by Shae Mills
Chelan winked at him playfully. "So what's next?" she asked, once again exuding eagerness.
Fremma watched her as he stripped off his jacket. Then he took her hand and placed an object in it. Chelan looked down at what she thought was a small white ball, but as she squeezed it she realized that it was more akin to a heavy, tightly packed beanbag. Chelan looked up at him. "What's this?"
"It's simply a soft weight. It's approximately the weight of a throwing knife fit for you." He moved to the center of the room and Chelan followed. Fremma glanced down the expanse of the workout area and pointed. "There now, throw it as far as you can."
"That won't be very far," she commented apologetically.
"That doesn't matter."
Chelan squeezed the weight in the palm of her hand and then threw it as hard as she could, well aware that a baseball pitcher she would never be. She half expected some sort of sarcastic remark about her pathetic cast, but Fremma's expression did not change.
"Good. Now stay right where you are."
Chelan watched him as he moved over slightly to a small control panel. Suddenly, a target snapped up in front of her at roughly half the distance she had thrown the weight. The realistic life-sized silhouette was that of a man's torso with a small white dot approximately where his solar plexus would be.
Fremma returned to her, and he stood directly in front of her and facing her. "Now, what you will learn to do is this."
Fremma seemed to simply drop from her sight. Chelan looked down just in time to see him twist, a glimmer of arm movement coinciding with the dull thud of the blade hitting the form. Her jaw dropped. He was crouched at her feet, facing the target, the sheath of his right throwing knife empty. She looked to his quarry, and there his knife was buried deeply in the center of the white patch.
He stood and turned to her, his face serious. "Your turn."
Chelan nearly crumpled. "You've got to be kidding."
A smile slowly traversed his features, and then he laughed. Chelan caught her breath and sighed with relief. Then she watched him as he retrieved his weapon and sheathed the knife in midstride without looking down.
"Now," he began, "this is what I want you to do. I want you to continue throwing the weights at the target until you can consistently hit it accurately, say nine times out of ten."
Chelan remained quiet as he squatted down and pressed something on the floor. A cylindrical tube popped up beside her, startling her.
Fremma stood and reached across her, tapping the tube and causing an identical white weight to materialize at the top. He took it and passed it to her. "Now," he said, stepping back. "Throw."
Chelan glanced at him and then looked at the target. Drawing in a deep breath, she threw the weight. It flew well over the target, but its track was true.
Fremma had watched her arm extension carefully. "Okay," he said, turning and picking up a narrow roll of fabric from a nearby bench. "I'm going to bind your elbows, Chelan. Until you gain some arm strength and muscle control, you're going to run the risk of hyperextending your joints." He stepped in front of her and expertly taped her arms. "Now," he continued, "we'll clear up one more problem."
He stepped behind her, and Chelan stood still as she felt him gather her hair. He began twisting it, and after a few moments she felt him place it on the top of her head. He moved back to her side, and Chelan touched her hair, feeling it neatly stacked and firmly in place. She looked at him, her eyes wide. "How did you do that?"
Fremma smiled at her as he reached for another weight. "It's a trade secret. Now throw."
Chelan looked down at the target and took another deep breath. As she hurled the weight, she instantly noticed how much better her arm felt with her elbow taped. The weight once again was overthrown, sailing over the top of the target.
"You're trying too hard. I just want you to aim for accuracy. We're not going for distance yet."
Chelan nodded. This time, the weight hit its mark.
Fremma smiled. "Okay, next lesson." Fremma took a larger weight in his right hand and glanced at Chelan. He moved his arm back as if setting up for a throw. Then he began his follow-through, twisting from the waist and extending his arm straight forward. He stopped. "Feel my side."
Chelan stepped up to his contorted frame. She ran her hand along the tight muscles of his side, tracing them up to his shoulder. His skin felt like thick cellophane stretched firmly over concrete.
Fremma straightened. "If you use only your arm, Chelan, you're not going to take advantage of the bigger muscles that are your allies. Those are the muscles throughout your shoulders and down your sides and back."
Chelan stepped back and watched his body closely as he went through the mechanics once again. Then he began a third time, only this time he released. She cringed as the weight slammed into the obviously very sturdy target. She licked her lips and picked up the next weight. She began her throw, concentrating on the follow-through and putting her shoulder and back into it. The weight flew true, missing the small white square by only centimeters. She smiled up at Fremma. "Well, I'll be."
He smiled back at her. "Next lesson." He reached behind himself and picked up a heavy weight. "Watch only my arm. What do you see?"
Chelan followed his dynamics intently as he went through a throwing motion. She shrugged, "Muscles... muscles moving."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
"Right, in addition to the large muscles through the shoulders and torso, every muscle in the arm is called into play. When you adjust for different distances or to follow targets that move, there are always small adjustments, small corrections. No matter what, all the muscles are important. So you need to strengthen all of them, and if you are like most people, your weakest muscles are your triceps. The tricep is actually larger than your bicep, but it lacks the mechanical advantage the bicep has. We'll start there and then work through all the muscle groups, largest to smallest."
Chelan nodded. "Okay, what should I do first?"
