The butts—well, the patch of grass marked for my novice class—sit fifteen minutes beyond the edge of town, a scraped rectangle at the forest’s edge. The grass has been cut short, but that’s it. No mound of earth, no bales of hay, nothing to stop stray shots. And there will be a lot more misses than hits today.

  “Mira!” I spin in place, heat and frustration rising with each turn. “Where are the supplies for my class?”

  “Supplies?”

  “Oh, come on! This is a novice class.”

  “And?”

  “This is an archery class.”

  “Yes.”

  “With no bows, no arrows, and nothing to aim at.”

  “Is this a problem?”

  “Is this a problem!? How can they learn to use a tool they don’t have to shoot at a target that doesn’t exist?”

  “So you need classroom supplies.”

  “I also need a proper classroom. And safety equipment.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “That may go against protocol.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “What protocol?”

  “Order 27-009: Austerity and the lack of resources shall be used as a motivational tool to encourage colonists to develop essential survival skills.”

  I throw my hands up. “Is that why I’ve got a sunburned midriff and bug bites on my thighs?”

  “If you wish to—”

  “Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do I have these?” I tug at the hem of my halter top and snap the edge of my ridiculous skirt.

  “It was determined that the survival of your species requires the reestablishment of the taboo against nudity.”

  “You couldn’t do that with a long-sleeve shirt and jeans?”

  “Order 27-009 requires—”

  “Blah-blah-blah. I get it. Need and desperation, austerity breeds innovation. Fine. Color me motivated. I’ll take a bloody sewing class.” I jab a finger at Mira’s empty space. “But there is no way in hell I can teach archery to kids wearing beach clothes and no safety gear. That’s like…” I pat my halter top and mini-skirt, “…this garbage.”

  Mira falls silent. Thinking, consulting, or maybe begging permission from Eidelorn, Inanna, or whichever higher-order machine-god she answers to. Meanwhile, I introduce myself to the gathering students, cringing at their motley collection of outfits—more ready for a seaside boardwalk than a live weapon range.

  “Everyone, take a seat,” I say, stalking back toward the center of the butts. “Mira!”

  “Yes.”

  “Supplies?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you require?”

  “Armguards, chest wraps, proper footwear. Basic training smocks—plain, utilitarian, something loose but not floppy. Functional equipment: quivers, arrows, targets, range markers. This isn’t about fashion, it’s about safety. If you won’t dress us like adults, at least give me what I need to keep the kids from maiming themselves.”

  “This will be provided under the following conditions. The items cannot be removed from the classroom area, and will only be available to novice students for their first semester. They must acquire their own items before beginning their second semester. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  I walk toward the eighteen points of light swirling behind my students and spin a finger over my head, motioning them to turn. They gasp and point as the lights expand into cubes. Moments later, several crates thump into existence.

  “There’s one for each of you,” I call, loud enough to carry but not yell. “Everything goes back in your crate at the end of the lesson. Do you understand?”

  Nine men and women answer in unison: “Yes, Mam!”

  “My name is Lizzy—not Mam, not Professor, not Miss Loren. Just Lizzy. Do you understand?”

  Eighteen pairs of eyes stare in silence. I hold out my hand, palm open. “My bow and kit, please.”

  “Miss Loren—”

  “Just for the class.”

  “Which one?”

  “My Highlands longbow and related kit. I don’t need all the fancy stuff.”

  The air shimmers. Into my palm settles the bow my father and I carved when I was fifteen. The wood is yew, dark honey with a pale streak of sapwood running like a vein along its back. Its surface is warm, smoother than skin, but still carries the faint ridges of the drawknife he insisted I leave as “honest marks.” The grip is wrapped in worn leather, sweat-darkened and faintly tacky, smelling of smoke, lanolin, and the peat fire where we dried it. My fingers trace shallow grooves where nervous hunts had worried the finish years ago.

