The Riss Gamble

by C. R. Daems

  I received lots of stares and a few remarks loud enough to be heard, but in general they left me alone. I suspect they were amused to find a navy woman in their workout area. After an hour, I showered, dressed, and found the dining room. There I was either ignored or whispered about. I ate alone.

 

 

 

  * * * *

  I reveled in my new responsibilities. I’d never been so happy in my life. People still shunned me in the hallways, workout area, mess hall, and on the job. With Thalia’s help, I’d reconciled myself to their fear or hate or disgust, or…

 

  Thalia was right. There was nothing I could do about their attitudes, except to hope that they’d come to see Thalia and me as comrades. First thing in the morning, I performed my Si’jin exercises. That helped to relax and invigorate me. I practiced them slowly, concentrating on balance and muscle control. I’d noticed that Master Gunnery Sergeant Valk taught Si’jin to a small class of Wasps having four to seven knots; he had nine. Valk ignored me for the first week. I would have loved to join the class but would have to be invited. I hoped he’d eventually talk to me if I continued to exercise in the army area.

  “I smell a seaman. She’s fouling the air and I can’t breathe,” a man said. He was average in height, weight, and looks. The sneer didn’t help his looks. I didn’t want any trouble. The Captain would love that, even though I didn’t start it.

  “I’ll leave,” I said, and began walking towards my bag.

  “Not so fast. You need a reminder why you should stay with your own scum.” He continued to walk towards me.

  “Ya, Owin. Maybe she’s here to try out some real men,” another man shouted. I could see he was sneaking looks at Valk, who stood silent. Then Owin was behind me as I bent to pick up my bag.

 

  As I started to turn, pain shot through my kidneys. As I straightened up from pain, a second punch landed.

  Fighting the pain, I spun around. My arm struck his as he tried for a third punch, knocking him off balance. I let the momentum carry me a couple of steps away and continued walking toward the door.

  “Hey, Owin, I’d be embarrassed. Maybe she should walk you to the door,” someone said. I turned around. This wasn’t good. Owin’s face turned red. I knew I couldn’t avoid the fight that was certain to come. He lunged at me with arms slightly apart. I couldn’t run; he stood too close; and I couldn’t just stand there. He weighed more than me, and his weight would drive me to the floor. Anyway, that wasn’t the Si’jin way. As he lunged, I moved into him, driving my shoulder into his chest, knee into his groin, stomped down on his foot, locked my foot behind his leg, and pushed. As he fell, I followed him to the floor and drove my knee into his solar plexus. He lay there, fighting to catch his breath and moaning. I saw two big men with fight-scarred faces approaching.

  “Bitch. We’re going to rip that dirt off your face and your nose with it,” the biggest and meanest looking one said. He and his buddy were smiling. I knew they’d enjoy every minute of it. I stood still, all emotions gone. No hate, fear, or anticipation.

 

  I felt her amusement as the adrenaline flowed through my body and everything around me slowed. Thalia and I waited.

  “Stand down, Blackstone. Now,” Valk said quietly, and the room turned deadly silent. Blackstone and his friend stopped like they’d walked into a stone wall. “You’re an embarrassment to the Wasps. You need help to take one waif of a woman, and since when do you want to cripple someone who’s done nothing to you?”

  He walked over to me. I still didn’t move. “You fight like you’ve had Si’jin training. Your forms are a hodge-podge of techniques, although I’ll admit you execute them well. Who taught you?”

  He watched me closely. I knew Si’jin masters jealously guarded their art. They wanted to ensure individuals unqualified to teach didn’t dilute it, which meant anyone not promoted by a Si’jin master. I knew he wanted names—my teacher’s. I said nothing. He stood quietly and stared. We were both in fighting mode. He could kill me if he wished, but I promised he’d know he had been in a fight.

  Valk tried again. “You graduated from Prometheus. Talman taught you?”

  Still I said nothing. Masters seldom taught Si’jin to navy personnel. He could be in trouble if I admitted it.

  “You also attended Hephaestus. Master Wei? You can tell me, Lieutenant Reese. No master would even raise his or her voice to Master Wei.” He gave a small snort. He hadn’t only noticed me, but even knew my name and rank, and that I’d been to SAS’s fast-track college.

  “I had the good fortune to have Master Talman as a teacher, while I was at Prometheus and Master Wei at Hephaestus.” I felt better now I knew my teachers weren’t in trouble over me.

  “I’ll see you in class when duty permits. Wear your belt and come prepared to give us a demonstration of Wei’s handiwork.” He smiled and walked back to his group.

 

 

  * * * *

  After a several weeks, most of my mechanics were inviting me over to discuss the problems they were working on and quizzing me. Nesstor had been a little skeptical at first, but the crews seemed to like my unorthodox style of supervision.

  I found the Striker fighters particularly interesting. They appeared to be multiple weapon systems strapped on a propulsion device with a seat each for the two lunatics who flew them. Proving my theory, the Striker pilots were a wild bunch, who were forever partying and raising havoc. I thought they were crazy. My crew thought they were a pain in the ass.

  I’d just finished inspecting one of the Striker bays when a tall, attractive man came running over to me.

