by Peter Boland
*
We sit in the mess hall nearly deafened by all the chatter. Everyone’s talking about the War Theatres and many are pretending to fire weapons at each other. My mind’s on other things. I’m the only one sitting quietly because I’m preoccupied with working out my survival strategy for the next lesson.
No-one else seems worried. And why should they be? They’ve been brought up fighting since they could walk. For them it’s business as usual. Whereas, for me, it’s a giant leap into a darkened room filled with people trying to hurt me. I try to shake off my anxiety, otherwise I’m not going to get through this. I make a mental decision. Whatever lies on the other side of the door marked COMBAT, I’m going to go for it 100%. Okay, I don’t know how to fight, but I can’t back down. I have to at least be seen to try, otherwise I’m going to bring shame on my pod. Plus, I’ll look weak and then I’ll become everyone’s doormat. The thought of fighting scares me to hell and I anxiously pick the skin off from around my nails. I recall Tuss’s simple advice: kick them in the kahunas. I repeat it over and over in my head, like a calming mantra.
A holo image appears at the back of the hall. It’s the scoreboard, floating there with virtual 3D letters and numbers. The position of the pods in Section One hasn’t changed, but there’s one thing different. Our pod has a score of five, while all the others are still stuck on zero. Professor Nilson is as good as his word and has given me some points for answering a question right. My pod gives me a cheer and I receive congratulatory punches on the arm from some of the boys. We’re out of the starting blocks and at last I feel like I’m contributing, rather than being a dead weight. It feels good.
Suddenly, our com screens buzz into life and instructions flash up telling us where to go for next lesson. Like the whole thing’s been choreographed, we all get to our feet and head out of section one. Some of the pods go off in different directions and I wonder if we’ve got the right instructions but then I realize they must be splitting us up into smaller groups. Several pods, including mine, head down a left-hand corridor and enter through a door marked ‘COMBAT ARENA 1.1’. My heart does a backflip.
Inside is a large flat training area with a soft squidgy floor and a high ceiling. More adrenalin floods into my veins as if I didn’t have enough already. I feel Tuss’s big hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Wren,” she says. “Stick with me and do as I do.”
Well, that’s easier said than done.
I guessed right - we’re here with Beta, Gamma and Delta. The top four pods in the section.
Beta pod smirk at me in unison. That’s good it makes me even more determined to fight. If I’m being honest, half of me wants to turn and run and hide.
We line up against the side wall and await our instructor. It doesn’t take long. A tall powerful woman strides in. She has the same physique as Tuss with powerful wide shoulders, a narrow waist and legs that go on forever. Her hair is a livid red color, pulled back in a short severe ponytail. She doesn’t even look at us; she’s fiddling with her com screen.
“I am Sergeant Wilma. P. Grace. Got it? Because I will not be saying it again.” When she speaks it’s as if every syllable is carved from solid granite. “I am from Aberdeen, that’s in Scotland for anyone who is stupid. This is Combat Training. You will eat live and breathe combat. Combat will be your reason for living and will stop you from dying. What you learn in here could save your life, the life of your comrades and the lives on planet Earth, so learn to love it. Otherwise you are no good to me, and I’ll shove you in an escape pod and fire you back to Earth. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” we all say.
“On the floor. One hundred push-ups,” she shouts. Her harsh voice echoes in the large room, reverberating in my ears. One hundred push-ups? I can’t even do one.
“Don’t go right down to the floor,” whispers Tuss. “Just bend your elbows slightly, you’ll be able to do more.”
“Thanks,” I whisper back. I take her advice and produce a few push-ups but I’m slowing down already. Everyone around me is cranking them out like machines. I just hope the instructor doesn’t see me.
“You.” She’s seen me. “Bend those elbows, ninety degrees.”
I do as I’m told but my arms give way and I collapse on the floor.
“Get up,” she shouts. “Come here.” She pulls me out of line and everyone stops to see what’s going on. “Did I say stop!” The whole room resumes its exercises.
The instructor looks me up and down, trying to figure me out, while I fight for breath. Up close her face is peppered with orangey freckles. She points her com screen at me to find out who I am. “Harper, Wren, is that you?” she asks. I nod. “Well, you’ll be first.”
