“It’s an elegant weapon.”

 

At the statement, the boy standing next to his father—the one who had spoken—rolled his eyes. “It is from a more civilized age?”

 

The boy’s father, Cale, ignored the eye roll and movie quotation from his son, Heming, and put the bow into shooting position, carefully aiming the arrow at a target he had set up near the edge of the jungle. As he had done hundreds of times, Cale let the arrow fly, hearing the slight twang of the bowstring before watching the arrow fly forward, hitting the center of the target with a satisfying thump.

 

The man smiled.

 

Dropping the bow to his side, Cale held it out toward his ten-year old son. Heming took the bow and examined it with the eyes of someone who not only failed to appreciate its beauty, but was disdainful of the weapon itself.

 

Cale saw it as his job to fix that, if for no other reason than to have his second oldest child appreciate things in life unrelated to the technological wonders that made their lives so easy.

 

Not that Cale had been any different than his son when he was Heming’s age. If anything, he had been worse than Heming when his own father had taken him to one of the public areas on the ship where they had lived, Hodios, and taught him to shoot the weapon.

 

At least on Columbina, his own children had the chance to spend time in real nature, instead of the small parks, gardens, and fields of an interstellar ship. They had not been on the planet a long time, and the jungles and waters outside the populated area of the planet had proved themselves very dangerous, but all of his children spent more time in activities that did not require a phone or other technology than he had ever done at their age when stuck aboard a ship. Even before they had moved planetside after arriving at Columbina, the kids had clamored to get to the surface at any and every chance they could.

 

Still, though, Heming was proving far more difficult to convince he should learn this ancient technology than his older brother, Vlad, had been. Once Vlad had seen the arrow fly, he had been an enthusiastic student and could shoot as well if not better than Cale.

 

Heming took the bow from his father. “Ugh, Dad, this is pointless. I have a gun to shoot things. What am I going to do with a bow and arrow? Throw it at someone?”

 

Cale sighed—and not for the first time in the 20 minutes the two of them had been at the edge of the woods together. Around them, the town they were creating on humanity’s newest colony was rising up out of what had once been an untouched jungle. Already, several dozen people had moved to the surface of the planet; by the end of the year, everyone who would be colonizing Columbina would be living planetside. Hodios would remain in the sky above them for several more years, building them their own interstellar ship and ensuring the viability of the planet before heading out to the stars in search of another planet to colonize. Even now, before Iris created a new intelligence system for the new ship—she was staying on Columbina—she had drones out exploring the universe for that new planet.

 

“First of all, the entire point of the bow and arrow is to use it to shoot things. Clearly, you’re not going to throw it at anything. What would be the point of that? Unless you get lucky and poke someone’s eye out, a bow is a pointless thing to throw at someone. And second, you shouldn’t be using it in any way against someone else except in extraordinary circumstances. So no more talk of being unable to use a bow to shoot someone. I hope you never live in times that require you to shoot at anyone else, whether using a bow or a gun.”

 

It was Heming’s turn to sigh then, as if he was resigned, finally, to what he had to do. Cale wasn’t sure if the resignation indicated Heming was going to go through this just to get it done and go back to whatever else he had been doing, or if he was now just going to reluctantly cooperate and eventually learn to love it, but Cale didn’t care either way.

 

Heming held his hand out to his father.

 

“You think you’re ready for an arrow?” Cale asked his son, figuring out why the boy had his hand outstretched. Cale snorted, despite knowing it would not help the reluctance of his son to participate in the training session.

 

For the next 20 minutes, Cale explained and demonstrated the basics of bow-handling to his son.

 

By the end of those 20 minutes, Heming seemed even less interested in learning how to use the weapon than he had been when they had started the process.

 

After Cale adjusted Heming’s stance for what seemed like the hundredth time, Heming threw the bow down in frustration. Cale picked up the bow, inspecting it to make sure nothing had happened to it.

 

Heming watched his father, his arms crossed against his chest.

