The Reign_Destiny_The Life Of Travis Rand

by Lance Berry

  Chapter 14

  “ow-ow-OW!”

  Travis snapped awake, surprised to find that he had almost slept through reveille. He craned his neck around, searching for the sound of the outcry, and saw Theo standing beside his bunk, casting an uncaring glance at Chen, who lay in bed rubbing his right hand. “Sorry,” Theo said in a blatantly insincere tone, then proceeded to his locker. Chen said nothing, and simply sat up on the side of his bed as he favored the hand Theo had stepped on as he climbed down from the top bunk. Chen looked at Travis, who glanced away, embarrassed.

  Francis carefully climbed down from the bunk above Travis, and held his hand out to Chen. “Francis Horatio. You must be the fourth member of our barbershop quartet.”

  Chen managed to muster a smile and cautiously shook Francis’ hand. “Anthony Chen. Nice to meet you, Francis.” He then stood and offered his hand to Theo, who was busy getting dressed. “Anthony Chen. Hi.”

  Theo completely ignored him, looking to Travis instead. “You up yet, Rand? We gotta get to formation.”

  Travis rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat on the edge of his bunk. “Yeah, I’m up. And Anthony just said ‘hi’ to you.” Theo shot him a reproving look, then reluctantly nodded at Chen. “Yeah, hi,” he mumbled, then grabbed a toothbrush, paste and towel and headed out of the room.

  “Sorry,” Travis offered with a sigh. “He’s got a problem with Asians.”

  Chen shrugged. “I would never have guessed.” As he went about gathering his uniform from the closet, Francis and Travis shared a concerned look. The three boys dressed in silence.

  After morning formation and inspection, Travis and his bunkmates headed first to breakfast, then to an assembly at Meade Hall. It was explained to all cadets present that this would be their last assembly, with the exception of special announced engagements. From that moment on, they were to be responsible for maintaining a professional attitude and to be certain they paid attention to their academic schedules. They were then divided into focus cadres, each student assigned to a group whose studies were specialized toward their academic applications. Since Travis had originally applied to be a DogFighter Craft pilot, he was put in Group C-5. Afterward, he was scheduled to meet in Training Division Building 1, where he and about seventy other students gathered in a study hall. The cadre commandant, Major Mark Talo, introduced himself and then divided the group into several sub-divisions, which were called Personalized Cadres, or P.C.s. There were seven students in Travis’ P.C., including himself, and according to Major Talo, they would now be responsible for each others’ successes…and failures.

  After introductions, the groups headed off to their assigned classes. Travis’ group spent the better part of the morning attending classes on stellar cartography, astrophysics and the history of flight. At noon, he hit the head and told his P.C. he’d meet them in the mess hall.

  When he arrived (this time just before the lunch hour was to commence), he found his P.C. sitting together at a table near one of the large windows which looked out onto the central quad. The members of Travis’ P.C. consisted of Danielle Keys, Hugo Guzman, Travis’ roommates Theo and Anthony, Christina King and Pietro Skovarinov. Hugo was a friendly and outgoing individual. Pietro, a native of the Russian Federation, was more subdued and spoke only when he felt he had something of value to say. Christina, like Anthony, was a member of the PanAsian Provinces. Like Theo, however, she also chose to wear glasses instead of undergoing genetic rectification. And although Theo sat on the opposite end of the table from Anthony, Travis noticed that he was more willing to speak to Christina when she addressed him, and occasionally glanced at her when she wasn’t looking. Travis wondered what Theo would say if this fact was brought to his attention, but decided it would be best not to engage the issue. “I see they gave you extra,” Danielle said to Travis, a smile crossing her lips as she nodded to his food tray. “Yeah. The chef said I did a good job of taking my punishment last night, so he thought it would be alright to give me a little more today. I tell you, I appreciate it, too. I think I’m still hungry from my endurance marathon.”

  “You should be, brother. Everyone here knows now what a stand-up guy you are,” a gravelly voice shot out from Danielle’s other side. Travis leaned forward, and a smile of recognition spread across his face.

