosely in front of her eyes.
    She pulled the trigger. Her arm jerked backward, jarring her shoulder, and the shot went high above the target, hitting one of the reinforced baffles on the ceiling. Damn it. She sensed Ryan’s displeasure beside her. Come on. You can do this.
    She pulled the trigger again and again, discharging round after round, her shoulder jarring painfully. Each shot went wide, hitting the back wall or clipping the target’s rail, but never the black cutout itself. The slide flung back, the magazine and chamber both empty, and Cassie let out a frustrated scream, ripping her earmuffs off.
    She stormed out of the firing range, ignoring Ryan – she didn’t want to see that look of disappointment on his face. She walked out of the range as fast as she could, a dozen eyes on her; a hot flush creeped onto her face, and it was all she could do to keep from running.
    The next day, the range master was back to instruct her.
    *     *     *
    Temporal training proved equally difficult.
    In the afternoons, she was mercifully saved from marksman training outside, and instead taken to Sector 1 – home of the Intelligence and Monitoring Division that researched Temporal Energy and analyzed the intel uploads from Eaglepoint Station. There were dozens of strange laboratories and meeting rooms in Sector 1, and instead of agents or operators, she saw assistants and scientists in white lab coats.
    She was always taken to the same