 

Normally, Cale would not have let someone learning to shoot use an arrow at this point in the training, but he could tell he was going to lose Heming if he didn’t let Heming get some action in.

 

Besides, it might prove a good lesson to the boy. There was no way he would be able to shoot anything at this point.

 

Except, maybe, his own foot. And even then, it was unlikely the arrow would have enough force to do anything beyond leaving a bruise through the shoe.

 

“Fine,” Cale said, hearing the frustration in his own voice that he saw in the son that was so much like he had been at that age, “if you think you’re ready

to shoot, I’ll let you shoot and we’ll see exactly how ready you are.”

 

Cale pulled an arrow from the quiver sitting near him on the ground and handed it to his son.

 

Heming beamed as soon as he had the arrow in hand and immediately put the bow up and began aiming at the target ahead of them.

 

“Now, Heming, you can’t just shoot. If you do…”

 

Before Cale could finish his statement, Heming had let an arrow fly.

 

Or rather, he attempted to let the arrow fly.

 

Instead, it arched up slightly before falling to the ground about ten feet in front of Heming.

 

Although it was better than Cale had thought he would do, the kid could have thrown it three times as far and with more effect.

 

Cale knew it wasn’t appropriate to laugh at his own child, but it was exactly what he was tempted to do. He held the snicker in, but behind him, he heard someone else who wasn’t so circumspect laugh out loud at Heming.

 

He didn’t have to turn to know exactly who it was—Alexis, his oldest daughter and Heming’s younger sister by five years. When he did turn to see her, he saw she had Iris in tow.

 

“You suck,” the five-year old said, then saw her father give her a look. “I mean, you aren’t very good.”

 

The minor curse was not why Cale had given her the look, but Alexis didn’t seem to realize that he had been upset with the laughing more than anything.

 

“No, you suck,” Heming retorted. It was not Heming’s most articulate response ever, and before Cale could tell him not to use that sort of language, the younger sibling piped up, apparently no longer caring about her language.

 

“I don’t suck.” Alexis, despite being five-years old and probably too young to learn to shoot, had insisted on learning when she had seen Vlad learning

how to shoot on Hodios. She was too young to use the larger bow Heming now had in his hands and with which Vlad had learned to shoot, so Iris had

made Alexis her own, small bow and set of arrows.

 

Cale saw Alexis had the bow with her.

 

He couldn’t think of a way this ended well for Heming’s confidence.

 

The little girl was a better shot than Cale or Vlad. 

 

It wasn’t surprising; she was obsessed with anything and everything having to do with weapons, whether it be a bow, a gun, or nuclear warfare.

 

A little overly obsessed, if you asked Cale or his wife.

 

Or really, if you asked anyone who knew the girl.

 

“If you’re so good, then why don’t you try to shoot the target. Then I’ll get to laugh at you when you miss.” Heming put his hands on his hips.

 

“Heming, I don’t think you want to challenge her.” Iris tried to reason with Heming, but the boy was not going to listen to her. Iris must have known that as well, despite her attempt to do so.

 

“No, let’s see what she can do.” Heming had clearly never seen Alexis shoot, or he would never have challenged her. Cale wondered if he had ever heard anyone talk about her shooting. Perhaps he had just assumed people had been talking about her gun skills, which everyone knew were spectacular for someone of any age, and not just for someone as young as she was.

 

Alexis smiled, like she had been hoping Heming would ask her this exact question.

 

The five-year old stepped up to where Heming was lined up, pushing him out of the way with her hip as she did. Heming pushed her back, but the girl didn’t protest.

 

“Daddy,” Alexis said, looking down toward the target without even raising her bow. She raised an eyebrow at her father, knowing he would know what she meant without saying anything else.

 

And he did know.

 

“No, I’m not moving the target back,” he said to his daughter, who looked disappointed. She didn’t need to show up her older brother any more than she was about to.

 

“Fine.” Alexis gave her father a look of irritation that he did not think he had to expect from his oldest daughter for a few more years.