"How about starting with some push-ups?"
"Push-ups!" Chelan cried. "I've never been able to do a push-up in my life."
Fremma smiled at her. "Looks like a good time to start."
"Hey, wait a minute. I just want to be able to throw the thing accurately," she protested.
"That's fine," he countered, "if you can throw accurately every single time and never miss your intended target. However, the reason that white spot marks a man's midsection is because that area is soft and permeable. A blade there is effective, and its entry is uninhibited. But there will always be times when the situation is beyond your control, and you will be off your mark. If you go high, you're into the sternum and the ribs. If you're lucky, you'll miss all that paraphernalia for a direct lung or heart shot. But if you follow the odds you're going to hit something hard, and that's where your strength comes in. If you strike an assailant, Chelan, and the blade ricochets off a bone because you throw a weak shot, or you hit a soft area and the blade does not penetrate, then what have you done?"
Chelan remembered his earlier point from the day before. "My assailant is pissed, and he has my knife."
"Right. You want the velocity and the momentum that will carry that knife through the ribs or deep wherever it strikes. And if you're fast and strong, with a properly weighted knife, you'll do exactly that."
Chelan stood very still. She wanted to be able to throw, not to kill someone. But suddenly she wondered if her life among these warriors dictated that someday she be able to do just that. She repressed a shudder. "But I've never had good upper-body strength," she admitted. "I was trained once, and I learned to use my feet as my defense to compensate. My instructor said that was imperative for women. We could effectively fend off a male assailant with our strong leg muscles. But if a man got beyond that, he was too close for us to handle as our arms were no match for his." Chelan looked away momentarily.
Fremma watched her as she struggled with her past, and he found fragments of rage co
ursing through his body. He knew the incident that plagued her had a direct bearing on her excessive self-consciousness and her crippling low self-esteem. It was also probably the reason she had sought to be trained, but before he could ask any questions, she seemed to recover.
"I know you're right," she said, smiling. "It's just that if I lie down on my stomach and rely on my arms to get myself up, I may be there a terminally long time."
Fremma warmed to her light humor, but he was more determined than ever to train her, and train her well. "Come here," he said softly as he led her to an open area of the floor. "Okay, down you go."
Chelan moaned as she bent over and lay down. Then she folded her arms under her head and closed her eyes. She felt Fremma kneel down next to her. There was a pause.
"What are you doing?"
Chelan snickered. "This is the way I do push-ups. This is as far as I get."
Fremma slapped her sharply on her sleek bottom. Chelan shrieked at the burn and rolled over, consumed by laughter. But Fremma was deadly serious. He grabbed her arms by the wrists. Swiftly and effortlessly, with one hand he pinned them roughly above her head.
Chelan's smile faded as she looked up into the unfamiliar and malevolent face that loomed over her. She held her breath and attempted to extricate her arms, but they were locked solid. She could not even move her fingers, and they were turning cool from the lack of blood. Her chest began to rise and fall with anxiety. This was not the Fremma she knew. His eyes were piercing, their color glacial. She tried to twist away from him, but he hooked his leg over her thighs, completing her immobilization.
Slowly, he reached with his free hand to the top of her uniform and slid his finger down to her navel, splitting the garment its length. His grip on her remained unyielding, his facial expression ominous and uncompromising, her soft white flesh exposed to him. The warrior watched her eyes open wide with terror, her very being pleading with him for mercy. But he was not finished.
His powerful hand returned to her vulnerable neck, and his fingers played down her satin skin, his motion stopping between her partially exposed breasts. He felt her strain with all her strength, attempting futilely to dislodge him. In response to her struggles he pressed his knee between her legs and mounted her in one indulgent motion.
Chelan was saturated with fear. His hand once again began its slow, tortuous descent down her trembling body, his fingers ultimately snaking in between her legs. She gasped, and the lesson he sought to teach was complete.
He paused, waiting for the implications of his actions to take full effect. Then he lowered his face close to hers, his breath searing. "I could strip you with one hand, and violate you effortlessly," he growled menacingly.
Chelan froze, ceasing all her fruitless struggles. His eyes were pitiless, his features hard and hostile. His ebony-clad body hovered threateningly over her like a harbinger of death. He was dangerous, and she was helpless.
Fremma began to breathe again, his face softening. Lifting from her slightly, he slowly and tenderly ran his fingers back up her uniform, closing the garment securely. Chelan closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath, a wave of guarded relief washing over her.
"This has happened to you before, hasn't it?" he demanded softly. "And your assailant did not spare you. And yet, you did not learn."
She swallowed hard, still unable to move or speak.
"Even though I sent adrenaline coursing through your body by evoking fear, you still could not repel me. You were defenseless, your struggles ineffectual, your body paralyzed and laid prostrate for the taking. Had I been a man of Earth, you would have had no choice but to endure my brutal invasion." Fremma released her hands.
Chelan drew them to her chest, frantically rubbing the blood back into them. She struggled to hold back the tears of abating terror that threatened to flow. "That's not fair," she breathed, her voice shaking. "Even if I was superbly trained, I could not struggle against you. You are many times stronger than my world's men."
