by Jacob Long
"Go ahead and put it on the big projector," I say as I notice him already setting it up. He nearly trips on one of the bottles strewn across the carpet. He looks down and picks it up. He looks from the bottle to me and pauses for a moment. He looks as though he wants to say something, but decides not to. Maybe he's not sure what to say. I know I have that problem most of the time.
I look at him for a moment. "What," I ask. "Do you want to kill yourself," he asks, gesturing to the numerous bottles lying on the floor. I turn and walk from the living room into the kitchen. "You saw the results from the Doc's tests," I reply in an effort to put him at ease. "You know as well as I do that I can't kill myself. At least not with alcohol."
I pull down a large glass from the cupboard and fill it with water from the fridge. "I didn't ask you if you're trying to kill yourself. I asked you if you wanted to kill yourself." He's serious and won't stop until he gets an answer. I gaze from side to side and let out a deep breath. "Sometimes, yeah," I reply. "I'm not about to though. So you don't have to worry."
My words seem to assuage him for now. “Are you ready to see this?” he asks. I hold up a finger as I walk to the window and drink my entire glass of water. The hydration completely reinvigorates my body. It's as if I never had a drop of alcohol. “I'm not really sure,” I reply. “Let me get something else to drink first.” He shoots me a look. “Not alcohol,” I assure him. “Just something with a taste.” I walk back to the fridge and open it looking for something besides the green juice that Doc has been recommending for far too long. Even though my body heals faster than anyone's on the island, he still insists that I take care of it. Sometimes, I listen to his advice, but today, I just don't care.
Ah, here we go. There are a few bottles of RT's homemade sodas. Black Cherry, the sweet nectar of the gods. "You want a drink? Don't worry. It's just soda." I say as if he's not too preoccupied with whatever nerdy technological development that he's about to show me. "Huh? Oh, yeah sure. I'll take whatever." Something is different in the tone of his voice. Even though he is still enthusiastic, he seems a little more concerned than usual.
I walk over and toss him one of the bottles. He catches it smoothly like a professional athlete, which in a different world, he easily could have been. He has the build of a Lineman from the N.F.L. or at least from what I can tell based on the few pictures of the few players that I've seen. Wilbur Henry was one of my Great Great Grandpa, Theodore Lancaster Sr.'s favorite players. He has a picture of the two of them standing next to each other, and although my Great Great Grandpa was not a small guy, Wilbur Henry has about fifty pounds on him. It pretty much looks like RT and I standing next to each other. RT is also only an inch taller than me, and he never lets me forget it.
“All right, what do we got?” I sit down, ready to learn. “Check it out,” he replies. On the screen is a huge map with our island at the very center. "One of the outposts has detected a submarine. At its current speed, it's about two days out." RT points to a small blip on the screen that is a few inches away from one of the southern outposts.
The outposts don't look like much on the map, just silver colored circles. In reality, they are heavily fortified battle stations. Built with reinforced steel, there are eight of them, each with a docking bay, armory, surveillance system, and a massive cannon at the top. We spent a lot of time and energy getting this island ready. If only we had finished it sooner.
“What do you want to do?” He asks for my input because it's my call. Even though, I know, he's got a plan of his own. Let's see if I can come up with something similar. I stand up and point to the two outposts that are nearest to the uninvited vessel. “Do we have any working MT units at either of these stations?” MT stands for Mobile Tawhiri. These bad boys are drones about the size of a motorcycle. They fly, float, and submerge under water. Impressive as that is, their primary purpose is even more spectacular. An MT unit can manipulate the weather within a half mile radius. That makes it easy to drive away any unwanted guests.
He responds as if there is another part of the plan that I am missing. “There is one at each of these posts. They are both ready to go.” Oh, wait. Now I get what he's after. “Look,” I say. “I want to believe that there are other good guys out there as well, but we can't risk it. The Ministry could have level 5 super-humans on that vessel.”
Super-human level classification is a strange thing. Although it is accurate for the most part, it still has to take into account the many differences between the different abilities that an individual can have.
A great shape-shifter could be a level 2 but what happens when he shape-shifts into your friend, gets close to you and poisons your drink or stabs you when your back is turned? Of course, many level 3 to 5 superhumans have a strong resistance to those types of attacks. Even a knife attack on a powerful telekinetic would only result in one or at the most two stabs before the assailant would be thrown against the wall and their forearm snapped in two. "They could kill us, or escape before we can stop them. At the very least, if they don't report back, the Ministry is going to think that we're out here and they will send more.”
RT is not giving up this time. "So we're just going to chase them away with a random storm? What if they get suspicious of that? What if they go around and around and start to notice that there is a certain area that the storms are encircling?" I'm a little shocked at this point. RT's usually one to play it on the safe side. I stare at him incredulously. "You've got a plan, I assume?" An excited, nerdy smirk can't help but form across his mouth. "The Tempest is ready." The Tempest is a specialized two-man jet that can fly, float, and submerge under water. And in addition to several weapons, it also has its own built-in Tawhiri control system.