First for what? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I won’t like it.
“Okay, stop. Stand up,” she shouts to the rest of them. “That was pathetic. I don’t think the Mangs have anything to worry about with a bunch of wet heads like you.”
I’m guessing Mangs is slang for Dormangi. I don’t like the word, it makes them sound worse than they were before.
“You’re supposed to be the top four pods. Four years is not going to be enough to get a bunch of slackers like you in shape. You won’t even survive five minutes in a War Theatre, let alone five months on Kepler.”
“Yes, sir,” everyone shouts. I make sure I get my shout in too.
“Okay, on this voyage there have been some changes. Big changes. There will be no more hand-to-hand combat training.”
My shoulders relax. Did I hear her correctly? No hand-to-hand fighting? Maybe I will survive this after all. There are groans from all around the room.
“I know, I know, I don’t like it either,” the Sergeant continues. “But it’s out of my hands. The reason is simple but practical. You will not survive a fistfight with a Mang. In fact, no-one has ever survived hand-to-hand combat with a Mang. They are too fast and too strong. Therefore, there is no point teaching you hand-to-hand fighting if you’re going to lose. It’s a waste of time. Instead we rely on our strategy, our intelligence and, most importantly, superior combat technology. More about this in the next lesson. We rely on those to win our battles, not our fists. Is that clear?”
A grumbled ‘yes’ comes back from the room.
“However, this is my lesson and my rules. And there is nothing more life-affirming than someone trying to kick you in the head. It’s one hell of a rush. So for this one and only lesson, for tradition’s sake, you will all fight each other and we will all watch. Starting with you.”
Sergeant Grace points at me. I feel my jaw drop open and I look to my pod. They give me encouraging looks. Tuss is mouthing something to me and pointing at her crotch. Then she gives a small kick with her right leg, reminding me of what I need to do.
Wilma. P. Grace walks around me in a circle, like I’m a lamb and she’s a lion.
“You, young lady will be the first on the mat. There are no rules, apart from when I say stop, you stop. And before you ask, yes, points will be awarded to each victor. Okay, Harper, pick an opponent.”
This is it. Time to step up. My heart’s punching against my ribs and my hands are quivering like they’re about to fall off. I have to hold it together. Be bold I tell myself. I can do this.
The whole of Beta pod jeers, calling me lame bird, and that’s when it hits me. Take the fight to them, a little voice says inside my head. It’s the last thing they’ll expect and will catch them off guard. Maybe I am thinking like a marine.
“Him,” I say, pointing at Sagan. The jeering stops and Sagan looks shocked.
“You sure, sweetheart?” asks Sergeant Grace. “He’s awful big.”
“Then he’s got nothing to worry about,” I say back.
The Sergeant smiles. “I like your attitude, Harper. This should be interesting.”
My heart feels like it’s going to come loose it’s beating so hard, but I know I have to do this. “I want to fight him,” I say again.
&nb
sp; “Well, you heard the lady,” says the Sergeant, pointing at Sagan. “Front and center.”
Sagan freezes for a split second, then his brain catches up with him. He wanders into the middle of the room, not looking at me. Is he feeling ashamed of himself? The shy freaky girl from his school has just picked on him. That’s got to be a first. Win or lose at least I’ve proved I’m not afraid of him.
“Get him, Wren,” Ash shouts.
“You can do it,” Tuss joins in. Before I know it, my whole pod is screaming words of encouragement at me, and so are some of Gamma and Delta.
We face each other. He’s still not looking at me, even though I stare directly at him. I’m not afraid. Facing your fears is kind of liberating, either that or I’m getting high off all the adrenalin in my blood.
I put my fists up in front of my face and get ready to pounce. I know exactly where I want to be. I’m going in a straight line to his manhood, just like Tuss told me. He certainly won’t be expecting that. I hope.
“Okay, fight,” shouts the Sergeant. The room erupts with noise from everyone watching. I launch off the balls of my feet and rush straight for Sagan. My eyes are still locked on his. His are wide, as if he’s not quite sure what’s happening. As I close the distance I drop down low, hoping to get in close so I can swing my leg up high for maximum damage.
Before I get in range to swing my kick there’s an almighty bang.
Everything around me disappears.