by Tarah Benner
Jonah
“Throw out that jab! Throw out that jab! Keep her off you, Jones! Jesus!”
Kholi is walking Jones around the ring, and Jones seems incapable of defending herself. Kholi’s still one of the worst fighters I’ve ever seen — all flailing elbows and sloppy T-rex hooks — but even she can get Jones on the ropes.
Jones peeks up from behind the cover of her gloves and throws out a desperate Hail-Mary cross, but she sticks out her chin and leaves herself open, and Kholi takes her shot.
Jones staggers backward, reeling from shock, and I see the faintest hint of crazy in her eyes. She charges Kholi with a one-two punch, but she gets too close, and Kholi bops her on the nose.
“Time!” I shout, calling an end to the round. I can’t watch any more of this.
Kholi immediately snaps out of her trance, shocked and horrified by what she’s done. Jones is still standing in the corner of our improvised ring, and blood is gushing from her nose.
“Jesus!” I growl, peeling off my own gloves and tossing them to the ground. “What the hell was that?”
“I’m sorry!” says Kholi. “I didn’t mean to!”
“It’s okay,” says Jones, still trying to stem the flow of blood leaking from her nose.
“It’s not okay!” I yell. “Kholi — control! The idea of practice is not to beat the shit out of each other. Jones —” I shake my head, completely lost for words.
Well, not completely. Useless. Terrible. Blind baby deer running headlong into a rock. Those are the words that come to mind, but instead of adding insult to injury, I take a deep breath and try to edit my frustration.
“Keep — your chin — down. Hold your position, and throw out that jab.”
Jones looks as though she’s about to cry. Blood is gushing from her glove onto the mat. What a fucking mess.
“You can’t go into the ring timid like that,” I say. “Make her scared to come to you.”
I drop my glare and let out a sigh. “Jones, go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. Casey, mop up that blood. Kholi, you’re benched. Ping and Davis, you’re up next.”
Unfortunately, the guys are even more of a shit show than Jones and Kholi. Davis is beside himself with nerves and seems reluctant to hit anyone, while Ping is a coiled spring of misguided energy. He bounces around the ring like a kangaroo on steroids and occasionally manages to whop someone so hard that I have to make him sit out.
This is not going the way I’d planned.
Two and a half weeks into basic, and my squad is still terrible. The five of them are in marginally better physical shape, but none of them can block a punch, land a kick, or hit a target with a rifle to save their lives.
After Ping chases Davis around the ring for a solid twenty minutes, I call an end to the sparring session and dismiss them all for dinner. The privates are exhausted, and I need to regroup.
I head to the civilian fitness center to blow off some steam, but before I’m even out of the sector, I hear someone calling my name.
I stop in my tracks and close my eyes. I swear to god if it’s Ping . . .
I turn. It isn’t Ping. It’s my CO, Lieutenant Buford. Buford’s a few inches shorter than me with thinning brown hair, a baby-smooth face, and the over-friendly smile of an annoying neighbor.
Compared to Callaghan, Buford is a cakewalk. He doesn’t seem overly concerned with my privates passing their PFTs. He pretty much stays out of my way and lets me train my squad.
I give him a quick salute, which he returns with a jaunty little snap.
“Sergeant Wyatt . . . Good to see you.”
“Sir.”
“I saw your private run out of the combat gym with a bloody nose.” He raises his eyebrows and lets out a hiss. “Rough day?”
“My squad has been a little slow to pick up the basics of hand-to-hand,” I admit. “But I’ll get them there. I just need more time.”
“Hmm. Yes, well . . .” Buford trails off, glancing behind me as if to make sure there’s no one else there. “Some soldiers pick things up quicker than others.”
“Yessir.”
“You know I’m here to help if there are areas where you’re struggling . . .”
“Thank you, sir. But I think my squad just needs more time to train.”
Buford studies me for a moment, and I get the feeling that he’s trying to decide whether or not I’m up to the challenge. “Walk with me.”