All we need is an MT unit. RT and I have been repairing it for over a year. It's been a week since I've seen it, but we weren't that close. He must have put in some extra hours recently. “Whats your plan?” I say, hoping that it's foolproof. He gets up and points to the board. I can tell that he has rehearsed this in his head. “We fly directly between these two outposts, remotely deploy the MT units, and we drive them out here. Far away from Idem. The biometric scanners are fully operational so we can keep our distance and find out what we're dealing with. If their super-humans are too powerful, we leave them alone and return to the island." I have to admit; it's a good plan. The biometric scanners work by sending out a tiny drone that can get super close without being detected. If these are the wrong kind of people, it won't matter. They won't know that we will be tracking them.
"All right. I guess I only have one question; who gets to fly the Tempest?" He looks a little surprised. I guess there is a reason that he doesn't present me with many recon missions. I just want to make sure our island is safe. He replies, "Huh, wow... well, I will need to operate the biometric scanner and Tawhiri. My number one choice for flying the Tempest is not available so- if you want it, I guess it's yours." RT's a good friend. He knows when and how to use humor during tough times. Since the first island was destroyed, I've spent a lot of time alone in my house on the hill, but RT makes sure that I maintain some connection with the rest of the island. "Aw, well thanks, man. I'm honored."
RT heads back to his house to give me some time to get ready. Mostly because I asked him for it. I put my manica on to see that a reminder notification has popped up. Oh yeah. I'm supposed to have a therapy session with Doc today. I think this surveillance mission can get me out of it. I must not be fully here yet because I find myself staring at Doc's picture on the notification. It's an older picture from when he was starting out as a physician. That's how he looked when I first met him. It was right after my first hand to hand fight. An organized fight that was set up to test me.
I was only eight years old. Everyone on Idem must fight when they are eight years old. Boys and girls. Every citizen who is not an active member of the ISF or Idem Security Force trains and is considered to be a reserve member. Everyone must be a soldier. From the moment of pregnancy, we are monitored f
or signs of super-human abilities. Once we turn eight years old, we are paired off with other children of similar ability levels and tested. One of these tests is a fight lasting until knockout, submission, or three rounds of three minutes each.
I remember my fight very well. The anticipation. The nerves. It was out on the inland part of the beach. I remember the sweat. The frustration. The flames. I stare through Doc's picture, and I can hear the cheering and chanting that everyone made whenever a new fight was about to begin...
The Extreme World–The First Island of Idem-2008
The chanting grows louder and louder as I walk out onto the outside training beach. I'm eight years old again. It feels so real. Some of the chants are encouraging. Most of them are sarcastic in nature. I made the mistake of announcing that I wanted to be an ISF Commando.
There are five branches of the ISF, and everyone including the reservists are assigned to one of these branches. Since we have never been at war, nor have we been attacked, all of the branches mostly end up maintaining equipment, running survey missions on the island and around it in the ocean, and training with each other. For the most part, each branch trains with their own, but a few times a year, they will get with each other to cross train.
My dad tells me that it's good for each branch to understand each others role. The first group is the Patrolmen. They act as the police for the island. Most of the time everyone here gets along really well, so most of their work is security and maintenance of security systems. The second group is the Army. These men and women train to be our front line soldiers should we ever get attacked.
The third group is our navy. It is not the typical navy that the United States had back before our people first fled to the island. Our ships are all much smaller. Most of them are just one man crafts. All of them, however, are heavily armed. The few larger vessels that are currently being built will be used to transport half of our citizens to the second island. Our population is getting to be too much for this little island.
The fourth military group is the Air Force. My dad is a member of this branch. They, of course, handle all aircraft and coordinate with the officers for air security. The fifth and final group are the Commandos. They are the elite special forces group of the Idem Security Force. These are the men and women that are sent on missions to Paradisum to gather intel. However, there haven't been any missions for several years. For now, the commandos are on reserve. They can have a civilian job or opt to take a job in any other military group of their choosing. All of them train their skills and physical fitness for two hours a day. And they meet together once a week for two hours as well. They still have to be the best of the best. Especially in all forms of combat.
So for me to say that I want to be a commando is like painting a target on my head for all of the other kids. My dad tells me not to worry about it though. He says that "if someone feels like they can't do something great, they feel a need to attack the person who dares to believe. It's only because they are afraid." As I slowly walk further into the arena, I feel as though I am the only one who is afraid.
This part of the beach is filled with several ring-shaped training pits that are placed several feet apart from one another. The pits drop down four feet into the ground. Each pit has an outer ring that surrounds them on top. The outer ring was built so that wood can lay inside of it. They light a new fire at the beginning of each fight.
As I look around, I see mostly unfriendly faces. Where is RT? It would be nice to have one person who I know is in my corner even if he ultimately thinks that I'm going to get destroyed. From behind me, I feel a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I hear words of encouragement coming from my best friend. "Don't let him kick your butt too much," RT teases as he holds his fist out. I bump his fist with my own and put on my bravest smile. It's not very brave. I'm not sure what to expect with this. As my opponent and I step down into the pit, Elena's father, Captain Piotr Kurpatov, lights the fire.