 

In a fluid, graceful motion that seemed appropriate for someone far older than her five years, Alexis drew one of her small arrows from the quiver on her back, placed it in the bow, aimed, and shot a perfect bullseye. It hit so dead center, it was easy to see that Cale’s first shot, that had looked perfect when it had stuck in the target, was anything but.

 

“See,” Alexis said, sticking her tongue out at her older brother, “I told you I didn’t suck.”

 

“Fuck you,” Heming replied.

 

“Language!” Iris said before Cale could get the words out, though he realized he hadn’t even heard the swearing until Iris had commented on it.

 

“Whatever,” Heming said quietly, with some other words spoken so quietly Cale was sure even Alexis, standing close to him, couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then, the boy looked up. “I want to try again.”

 

“Because you didn’t suck enough the first time?”

 

“Alexis, language,” Iris said, now reminding the girl that she was not supposed to use even that slight curse. Alexis rolled her eyes, in the favorite expression of all the members of her family.

 

Heming walked over to where his arrow had fallen earlier, picking it up and wiping some dirt off of its shaft.

 

“I can move the target closer if you want,” Alexis said.

 

“Alexis, stop being a smart ass,” Cale said, knowing as he spoke that he was probably the reason why most of his children swore like little sailors.

 

Heming lined up again, aiming the arrow at the target. Even before he had pulled the bowstring fully taut, Cale could tell Heming’s second shot was not going to be much better as the first shot.

 

As it turned out, it was even worse. In his frustration, whatever Heming had done had caused the arrow to fall more than shoot, and it dropped to the ground near Heming’s feet.

 

Frustrated, Heming picked the arrow up off of the ground and cracked it in two over his knee. Before anyone could berate him for the action, Heming stormed off.

 

“Hey,” Alexis called after him, “I’ve got an idea. How about we do a real shooting competition?”

 

Heming paused. Before either Cale or Iris could say anything, he turned around, his hand on the handle of the small gun his parents had given him for his tenth birthday. It had become, since the Founders Conflict, something of a coming-of-age present for ten-year olds. The only way a ten-year old didn’t get a weapon for his or her birthday was if he or she had gotten in serious trouble or his or her parents couldn’t afford it.

 

“You’re on,” Heming smiled. Unlike the bow and arrow, Cale knew Heming had seen Alexis shoot and knew how good she was. Everyone had seen that, because she used almost all her free time to go to the range and practice. It would be a close competition, but Alexis still probably had the edge.

 

Cale and his wife really needed to consider if they should work on making her slightly less enthusiastic about shooting sports.

 

Heming headed back toward them, smiling now. “Ladies first,” he said, nodding toward his little sister.

 

“Daddy, I need a gun.” At five-years old, Alexis did not have her own weapon she carried with her, though, ever-indulgent of his oldest daughter, Cale had purchased her a gun she regularly used for target practice, even if she couldn’t carry it everywhere like a kid twice her age could. She spent so much time at the range, she just kept it there.

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Iris said before Cale could hand her his own weapon, as he had been planning. It was too large for his daughter, but she had shot it before and he knew she could. Plus, it would likely give her brother an edge, which might allow Heming to win and keep him from getting overly frustrated and doing something he might regret.

 

Or something that would require Cale to explain this whole situation to their mother.

 

He would definitely rather not do that.

 

“Oh, Iris, let them have some fun.” Iris glared at Cale. The two of them had not always seen eye-to-eye over their years together.

 

Actually, that was probably putting their sometimes contentious relationship in better-than-it-deserved terms. Iris had always preferred Whit, one of Cale’s best friends, probably because in their younger days, Whit had been a lot less trouble for Iris than Cale had been.

Just thinking of the trouble he had caused Iris, Whit smiled a little inside. There had been a lot of good times in his youth. He didn’t regret those times at all, even if Iris still remembered them and never forgot.

 

“Fine.” Iris crossed her arms. She definitely did not like where this was going. “But you can’t aim at the archery target. You’ll tear it apart. Pick something else to shoot at.”