Fremma rolled off her and sat beside her. He took her cool hands in his and massaged them gently. "That's true, Chelan. But you could take any man of Earth with a knife if you were accurate enough, and strong enough."
Chelan swallowed again, knowing full well she was not returning to Earth. "Is this what I'm up against when this trip is over?"
Fremma hesitated. "I hope not. But it never hurts to be prepared."
Chelan sat up as he released her. "You teach hard lessons."
Fremma brushed a loose stand of hair from her forehead. "Sometimes, survival requires such harsh lessons." He watched her carefully, hoping that he had not scarred her emotionally by his act. He looked at all her beautiful features, revealed by her drawn-up hair, and he was moved. He leaned forward, his lips gently taking hers.
Chelan did not pull away but returned his tender caress. His hands ran down her arms and then he felt her flinch. He grasped her hands and held them up to the light, the bruising on her wrists beginning to show. "Oh, Chelan! I'm sorry."
"No, it's okay. It's okay, Fremma. I know that you didn't mean to." She took her hands out of his and surrounded his neck, pressing her supple body to his.
Fremma grasped her waist. "Forgive me," he whispered as he buried his face into her slender neck.
Chelan held onto him for a long time. Then she rubbed her cheek along his smooth face, nestling in under his long black hair. She kissed his neck and gently nuzzled his ear. "This is one hell of a way to do push-ups," she whispered.
Immediately, they began to laugh together, their tension dissipating. They looked into one another's adoring eyes, spellbound momentarily by love. Fremma finally reached out and tapped her knee. "Come on. I'll help you with a few."
Chelan smiled and rolled onto her stomach, getting into position. She looked up at him as he moved to her side. "I assume this is what you meant by push-ups," she stated.
"Yes, they'll do," he smiled.
Chelan faced the floor and mumbled, "I don't believe this. I'm on a fantastic voyage in space among hundreds of thousands of absolutely gorgeous men, and in the middle of it all, I end up on the floor doing push-ups."
"I'm sure that something else could be arranged if you preferred, but you seem to be resisting."
Chelan laughed. "Shut up, Fremma! At this rate I'm never going to get off the floor!"
Fremma stifled his laughter. "Okay, let's go," he ordered.
Chelan took a deep breath and pushed up, managing one perfect execution. "Again," he said.
Chelan pushed off again, feeling her slender arms strain, but completed the exercise.
Fremma tapped her. "Another."
Chelan took another deep breath and pushed, but felt her body lag. Fremma slipped his hand under her hips and supported her. "Good," he encouraged, "one more."
Chelan struggled and she felt a burn in her triceps. Fremma supported more of her weight and then let her down gently. Chelan rolled onto her back and looked up at him. "I'm pretty pathetic," she moaned in embarrassment.
"No, you're not," he countered. "There was nothing in your previous lifestyle that required such muscle use." He glanced at his body. "All that you see here is not completely genetic. My fitness is comprised of decades of day-to-day training and testing, failure of which at some point could cost me my life."
Chelan grimaced at his words, but saw his point. Fremma stood up easily and offered his hand to her. Chelan remained still for a few moments as her eyes studied his perfect body, then she graciously accepted his help up. "When I asked if those push-ups were okay, you said that they would do. What do you do for that particular muscle group?"
"A push-up, but slightly different, and it's not for beginners. And it involves many muscle groups."
"How many can you do?"
Fremma hesitated. "It's not so much how many as how slow. The ones I do are a kind of static push-up." He turned to pick up his jacket.
"No," said Chelan grabbing his arm. "Show me. Please."
"Okay,
" he complied. "But just one. Both of us have to get back to work."
With that said, Fremma tipped forward onto his hands, rising into a full upright handstand, his body absolutely rigid. He tilted himself to one side slightly, placing one hand on the small of his back. With his face towards the floor, he slowly bent his supporting arm, lowering himself until his elbow was at ninety degrees.
Chelan gasped as he began to lower his body, simply pivoting at the shoulder, his movements controlled, deliberate, and fluid. Chelan brought her hand to her mouth and bit her finger, Fremma's unbelievable show of sheer strength leaving her awestruck.
Slowly, he continued his descent, balance and control critical, until finally he was perfectly horizontal, his impressive body supported solely by his bent arm. There was not a tremor to be seen; the dominion he maintained over his body beyond belief.
Chelan drew in a deep breath, realizing that she had been holding it. She watched as his powerful back and shoulder muscles contracted, and he began the slow ascent until he was once again vertical. Then, like a coiled spring, he straightened his supporting arm, hurling his body into the air. With catlike agility he twisted and landed on his feet in front of her.
Chelan was dumbfounded. "That was absolutely incredible. I hope that you don't expect me to follow suit, because if you do, I'll quit right now."
Fremma chuckled as he rubbed the perspiration from his body with a towel. "No. Don't worry. I won't expect that from you for at least a couple of months." And they both laughed.
When the gaiety subsided, Fremma spoke. "Look, I've given you plenty to work on for now. The only other thing I want you to do is to throw two to three times as often with your left arm as your right. I see that you favor your right side."
"I've never thrown anything with my left," she commented.