Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fi?ne art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The offi?cer knew the key was to put about 50percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fi?sts held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward offi?cers was concerned.
In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the fi?rst blows were struck.
The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper-body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffl?ed forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.
That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a fl?urry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously. Meanwhile, Santana was fi?ghting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.
The offi?cer managed to defl?ect another blow with raised hands, fl?icked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fi?st grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fi?re, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffl?ed his size-fourteen feet.
The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg roundkick. With his leg cocked, the offi?cer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected. The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the fl?ow with his fi?ngers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But four opponents were still on their feet—and they were pissed.
Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the fi?rst drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.
Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!”
someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.
Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.
Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fi?sts. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself. Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty offi?cer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”
Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a roundhouse swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fi?ght was over.
5
There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.
—Grand Marshal Nimu Worla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1957
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Had it not been for the way in which Overseer Tragg murdered Lieutenant Moya, and left her body to rot on the spaceport’s tarmac, the fi?rst few hours of the 146-mile hike might have been somewhat enjoyable. Especially since it was a sunny day, the terrain was relatively fl?at, and they were no longer aboard Captain Vomin’s claustrophobic freighter. However, most of the prisoners could still feel the fear, hear the gunshot, and see the young woman’s dead body as it lay on the pavement. And that, Vanderveen knew, was no accident. Tragg had a powerful ally, and it was fear. So there was very little conversation as the long column of Confederacy prisoners followed a crude trail though the triple-canopy forest. There wasn’t much ground vegetation because very little sunlight could reach the ground. What there was fell in patches and bathed each prisoner in liquid gold as he or she passed through it. A cacophony of bird sounds rang through the jungle, and Vanderveen heard mysterious rustlings as small animals hurried to escape the alien invaders, and brightly colored insects darted back and forth. There was a brief rainstorm about an hour into the journey, and the raindrops made a gentle rattling sound as they exploded against thousands of waxy leaves. The diplomat felt refreshed once the rain stopped, but not for long, as both the temperature and humidity continued to increase.
Meanwhile what had begun as a relatively easy march gradually became more arduous as the trail trended upwards. The column slowed as those in the lead struggled up a long, slippery hillside, topped a gently rounded hill, and slip-slid down into a ravine. The only way out was to climb a stairway of intertwined tree roots. It was a treacherous business at best since some of the cablelike structures were unexpectedly brittle, others had the ability to pull themselves up out of reach, and at least one sturdylooking tuber morphed into an angry snake when a naval rating wrapped his fi?ngers around it.
Fortunately Vanderveen, Nankool, Hooks, and Calisco were among those at the head of the column. Because once two or three hundred sets of boots passed through an area, solid ground was quickly transformed into mud, which forced those following behind to work even harder. Adding to the diffi?culty of the march was the fact that with the exception of the marines, very few of the prisoners were physically prepared for that sort of journey. President Nankool was an excellent example. While the chief executive was able to hold his own during the fi?rst few hours of the journey, he soon began to pant and was forced to pause every few minutes. Then, when it came to clambering up over the ridge, he needed assistance from Vanderveen and others, which placed even more stress on them.