 

The two children agreed to shoot at a particular tree at the edge of the woods. Despite her reluctance, Iris set up a target on the tree, sending a drone to light up a laser point on its trunk. Cale could see both of them were challenging themselves with the target. Apparently, the competition had also served to make both of them think they were better at target shooting than they actually were.

 

Heming stepped up to a line Iris designated, suggesting that despite her protests, she was at least somewhat interested in the competition.

 

He carefully aimed the weapon, then fired.

 

The shot was true and hit near the target. Cale was somewhat surprised at how close it was.

 

“Nice shot,” Iris said, despite her earlier protests.

 

“How close was it?” Heming asked, knowing Iris would be able to tell him the distance from the target he had been.

 

“Closer than I expected. I have it at 4.5 inches from the target.”

 

'Heming let out a small, triumphant whoop. “Beat that, dork face.”

 

'“Better a dork face than a butthead,” Alexis replied. With three older brothers, her vocabulary of insult retorts was apparently better than Heming’s. This time, no one said anything about her language. “Daddy, I need your gun.”

 

Cale handed her the weapon, not making her add the “please” he probably should have. The gun was far larger than her own, smaller one, but she had shot it plenty of times before Cale had indulged her with the gun of her own.

 

Alexis stepped up to the designated line for shooting. She took aim, and let the bullet fly.

 

It hit the tree in almost the same place as Heming’s shot had.

 

“How close was it?” Alexis asked immediately.

 

Iris paused. “4.4 inches.”

 

“In your face!” Alexis jumped in the air, then did a little dance when she hit the ground, pointing and taunting her brother. “And that wasn’t even my gun!”

 

“Alexis, what did I tell you about being a good winner?” Iris asked, clearly having had a conversation about this topic with the girl in the past.

 

“That it’s better than being a loser!” Alexis emphasized the last word as she motioned toward her brother, who was looking mad and getting madder.

 

“That is not what I told you!”

 

Cale knew it was not what Iris had told her, but he did suspect that she had heard it from someone he knew well.

Himself.

 

Cale really needed to pay better attention to what he said around his kids. He thought he was getting better at keeping his infamous bad behavior under control, but apparently the language portion of it was still leaving something to be desired.

 

“You suck!” Heming said, his gun still in his hand. Apparently, Alexis had stepped up to shoot so fast he hadn’t even holstered it.

 

Heming turned to storm off, and as he did, he threw the gun to the ground.

 

As it hit the ground, it went off.

 

It must have been some sort of malfunction, because Cale knew the weapons were about as safe as possible and would never do something like that.

 

At least, so Iris had assured them.

 

At the unexpected firing of the gun, Alexis shrieked.

 

Cale felt his heart skip a beat.

 

If something had happened to his daughter, he would never forgive himself.

 

However, looking at Alexis, nothing seemed to be wrong, other than that she was just startled. Realizing she was OK, Cale looked to his son, who had a shocked look on his face as to what had happened, but who otherwise looked fine.

 

“Are you shitting me?” Iris said. Cale turned toward her, and it took him a second to realize what Iris was looking at.

 

Where her left hand had been, there was now just a slew of wires and other electronic-looking items, hanging where the hand had once been.

 

Iris glared at all of them as they stifled giggles. It shouldn’t have been funny to see someone shot, but Iris would quickly repair herself.

 

And really, if the gun had worked as Iris had intended, this never would have happened.

 

So Iris was kind of at fault, Cale decided. With thoughts like that, he realized, it was no wonder Iris still didn’t like him, years after he had cleaned up his act.

 

He realized she probably never would like him, and that was OK with Cale. After all, if she had liked him, he probably wouldn’t still have half as much fun as he did, even long after his wild days were over.

 

And plus, if he had truly changed, he would never get to see Iris upset. And there was little funnier in the world than an upset Iris, as she was about to prove.

 

“You, you’re all…” Iris fumed, continuing to repeat herself and trying to think of something to call all of them before she, inevitably, stormed off. “You’re all buttheads.”