I hesitate. The last thing I want is for Buford to appoint himself my personal babysitter. It’s hard enough training my squad without someone constantly looking over my shoulder. But something in his expression tells me it isn’t a request, so I follow him back down the hallway.
He scans us into the room attached to the combat gym. It looks almost like an interrogation room, and I’ve never really understood its purpose. There’s a table with four chairs in the middle of the room, a single strip of fluorescent lighting, and a long window on one wall looking out into the gym.
“I’ve been watching your squad closely since the beginning of basic,” he says, turning toward a set of cabinets built into the wall. “And I have to say . . . You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m not sure why he brought me in here, but I’m getting an itch to leave. Nothing good ever comes from an extended one-on-one with your CO. These conversations usually end with an ultimatum.
But Buford seems oddly casual as he opens up a cabinet and pulls out a shallow white box. It’s about the size of a small sheet cake with a biometric scanner on one side.
“Trust me when I tell you that the amount of work these recruits require is not lost on us. Neither Captain Callaghan nor any of the people under his command had much of a say in the recruitment process.”
“Who did have a say in recruitment?”
“Maverick Enterprises worked with private recruiters to select for a few very specific skill sets,” says Buford.
It sounds as though he’s choosing his words carefully so as not to give too much away.
“What sort of skill sets?” I press.
“Space weaponry. Intelligence. Cryptography and cybersecurity . . .”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the people in your squad will be very helpful in defending this colony against any long-range attack from our adversaries. Close-quarter combat is where they struggle. I can help with that.”
Buford presses his thumb against the biometric scanner, and the box pops open with a slight pfft of air.
“Captain Callaghan has given the lieutenants access to some proprietary technology designed by a subsidiary of Maverick Enterprises. They developed this technology in an effort to simulate more humanlike movement in their bots, but they discovered other applications for it as well.”
He opens the box. Inside are two identical devices unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Each has a tiny bronze shell and a dozen or so wires sticking out in different directions.
“What is this?”
“It’s called a SPIDER,” he says. “It stands for Simulated Procedural Memory Intake Decoding and Encoding Receptor. The acronym should really be SPMIDER or something, but I guess they thought SPIDER was catchier.”
He chuckles a little at his own joke, and I meet his gaze, utterly confused.
“What do you do with it?”
Buford smirks. “It’ll make more sense when you see for yourself.”
Buford taps his Optix to ping someone, and a second later, a man picks up. “Kelso, do you copy?”
There’s a moment of silence as the man on the other end responds.
“Can you come down here, please? I’m in the combat lab. Over.”
Buford ends the call and raises his eyebrows. “I think you’ll be very impressed when you see what it can do.”
We wait in silence for several minutes, and I take the opportunity to study the device up close. The shell is contoured to fit something round, and each of the SPIDER’s wires has t
iny claws at the ends.
Suddenly the door clicks open, and a tall sergeant walks in. I recognize him from officer training, but I didn’t know his name until now. Kelso has a thick mat of greasy black hair, a large nose, and an expression that isn’t exactly friendly.
“Thanks, Kelso,” says Buford. “I want to show Wyatt here what the SPIDER can do.”
I glance at Kelso. He doesn’t seem at all confused by this request.
As I watch, Buford peels one of the SPIDERs out of its protective foam packaging and presses a tiny button on the underside of the shell. A blue light comes on somewhere underneath, illuminating the metallic elements and giving it the appearance of an alien creature come to life.
Kelso sits down, and Buford slowly places the device along the back of his head. I cringe as I imagine the creepy little appendages brushing the back of my scalp, and then, suddenly, the metal arms begin to move.
Kelso blinks twice very fast, and I get the feeling that the arms are digging into the back of his head. Buford removes his hand, and I see that the SPIDER has suctioned itself to Kelso’s skull like a creepy many-armed starfish.
“What now?” I ask. The SPIDER doesn’t seem to be doing anything, but maybe I just don’t see it.