  “Are you the idiot in charge of Striker maintenance?” he ranted, continuing before I could answer. “This is the third time this month my Striker failed due to your incompetence. If it weren’t against regulations, I’d kick your ass right here and now. How about you put on the gloves with me if you think you and your Riss thingie are such hot shit?”

 

 

  “Lieutenant…” I questioned.

  “Senior Striker pilot Lieutenant McInnis.”

  “Chief, are you familiar with Lieutenant McInnis’s Striker and the problem he’s been having?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The weapon mounts on his Striker keep breaking. When they do, it sets up turbulence affecting the fighter’s performance. Our test shows normal tolerances after we fix the mounts but they continue to break.”

  “Has anyone else had this problem?” I queried, now interested in the mystery.

  “No, this is the only Striker with this problem,” Nesstor said.

  He stepped back as McInnis moved closer to him and began ranting again. “It doesn’t damn well matter. You’re a pathetic excuse for a maintenance Chief. If you can’t fix Strikers, you should be replaced along with little miss Riss!”

  “Lieutenant McInnis, I’ll see to it that we resolve the mystery surrounding your weapon mounts. Since you’ve insulted my Chief, without cause I may add, I accept your offer to put on the gloves with you; however, I’ll need a few days to acquaint myself with ‘putting on gloves,’” I replied, staying face to face with him—well, face to chest.

  McInnis’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but nothing came out for several seconds. Meanwhile, Nesstor shook his head “No” and waved his hands for me to stop.

  McInnis finally managed to get it out. “You idiot. I mean boxing. Fighting in a ring with a referee. I’d love to kick your skinny ass, but it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Good. Five days from now, which should be plenty of time to get acquainted with your form of fighting. Where’s this ring located, so I can get my ski
nny ass there?” I had to smile at the Lieutenant’s frustrated look.

  “You’re crazy. Bay 28. 1900 hours,” McInnis said before turning and stalking off while muttering, “Crazy bitch, a good punch in the face’ll serve her right.”

  “Ma’am, you can’t fight Lieutenant McInnis. You don’t know how to box, and I hear he’s good at the sport. Anyway, he insults me and the mechanics all the time.”

 

 

  “Chief, you and your mechanics are my responsibility. If you or they need abusing, it’s my duty to do it, no one else. Now, you’re going to find someone to teach me boxing.”

  * * * *

  I discovered that the Chief’s network extended throughout the entire ship, which surprised me. Navy and army personal didn’t socialize. They each had their own facilities and tended to use them exclusively. Nesstor knew Master Gunnery Sergeant Valk, and he knew a Sergeant Ladner in supply, who used to teach boxing. The next day I found myself with a coach and equipment, compliments of the Wasps.

  I thought boxing a stupid way to fight. To begin with, the gloves were so padded it was difficult, if not impossible, to hurt anyone in the nine minutes allowed. Then, every time you got too close, the referee broke it up. You couldn’t use your feet, elbows, or head like real self-defense, and you had to stop every three minutes to rest, when you weren’t tired. Worse, no one usually won by the end of the three rounds, but each fighter claimed victory.

  The first two days I practiced, I felt like one of Ladner’s punching bags. While trying to analyze the fighting style, I was repeatedly punched in the face and stomach. Since most punches were jabs, the style wasn’t well suited to Si’jin techniques, which worked best when your opponent threw all his weight into the strike. Bobbing and weaving was effective if I abandoned the flat-footed Si’jin stances and moved on the balls of my feet. With only a little help from Thalia, I could avoid most punches.

  During the day my crew checked every millimeter of McInnis’s Striker. When they tried to examine the flight computer’s record, they found it had been erased. Nesstor and I programmed a software patch that copied the flight data to a separate storage area, which couldn’t be deleted from the pilot’s panel. Our subsequent review of the data after McInnis managed to break another strut revealed the problem. He’d exceeded the Striker’s stress specifications. The next day we’d modified the struts and made plans to replace them on all the Strikers.

  On the fifth day at 1900 hours, every Striker pilot, shuttle-mechanic, and anyone who’d heard of the pending fight crowded into Bay 28.

  McInnis entered the ring with black boxing shorts, almost down to his knees, black gym shoes, and puffy black boxing gloves. I had to admire his lean body, tight abdominal muscles, and the graceful way he danced on the balls of his feet. He walked over to me and grinned.

  “You don’t have to do this. I’ll accept your apology instead,” he announced loud enough for everyone to hear. I wore yellow shorts and a thin halter, yellow gym shoes, and puffy yellow boxing gloves, complements of Sergeant Ladner. “Anyway, I can’t hit a lady in the chest.”

  “Lieutenant McInnis, I understand I’m not allowed to hit you below the top of your shorts in this silly sport, but I give you permission to hit me anywhere you can. Before we start, however, I’d like to say that we found the problem with your weapon system struts. If you hadn’t erased your fight data after each flight and had cooperated with the maintenance crew, we’d have found it sooner. Based on the flight data we captured, you’re one superb pilot—if somewhat crazy. Should you continue to survive your wild flights, I believe your struts—now modified—will also. One last comment. If you’d insulted only me, I’d have thought it childish but let it go; however, you insulted my crew chief and his crew. That right is mine alone; therefore, I accept your offer to kick my skinny ass all over this ring.” That last comment got more than a few hoots from the crowd. I returned to my corner and refused a mouth guard.