  “Hammy Cav!” he said, nodding to the short, stocky young man who had just seated himself to Danielle’s left. “How’s it goin’, Rand?” the young man replied.

  “All right,” he answered, then looked to his fellows. “Guys, this is Hamilton Cavanaugh–the fourth.”

  The others made a lot of “oooh” and “aah” sounds of false awe, which Cavanaugh took in stride. “Hamilton was one of the Cadets on my transport here,” Travis said. More teasing “oooh” and “aaah” sounds, as if being aboard the same transport as Travis Rand had any major significance for what axis the Earth rotated on.

  “Shut the hell up,” Travis laughed.

  “How come you’re not sitting with your P.C.?” Danielle asked Cavanaugh.

  Cavanaugh waved dismissively in the direction of a far table where his cadre members were seated. “Ahh, they’re all a bunch of knuckleheads. All sitting around jabbering, telling bullshit stories about how they’re all going to be history makers, great Cruiser captains, going on to do this and that. I couldn’t take the smell of manure while I’m trying to eat.”

  “What makes you think it’s all bull, Ham? Maybe they will go on to do great stuff. You never know,” Travis said.

  “They can have their delusions if they want. I intend to keep my mind planted in the real world,” Cavanaugh replied with a derisive snort. “Maybe, out of the few thousand of us here, one or two–five maybe, at most, will go out there and do something fantastic. But it’s all like Wentwell said yesterday, man: UEF isn’t setting out to make us into great captains, we’re being trained to be soldiers–groundpounders, expendable assets. We’re all just cogs in the machine, brother. Not that I have a problem with that. It’s just that I wish other people would get their heads out of their asses and realize it too.”

  “Jeez, pessimistic a bit?” Danielle chuckled and rolled her eyes. “If you don’t believe you’re going to go out there and make a difference, then you won’t.”

  “Actually, I agree with Hamilton, to a certain point,” Pietro spoke up. “At any rate, the dropout of twenty percent will certainly eliminate some here from the running. But the question is of moot importance. We have four years to find out who among us is strong enough to make the grade, and survive Commandant Cordero’s ‘Thousand-Fold Technique’. We must pass through our own personal fire, before we might be found ready.”

  “’We must pass through bitter waters, before we reach the sweet’, eh?” Christina offered.

  “Da,” Pietro answered with an enthusiastic nod.

  Travis downed a couple of forkfuls of pork and beans before adding, “I’m sure the water’s going to taste damn sweet when we all reach the other side, too.”

  After lunch, Travis’ P.C. headed over to the small field behind Brigand Division for martial arts instruction. There was a bench set up with several training uniforms, or gi’s, each labeled with a specific cadet’s name. Not seeing any instructor around, and at Theo’s suggestion, the young men and women separated and changed in the building’s gender-specific bathrooms, then returned to the field. When they arrived once more, there was an Asian man waiting for them, a look of passive serenity on his face. He was almost reed-thin, and nearly a foot shorter than Travis. The middle-aged gentleman smiled warmly at the group, and bowed to them in greeting. As one, they instinctively bowed to him in return. The man nodded approvingly. “Good afternoon, Cadets. I am Hoi Ling, your instructor. I purposely was not within your field of vision when you arrived, in order to see whether you would make the correct and decisive choice to change into your training gi’s. I am glad to see that you did not disappoint me, as the last group did.” There were a couple of chuckles at this last, which
Ling let pass without comment. He smiled warmly again, and pointed to Theo. “What is your name?”

  “Theo Booker,” the young black man replied evenly.

  “A strong name,” Ling responded. “Theo, can you tell me what a martial art is? What is your definition for the term?”

  Theo thought about it a moment. “It’s like, you know, kung fu, karate, ju-jitsu, all that stuff. It’s a way of fighting without using guns and such.”

  Ling considered the answer. “’A way of fighting without using guns and such’,” he repeated thoughtfully. “That is, sadly, as close to an intelligent response on the question as I have heard in recent memory.” His eyes moved over the group slowly, holding each of them in turn in a penetrating gaze as he spoke. “The martial arts are exactly that: an art form, dating back to a time before Jesus Christ walked this Earth. Each and every martial art–Karate, Tae Kwon Do, Ju-Jitsu and others, were designed to promote physical health, while at the same time allowing an individual to subdue an opponent without mortally harming them. Over the centuries, however, the arts were perverted by those who came to see them only as sport, or a more efficient killing tool. I do not believe in these principles, but in a time of war such as this, it is necessary that you use what is offered to you for these latter purposes, to better defend yourself.”