“Now I want you to forget that the device is even there,” he says. “Your file says that you’re an excellent fighter, sergeant.”
I don’t confirm or deny that statement. It’s a lose-lose proposition. Tell someone you’re great, and they want to knock you off your high horse. Tell someone you’re just all right, and they’ll hate you for being modest.
“How’s your jiu-jitsu?”
“Not great.”
That isn’t me being modest. I’ve always been a stronger stand-up fighter, which has its disadvantages.
“Kelso here is a black belt in BJJ.”
Kelso looks embarrassed to have the lieutenant bragging on his behalf, and I wonder where the hell Buford is going with this.
The lieutenant grins. “Why don’t you get in there and roll a few rounds?” He nods through the window to the combat gym, and I get a tiny prickle of unease.
Callaghan must have sent Buford and Kelso to teach me some kind of lesson. Good fighter or not, I don’t stand a chance against someone with a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It’s like bringing a knife to a gun fight.
“Feel free to start standing up,” says Buford, the edge of a smirk in his tone.
I shoot Buford a dirty look, nod at Kelso, and head for the door. I don’t care if I’m about to get my ass handed to me. You don’t pass up the chance to roll with someone who’s got a significantly better ground game. There’s no way to walk away from that without learning a thing or two.
Kelso’s got this look that says he’s about to kick my ass, but it’s not cockiness I’m sensing. It’s almost as though he’s resigned himself to being Buford’s gun for hire, and he doesn’t enjoy it one bit.
We head out into the gym, and the stench of new mats and bleach washes over me. I pull off my boots, socks, and overshirt, and the sensation of cool foam under my feet puts me at ease. I’m back at home in the ring.
We each find corners along one of the tape rings on the mat, and a yellow light starts to blink above the window separating us from Lieutenant Buford. There are three low beeps, and the light turns green.
I face off against Kelso and raise my hands. The first thing I notice is all the ways Kelso’s stance is different from mine.
In the army, my instructors were ex-boxers, black belts in taekwondo, and experts in Israeli self-defense. Striking is my game.
Kelso, on the other hand, wants to get me to the ground as quickly as possible. His stance is lower — feet splayed wide, torso bent forward in a lunge. His hands aren’t curled into fists or raised to eye level to parry a strike. They’re down at his chest and slightly open, as if he’s preparing to grab me.
We circle each other slowly and deliberately. He’s waiting for me to throw the first punch. I’m waiting for him to shoot in for a takedown.
But Kelso seems to be keeping his distance. He’s a patient fighter, which makes him dangerous.
I throw a few jabs to test my range, and Kelso slips them expertly. He doesn’t need his hands to parry; his head movement is excellent.
I throw out a combo, and Kelso counters. I barely avoid his cross and catch half a hook to my temple. It’s been too long since I’ve really sparred, and my nerves are on full display. I’m too eager to get some strikes in, and it’s making me sloppy.
But as the round stretches out, I start to loosen up. My tried-and-true combos return like old friends, and my movements begin to sharpen.
Then I throw out a kick, and my mistake is immediately apparent. Kelso shoots in, and I feel my legs fly out from under me. We hit the ground in a clash of limbs, and I roll to secure a better position.
It’s no use. Rolling with Kelso is like wrestling a bear — I don’t stand half a chance. His movements are fluid, precise, and effortless. His body barely ripples, but a second later I’m flat on my back with Kelso in my guard. It’s an awkward position for any stand-up fighter to have another dude between his legs, but the guard is where jiu-jitsu guys thrive.
It seems that Kelso knows what I’m going to do before I do. He anticipates my every move and passes my guard in less than a minute.
With Kelso’s legs pinning me on either side and his weight pressing down on my chest, I feel as though I’m slowly suffocating in a python’s grip. I try every trick in the book to topple him, but he only seems to strengthen his position.