He is the head physical trainer for all of the Idem Security Force. He oversees the fitness, and hand to hand combat training for everyone on the island. He is always at the initiation fights. After lighting the flame, he steps back and looks on at the spectacle, his green eyes piercing through everything that he directs his gaze. He catches me looking at him, and I can feel the analyzation process begin. I break eye contact and try to focus on what I can do to win this fight. The flames quickly spread all across the ring. I look across the way at my opponent.
His name is Gabriel Sanchez. I've seen him around at the academy. I guess it's not a big school. We've talked a few times. He's a little bit taller than I am and outweighs me by about ten pounds. They do their best to keep the fights an even match, but people come in all shapes and sizes. I'm just grateful that I'm not RT's size. He is the second biggest kid in our grade, so he has to fight the biggest kid, and the biggest kid has about forty pounds on him. Of course, they determine our opponents for our graduation fights at random. That is one way that they encourage us to increase our physical strength and size as much as possible.
Gabriel jumps around the pit, throwing punches in the air. The word around the academy is that he is a good fighter. I hear the muffled shouts of the other kids who stand around the pit. Their cries are mostly noise rather than clear sentences. One opinion, however, does catch my ears. "He's not going to last two seconds." "Oh yeah, well what if he's the chosen one?" another kid asks sarcastically, and they all erupt with laughter. There is a rumor that Carlisle and Fulloway are aware of a dissenting group like ours that supposedly has a 'chosen one' among them. He or she could be someone from another group; if there are any other groups. Most likely, the rumor is just a story, a myth.
I can't think about that right now though. I need to focus on the upcoming fight. I look at Gabriel and start to think about all of the excellent fighting skills that he supposedly has. How good can he really be though? He is, after all only eight years old. And my dad has shown me a few moves, so I think I'll be able to manage. Although he is a helicopter pilot, I have been told that my dad is a very good fighter. Councilman Matua told me this. He actually said that he was a formidable fighter. After asking him what that meant, he told me that it meant he was a very good fighter.
I look back up to Piotr Kurpatov. My eyes scan the area around him, hoping to see Elena somewhere next to him. No luck. It doesn't look like she's here. On second thought, I'm actually glad that she's not here. I'm a little worried about how this fight is going to turn out. The councilman's brother, Fetu Matua steps into the ring. He will be our referee. He is a commando as well as the chief supervisor for the miners. He also often takes time away to referee and train at the academy.
My hands are sweaty already. The gloves that they gave me cover my entire hand. They are big and puffy. There is no room to breathe. At least this means that the punches won't land as hard. "Fighters to the center!" Fetu instructs, loudly. Gabriel and I walk to the center of the ring. "Do you remember all of the rules?" he asks me. "Yes," I reply, nodding. Verbal confirmation of understanding is required. Fetu turns to Gabriel. "Do you remember all of the rules?" "Yes," says Gabriel.
“Then it is time for the fight to begin!” The crowd cheers. “Touch gloves,” he says. As we do so, he backs away. “Fight!” As soon as the words come out of his mouth, Gabriel and I raise our hands up in defensive positions. He seems slightly nervous, but overall confident. He moves forward, throwing a few jabs that are too far away to reach me. I do the same. We start to circle each other. "Come on, Commando!" I hear a kid yell at me from the crowd. I really wish I hadn't told anyone about that.
Gabriel has had enough dancing around. He jabs at me, stepping forward with each punch. I'm running out of space. Soon, I'll be backing into the wall. The heat from the flames blankets my shoulders and neck. I stop and throw several jabs back at him. I go for a one, two but I miss both shots. Gabriel throws a one, two and lands both of his shots. I move away fast enough for them not to do much damage. Kicking and grap
pling are also allowed in this fight, but it's as if he and I have some secret pact that says we want to stick with punches only. Sloppily, I sidestep to the right in an attempt to evade him. He follows easily and lands a soft jab on my nose followed by a hard right cross to the same.
My nose stings. The pain radiates throughout my face. The shock of the hit radiates throughout my body. My heart rate picks up. So much for the padding on the gloves. I don't think I want to know how a solid hit feels. He lands a solid one on my right upper cheekbone. Yep, I definitely didn't want to know.
Oh yeah, I think, realizing this is a dream again. I forgot that I had that thought right before he landed a solid punch. He lands more punches. All of them are hard enough to get me worried. I'm getting furious now. I throw punches back at him, but every time I do, I end up getting hit. I step to the side, and he follows, hitting me. I back away, and he advances, hitting me. No matter what I do, I can't get away from this guy. My anger increases with every strike that he lands on me. As a result, I increase the speed and frequency of my hits.
I'm still getting hit in the process, but now I'm delivering more damage to him. Unfortunately, it's not enough. He's landing too many hits on me. Some of them to my gut, most of them to my face. I keep thinking that I'm about to unleash an incredible display of martial arts prowess on this guy but it just doesn't happen. I wish that I could use the skills that I know now. I don't get it. It's like I'm reliving this memory while knowing how everything is going to turn out. I can't change anything. When it first happened, I didn't know how to react. Now, I see every punch coming in and I know how to block it. I know how to evade it and throw a punch of my own. I see every opening that he gives me.