  Hoi Ling’s eyes dropped to the ground a moment, then he looked up at his students expectantly. “Who among you has heard of Bruce Lee?”

  Four out of the seven raised their hands, Travis not among them. Ling nodded appreciatively nonetheless. “It is a testament to Sensei Lee’s legacy that even to this day, a majority of you know who he is. For those of you who do not, you are in for a singular treat.”

  Ling took them to a private room within the Division building. A vid-screen was mounted on one wall, and he inserted a dsp into the screen’s side port. Almost instantly, an image appeared on the screen. It was of a large crowd gathered in a great hall, watching some spectacle about to unfold in the central arena. An Asian man, wearing only black pants and slippers, stood opposite a white man. Behind the white male were four more men, standing approximately ten feet away, poised as if to catch him should he fall. Travis and the other cadets wondered to themselves what this could all be about; if indeed the man did fall, there was no way any of them could rush to catch him in time. The Asian man, for his part, seemed to not be impressionably tall at all, and almost seemed non-threatening. Yet there was something about him; he was compactly muscular, in a way that seemed almost deceptively powerful…as if hidden currents of electricity flowed through his body, ready to be unleashed upon his command. The Asian man moved forward, standing almost nose-to-nose with the white man–and then, with only one sharp, sudden punch to the white man’s chest, sent him flying back the full ten feet, into the other men, who all went flying with him, back onto safety mats a few feet away!

  “NO WAY!”

  “Uh-uh!”

  “This can’t be real–!”

  “When was this–“

  “Sshhh!” Ling hissed sternly. “Watch,” he instructed, and they all fell silent as the image changed. Once again, the Asian faced off against an opponent. The other man charged forward, flinging blow after kick after blow, all effortlessly blocked by the compactly muscular Asian. The Asian man then delivered a kick so swift, that it almost seemed not to happen–as if he hadn’t even moved his leg, yet his opponent dropped to the floor nonetheless.

  “Replay last image at one-quarter speed,” Ling said, and the vid-screen’s voice recognition system responded as ordered. The scene replayed itself; once again, the Asian man delivered his kick…yet even at one-quarter of the image’s actual speed, he now seemed to be moving at a normal pace of motion.

  Ling looked at his students-to-be: all their mouths were agape, as looks of awe and wonder covered their faces. He went over to the vid-screen and turned it off, then turned up the lights. The cadets looked at him despairingly, as he expected: they obviously wanted to see more.

  “That was Bruce Lee. The image was taken during the late 20th Century, when Madison Square Garden in New York was still standing. I will teach you the art passed down from him, and you will learn how to truly fight an opponent. Prepare yourselves to learn the art of Jeet Kune Do.”

  Travis and the others in his cadre felt amazingly energized after their first lesson with Sensei Ling, as he respectfully and properly came to be called. Ling taught the class not only simple ways to properly throw and deflect punches, but also several steps within the Buddhist practice of Zen. “The ways you know, the knowledge you think you have gained throughout your life, must be discarded in order to achieve true understanding of yourself,” the sensei stated. Travis never felt more awake in his life as when he listened to this man speak. He had decided at that moment that he would do whatever was necessary to learn the art of Bruce Lee’s martial style. In the afternoon, he had courses on military history, the history of United Earth Force itself (he didn’t understand why in the world these had to be separate classes, as the subjects were so closely intertwined anyway), and then it was on to the firing range before dinner.

  The instructor for target practice was Drill Sergeant Macavee, a gungho and gruff man whose motto was “see it, kill it”. Macavee was very nearly the complete antithesis of Sensei Ling; he was big, beefy, with a nearly insane glint in his eye. Rather than calmly instruct, he bellowed out every sentence he uttered, the result making him very closely resemble the caricatures of drill sergeants which Travis had seen in a few old Hollywood movies. He doubted Macavee would appreciate the analogy, though, and decided to keep his observation to himself.