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  The scent rises sharp and earthy—linseed oil, resin, summer mornings in the glen. Wet grass brushing my boots. Heather on the wind. When I flex the stave, it creaks like an old door, deep and trustworthy. The string hums a low, thrumming note as it settles back. Even its taste lingers in memory: salt on my lips from sweat and rain, each time I kissed the leather grip for luck before loosing.

  Heavy, yet alive. Balanced to my arm and my father’s patient eye. The resin scent carries me back to the fire, the polished grain rough-smooth under my fingers. When the string thrums, I almost hear his voice in it—our secret language etched into wood, strung taut with the love he could no longer speak aloud.

  I reach to my side, draw an arrow, nock it, and set my stance.

  Home.

  One heartbeat—draw.

  A breath—anchor.

  Another pulse—aim.

  Exhale—release.

  The hiss of the arrow.

  Thump.

  “Open your bins. Dress in the gear provided and pick a lane at the butts.”

  A chorus of snickers rolled through the class.

  “Pick a lane,” I repeat, dry as chalk. While they fumble with straps and sleeves, I give them the history they didn’t ask for.

  “This is one of humanity’s oldest ranged weapons. Older than the plow. Older than written words.”

  I pace the row, tugging straps, straightening smocks, tightening gloves. “For tens of thousands of years, our ancestors shaped wood and string to bring down deer, boar, and birds — feeding families from a distance no spear could reach. Across continents, hunters refined the craft: long yew bows in Europe,” I lift mine overhead, “short composite bows of horn and sinew across the steppes, poison-tipped shafts in Africa, woodland bows in the Americas — each one tuned to its land and prey.”

  A flick of scorn sharpens my tone. “Firearms replaced the bow for hunting, yes — but the skill endured. Because a bow is not just a weapon.” I pin them with my gaze. “It is discipline. Patience. Respect for the hunt. That is the tradition you step into today.”

  “Now—rules.” I tap my bow against my boot like a gavel.

  “One: Never point your bow or an arrow at anything you don’t intend to hit. Ever.

  Two: Only nock an arrow when I tell you to. Not before.

  Three: Check your bow, string, and arrows every time before you shoot. Cracked wood or frayed string can take your eye out.

  Four: No one—no one—goes downrange while a bow is drawn.

  Five: If some idiot does step forward, you don’t shoot—you ease off, lower the bow, and wait.

  Six: Only shoot at your target. Not the trees, not your neighbor, not a bloody squirrel that looked at you funny.

  Seven: Every shot has purpose. We shoot to feed, to train, or to defend. Never to torment.”

  Blank stares. A couple nods.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  Eighteen voices shout, “Yes, Lizzy!”

  “Better. Now, copy me.”

  I demonstrate again, dragging every movement out until my fingers ache with the draw and the release feels like snapping glass.

  A moment later, eighteen arrows vanish into the trees.

  I smirk. Looked like a scene straight out of Men in Tights—all the enthusiasm, none of the aim. The trees were dead; the targets perfectly safe.

  I bite back a smile, eyes fixed on the air above my students. “Hey Mira. Add tights to the uniforms.”

  A soft chuckle rippled across the field before Mira answered, dry as ever. “Um… no…”

  I move along the line, once again correcting stance, posture, adjusting grips and fingers. They empty their quivers twice before the bell rings in my head.

  “Everything you got from the box goes back into the box!”

  “Yes, Miss Lizzy!”

  “Phillip and Grettaluna, see the medic before your next class.”

  “I dunna need no bloody leech pokin’ me,” growls Grettaluna.

  “Go. Now. Or I’ll throw your cute ass over my shoulder and haul you there myself.”

  “You wouldna dare!”

  I stride toward the woman, fingers itching to fist her lanky blonde hair and caveman her straight to Doc.

  The class erupts — half gasps, half snickers — as if they’re waiting to see if I’ll really do it.

  “Down, lass! Cool yer knickers. I’ll go!” Grettaluna huffs, stomping off in defeat.