 

 

  Just then the bell rang. McInnis came out with a determined look on his face. There were too many people watching for him to do anything else. I met him in the middle of the ring. He landed two jabs to my face and a right that snapped my head back. I stumbled backward. He followed, jabbing as he went. Another right hand drove me into the ropes. In my fogged brain, I knew a knockout punch would follow, when I came bouncing of the ropes. I hocked my arm around the rope and spun away. I felt the wind as his punch missed by millimeters. He wasn’t long in recovering and followed me around the ring, scoring over half of his punches. I was bleeding from my nose, and my eye was swollen. The bell mercifully rang, while I was still able to stand. I staggered back to my corner, when I figured out which was mine.

  “I’m going to throw in your towel,” Ladner said, picking up a white towel.

  “Don’t. I need it,” I said, grabbing it and wiping my face. It came away with blood.

  “Throwing in your towel means you concede the fight.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

 

  I could feel the swelling and pain begin to ease.

 

 

 

 

 

  Thalia knew she had me.

  The adrenaline flooded my system, my head cleared, and the pain stopped. I stood—devoid of emotions—and waited. McInnis danced across the ring, smiling. He swung with a hard right. It missed as I slid sideways and punched to his abdomen, kidney, and head, then ducked as he threw a wild left-handed roundhouse. We moved to the center of the ring. He threw jab after jab, which missed. His face became red and twisted, his punches grew harder and wilder. I kept up a barrage of punches to the belly and kidneys. The bell rang and I walked back to my corner. You could have heard someone whisper in the silence which had descended on the Bay.

 

 

 

  I thought of Master Wei. Opponent have long weapon move in close; short weapon stay back. McInnis had long arms. The bell rang. I walked to the middle to meet him. He threw a hard left, then a right, and I moved in. Punch to the gut, chin, over and over again. He tried to wrap his arms around me, but I twisted away and kept pounding his abdomen. As he staggered back to get away, I got three hard punches to his face. He hit the ropes and bounced forward. My next punch had so much momentum that I left the ground. He hit the ropes again and collapsed. The referee stood there looking down at McInnis—he’d forgotten to count. I walked back to my corner and exited the ring.

  “You’ve made your crew, including me and several Wasps, very happy. We won a couple thousand credits from Striker pilots,” Ladner whispered. I barely heard, as my mind was elsewhere.

 

 

  Thalia’s laugh echoed through me like chimes in the wind.

  * * * *

  The next several days went by quickly. The boxing match had cemented my position with the crews. They respected the fact I’d stood up for them. A few remained nervous around me, although they tried to hide it. I didn’t doubt a few still hated me and wished me harm. The main change came in my early morning workouts. Instead of being ignored as usual, I received nods, thumbs up signs, and few even offered a “mor’n, ma’am.”

 

 

 

  * * * *

  I’d just finished being briefed on
the status of each shuttle and Striker, then Colonel Quentin approached. Two armed Wasps, dressed in their Red Berets, accompanied him. They didn’t look happy.

  “Lieutenant Reese, Captain Gebauer directed me to have you placed under arrest,” Quentin said formally but quietly so that no one else could hear.

  My tension eased.

 

  “Colonel Quentin, may I ask what the charges are?”

  “The Captain didn’t tell me. He only said that I was to place you under arrest and bring you to his office. You don’t know?”

  “Colonel, I know the Captain would like me discredited and off his ship. I know Thalia didn’t do anything illegal, because she was with me the entire time. She knows I didn’t do anything illegal, because she was with me the entire time.” I shook my head. I was growing tired of fools and the Captain. “Since only the Captain knows my secret crime, perhaps you should take me to him.”

  “You don’t seem concerned, Reese,” Quentin said as he pointed towards the lift.

  “Just curious, to see how desperate the Captain is to get rid of me.”

  Quentin didn’t seem to hate me and didn’t report to the Captain. I decided I had nothing to loose.

  “Colonel, I’m entitled to representation. I’d appreciate it if you would stay with me to witness the charges, and defend me, if you feel I’m innocent.”

  Chapter 9

  The quiet hum of the air filtration system sounded like the roar of an approaching tornado against the silence pervading the Puff Adder conference room. Tension vibrated in the air like angry bees, making it seem warm in spite of the fresh cool air flowing into the room.

  “Very disappointing—” Rares Ja’Oyrat’s soft voice shattered the silence like a crystal glass exploding against the conference room bulkhead.

  “Who are you to—” Anton Ja’Tuva, Captain of the Puff Adder, interrupted with the arrogance of one used to command, but stopped abruptly when Rares raised his hand. Although he didn’t fit either stereotype, Rares was the Captain of the merchant ship Compton, and a master trader. He was twenty kilos overweight, short, balding, and his round-chubby face had permanent laugh lines. At the moment he wasn’t smiling, and his space-cold eyes weren’t laughing.