The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage by Matthew Wayne Selznick

hard to focus on the task at hand, and that could be a problem.
    Mister Croy called to Byron from fifty paces away, where he stood with his right arm extended and a pistol in his hand. “You’re distracted.”
    Byron glanced at Dr. Mazmanian, who was crouched a few yards to Byron’s left. Mazmanian shrugged with sympathy.
    “Sorry, Mister Croy.” Byron swallowed and shook himself out like a boxer preparing to enter the ring. “I’ll get it together. Just gimme a sec—"
    The impact grabbed him on his right upper thigh and spun him around. The crack of the gunshot reached Byron just as he lost his balance and hit the tall grass on his left side.
    His entire leg was numb save for the burning throb where the bullet hit him. He looked down at the massive, purple bruise he could almost see spreading as he watched.
    He told himself he wouldn’t throw up.
    He managed to tilt his head toward the dewy grass before he did.
    Doc Mazmanian got to his side quickly and gave the leg a glance before looking at Byron.
    “What day is it, Byron?” Mazmanian smiled.
    “Ow. Tuesday.” Byron wiped his mouth, and then wiped his hand on a dry patch of meadow grass. “Fuck. Ow.”
    Croy holstered his pistol and strode to stand over Byron. “How is he?”
    Mazmanian balanced his hands on his knees and stood up. “Much better than last week. Didn’t even break the skin.”
    “Good.”
    Careful to avoid the stinky mess in the grass, Byron gingerly shifted onto his back, propped on his elbows. The pressure of the ground on his ass made his right leg hurt even more. He winced and squinted up at Croy.
    “You didn’t give me a chance to get ready!”
    “Closer to reality,” Croy said. “There will be distractions in the field. Your state of mind this morning served its purpose.”
    Byron shifted back to his left side and carefully stood up. Neither of the adults moved to help him.
    He had to keep as much weight on his left leg as he could. His right leg was beginning to come to life with fiery pins and needles.
    “Served its—?” Byron gaped at Mazmanian. “That’s, like, totally why you told me about my dad before we came out here.”
    Mazmanian, still grinning, nodded.
    “Jesus!” Byron looked at both of them. “Was my dad even here? Or was it all just part of the test?”
    “Oh, your dad was here, all right.” Doc Mazmanian’s smile leveled off. “He made a big scene. They had to eject him from the Visitors Center under guard.”
    Byron took a second to picture that. He decided he needed some flavoring. “Did they mess him up?”
    Mazmanian raised an eyebrow; Byron knew the doc well enough to recognize that as a minor rebuke. “They only hurt his pride, Byron. Just his pride.”
    Byron’s leg was on fire from the pins and needles, but he had to resist stomping his foot because of what the impact would do to the bruise. All the same, he smiled, just a little.
    “That’ll work.”
    Mazmanian furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Great attitude, Byron.”
    Croy turned for the Institute grounds. “Time for your follow-up work.” He didn’t wait for them.
    Mazmanian kept Byron’s limping pace but made no move to help him. Byron didn’t take it personally—it was all part of the exercise. They needed to see how fast his adaptive abilities would work; any outside assistance would mess up the, whatever they called it, the data.
    Croy went directly to the research center; if Byron wasn’t bleeding or in shock, there was no reason to bother with the infirmary. Byron, eyes down, struggled with the stairs leading to the entrance. His leg really, really hurt.
    “You can do it, soldier boy.”
    That throaty female voice sure wasn’t Mazmanian.
    Byron lifted his head and saw a girl about his age, sixteen or seventeen, leaning with deliberate cool against the rail on the far side of the wide steps.
    She was skinny. Her holey, strategically bleached blue jeans hung off narrow hips. She had freckles all over her bare arms