  Macavee stood behind a small table in the rear firing range at Druice Hall. On the table were three weapons; a large knife, a small handgun and a Blastrifle. Macavee addressed the class of about forty students as he held the dagger aloft for all to see. “A Bowie knife, circa 2040. I know many of you haven’t seen one before, because knives such as this have gone into disuse within the arena of combat within the last century. They still make excellent cutting tools, but from all reports on today’s battlefield, hand-tohand combat with a Calvorian is not only extremely rare, it is unwise. Calvorians have teeth and nails that extend to one full inch out from their standard size, which is usually the length of the average human fingernail. Those personal cutting instruments are reputedly as strong, if not stronger, than a knife such as this. With their speed, which is known to be nearly twice as fast as any human’s, they can shred you before you can draw a knife from any side-held scabbard.”

  Disquieted looks floated around the room. It seemed almost none of the cadets had ever heard these reports which Macavee spoke of, nor did they realize that the possibility of fighting a Calvorian face-to-face even remotely existed. Jack Richards had mentioned to Travis, years earlier, that he had heard of close quarters combat with Calvorian troops on distant worlds, but he never quite got around to finishing those stories. He would fall silent after starting to mention it, then either go downstairs to the den to watch the news, or retreat to the kitchen for a beer.

  Macavee set the knife down and picked up the handgun. “Should you find yourself with enemy forces drawing in around you, your best bet for near-quarters fighting is the Zuk-Lar .20 hand pistol. The Zukhouri royal family of India bought out the manufacturers of Lares handguns in 2156. They reconfigured the emission chamber to deliver a more powerful, tightly-focused laser. Other companies, which had been less successful on that point, tried to emulate what the Zukhouris had done, in order to compete for the supply contract to UEF. They lost. The Zukhouri’s gun is now the primary side-arm carried by all UEF officers and soldiers in the field.”

  Macavee then set down the handgun and picked up the Blastrifle. “This is the weapon of choice, however, for shooting at the enemy across distances. The Vaughn-Koch Series ten Blastrifle. It is a unique, lightweight weapon similar in design and feel to the ancient Uzi submachine-guns of the late 20th and early 21st Centuries
.” He held it in ready repose, indicating points on the gun as he continued, “It has a target sight for long-range aiming, a safety catch like the Zuk-Lar, to put your weapon in ‘standby’ mode. It also has a rechargeable battery pack which is solar-optimal. It has a tightly focused refraction emitter, for more powerful delivery of its laser.” He put down the weapon, picked up the Bowie knife and tossed it over his shoulder, where it fell to the floor with a large –klang!- “We move on from the past,” Macavee said, and picked up the gun and Blastrifle in each hand. “These are the weapons you will become proficient with. These are the weapons you will use to survive on the battlefield.”

  Dear Gilda,

  I’m sorry I didn’t write or call you yesterday, but I’ve been very busy since I got here, getting acclimated to the School. It is FANTASTIC here!! I’ve been assigned to a training cadre, my roommates are good guys, and I’m learning a martial art called “Jeet Kune Do”. It’s a fighting style created by Bruce Lee, a martial artist from the 20th Century. According to my sensei (teacher), Bruce Lee was the greatest fighter who ever lived, and he showed us some old vids to prove it!

  Gilda, I’ve missed you so much since I got here, and I’m really sorry I didn’t contact you before this. I promise I’ll keep in touch more often, and I just wanted you to know that what we did the other night was very, very special to me. I hope it was with you too. I love you.

  – Travis

  Overnet Address: TXR@PQ571-op4_98B

  Travis saved a copy to his “sent” box, e-mailed the letter to Gilda, then pasted a copy of the “sent” version into a new e-mail addressed to Aunt Lisa. He made some minor changes, and mailed it off as well. He rose from the computer he had been using in the library, and almost bumped right into Danielle Keys as she rounded a corner between the aisles of computer stations. “Hey you,” she whispered happily, and gave him a big hug which he earnestly returned. “What are you up to?”