The round ends with Kelso’s legs wrapped around my neck, though I have no memory of how he got there. I tap out, and he relinquishes his hold and graciously helps me to my feet.
“Nice,” I pant, though it doesn’t feel nice. It feels like I just had my ass handed to me, and I’m not quite sure how it happened.
“Again,” calls Buford’s voice from the intercom.
I sigh.
We go another two rounds, and both times Kelso gets me to tap before the bell rings. Each time, he gives me a good two minutes of stand-up fighting so I don’t feel like a chump, but each time he takes me down and forces me to submit.
On the second round, Kelso gets me in an armlock from side control. On the third, he puts me in a triangle choke before I ever have a chance to pass his guard.
After Kelso chokes me out in a humiliating fashion, Buford sounds the bell and calls us back in.
“All right, Wyatt?” asks Buford.
I’m glad he’s enjoying this. I’m heaving as though I just sprinted up six flights of stairs.
“Fine,” I huff, wiping my brow.
“You don’t look fine.”
I shoot him a dirty look. I’d like to see him try to beat Kelso in a hand-to-hand fight. Buford would shit his pants.
Kelso is determined to avoid my gaze. I think he feels bad about kicking my ass, whereas Buford is amused. He’s messing around with the instant replay on his Optix. At least I think that’s what he’s doing.
Finally he seems satisfied, and the SPIDER sitting in the box lights up on its own.
“This’ll make you feel better,” says Buford. “Take a seat.”
I continue to glare at Buford but sit. I have this strange feeling deep in my gut, and Buford’s smirk isn’t helping. I make a mental note to grab a workout with Kelso and see if he’ll teach me a few ground sequences.
Buford picks up the glowing SPIDER from the box and takes a step toward me. He slides the shell down along the back of my head, and every muscle in my body tightens.
I don’t like the feeling of its creepy little appendages, and I cringe as the metal legs twist and bend. The shell feels warm — as though I’ve been holding it in my hands — and its thin spider legs seem to be trying to burrow through my skin.
“It can be a bit uncomfortable the first time,” says Buford.
That’s an understatement.
Once it’s in position, th
e SPIDER starts to vibrate. I don’t notice it at first. I just feel a slight tingle at the top of my spine. I have the urge to scratch the itch, but then the vibrations grow more intense.
I hear a faint humming in my ears, and my body detects a faint pattern to the vibrations. They’re pulsating through my skin and making every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Soon the pattern is strong enough to vibrate my bones until it feels as though my whole body is attuned to the rhythm.
Kelso is watching me out of the corner of his eye. At first I’m barely aware of anyone else, but once I come back to the present, there’s something in his expression that sets me on edge.
A second later, a notification pops up on Buford’s Optix, and he claps his hands together. “All right. Let’s go.”
At first I’m not sure what he means, and then I realize he wants us to roll again.
Buford turns his attention to Kelso. “Just like before. Don’t throw any new material at him. Just give him a chance to defend.”
“Yessir,” Kelso mutters.
I hold back a groan. I really must have looked pathetic if Buford is telling Kelso to go easy on me.
I give myself a mental slap and prepare my body to commit Kelso’s moves to memory. If I’m going to be tossed around like a wrestling dummy, I at least want to learn something I can use.
Kelso and I head back into the ring, and I wait for the light above the window to turn green.
This time, Kelso doesn’t mess around or give me a chance to throw my strikes. He shoots in almost immediately, going for a double-leg takedown.
Instead of resisting, something in my brain tells me to let him. We fly toward the mat in a tangle of limbs, but this time my body is ready to react.
We twist in midair, and I manage to slide my body into a better position. We hit the mat, and I slip effortlessly out from under his body and get him locked in side control.
He seems to anticipate me going for the armlock, which I had no idea how to execute just moments ago. When he shrimps out from under me and gets to his feet, I drop him to the mat in a beautiful single-leg takedown.
Kelso grunts, and for the first time I get the feeling that we could be equally matched. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I’m not going to question it.
