CHAPTER 42
JET
Trainee heroes rely on us to mold them, to shape them and to define appropriate behavior for everything from eating to dating.
Night, in an interview for the Chicago Sun-Times
Jet knocked on the door—two perfunctory raps—before she let herself in.
The huge man seated behind the desk looked up from his computer and scowled at her. The metal pin connecting his left arm to his shoulder gleamed in the light. “My my,” Lancer said. “The darling of the Academy has come to pay a visit. Go away, girl. I’m busy.”
No longer the scared mouse, Jet ignored the hostility in his voice as she also ignored his words and shut the door. She needed him. He was the only one who could help her. Smiling brightly, she sat in the seat opposite the desk. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
His scowl pulled into a snarl. “Maybe you need your hearing checked. I said go away.”
“Sir, I’m here to ask for your help.”
Lancer sneered. “Why don’t you go ask one of the other instructors or proctors to give you what you need? With the way Corp’s been shining to you, and now with the city practically in your pocket, anyone would bend over backward to aid the little Shadow.”
Hearing Night’s name for her on Lancer’s lips made her seethe, but she quashed the feeling and instead turned up the brilliance of her smile. She’d been practicing. She knew that her smile was reflected in her eyes, even if inside she wanted to rip his prosthetic leg from his body. She was becoming quite the actress.
Night was very pleased.
Jet said, “But sir, you’re the best there is at teaching aggressive and defensive fighting tactics.”
Lancer’s eyes narrowed. “Flattery, girl?”
“No, sir. Simple truth. You’re the best martial-arts and street-fighting instructor the Academy has. I’d be a fool to turn to anyone else.”
And never mind that he was a washout who’d barely clocked three years with the Squadron. Jet smiled demurely.
After a moment, Lancer leaned back in his chair. “Well, I suppose I can hear you out before I send you on your way.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jet said, and meant it. “When I’m engaged in battle, my response time is too slow. I need to increase my reaction speed. Can you help me?”
“That’s just practice, girl,” he said, snorting. “More you do it, the better you’ll get. Or you’ll get yourself hospitalized, or dead.”
“I do practice, sir. I put in hours in the gym and on the mats, sparring with anyone and everyone. I know the forms, I’ve studied the moves. In the Academy, I’m fast. But out there, where it matters, I’m slow.” She took a deep breath. “Will you tell me what I’m doing wrong?”
He looked at her, his dark eyes searching for something in her own. Finally he grimaced and said, “When you’re out there, and someone approaches you, what do you do? First thing. Tell me.”
“I run through the ABCs of Peacekeeping. Analyze, bat-tlescan, confront.”
“Good. Next?”
“That’s just it, sir. I seem to be in the middle of reviewing battlescan when I get attacked. There’s not enough time for me to make a sound decision before I’m locked into combat. And then I’m forced on the defensive.”
“So you’re taking too long to determine next moves.” He shrugged. “That’s common at first.”
“I try to think of all the possibilities before dedicating myself to an action. That’s the logical way to move forward.”
“Sweetheart, there’s nothing logical about a dirty fight. On the street, you’ve got to survive.”
“But there’s honor to battle. Rules to physical engagement.”
He snorted again. “Now you sound like you’re dating me. You want rules, Jet? Simple. First rule: Survive. Second rule: Don’t be your own enemy. Everything else is just practice, until your body knows what to do even as your mind is still processing the situation.”
“But—”
“No buts!” He slammed his fist onto the table, and Jet jumped in her seat. “Don’t try to rationalize it. Don’t paint the real world into pretty shades of pink. It doesn’t work like that. You go in there with your black skinsuit looking all slick, and your ideals about battle, thinking it should be glorious and chivalrous or anything other than staying alive no matter what, and you will get killed. Make no mistake about that, girl.”
Chagrined, Jet kept silent.
“Out there, the bad guys don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re doing a photo op because some stupid agreement with your sponsor says you can’t pass up an opportunity when the press is on the spot.” His eyes flashed, and a bitter smile played on his face. “If you think the world is going to accommodate your vision of it, think again. Arrogance is death.”
“Sir,” she said, her voice soft, “I’m sorry, I—”
“Shut it. Worse than arrogance is compassion. With arrogance, at least, you’ve got the right attitude. You’re a strong fighter, a warrior dedicated to protecting civilians from the scum of the earth.” His lips pulled into a sneer. “But compassion is death, girl. Far more so than arrogance. Compassion will get you a skinning knife in your ribs, a plasgun blast to your head. You want a mantra, Jet? Here’s one: They don’t matter.”
“Who doesn’t, sir?”
“Them. The enemies you’re fighting. Once you start thinking of them as people, your heart’s going to screw up what your head’s telling you to do.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Overthinking it slows you down. Overfeeling it will get you killed.”
“I see,” she said slowly, not liking the advice but appreciating that it held a note of ugly truth.
“No, girl. You don’t.” He barked out a laugh, a harsh sound that grated on her ears. “You think you know better. You think that you’re different, that you can go out there and be sympathetic and yet firm. It doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”
“Then show me what to do.”
He paused. “Excuse me?”
She leaned forward in her seat. “Teach me. One-on-one. Show me how to fight the way a Squadron hero should fight.”
“You’ve got Fourth Year instructors for that,” he said, scoffing. “Madame Marvel and Fisticuffs, I believe. They can even hook you up with tips on how to smile for the vids as you take out a villain.”
“They’re not the best,” she said plainly. “I want the best, sir. I want you to teach me.”
“Bullshit,” he spat. “I’m not the best and I know it. I got taken out of the field in my prime because of a stupid mistake on my part. So tell me the real reason why you’re here, girl, and maybe I won’t shove a detention band down your throat.”
She lifted her chin. “You hate me, sir. And that means you wouldn’t hold back when we spar.”
“You want me to really fight you? To pull all stops? To beat you down if you don’t get it right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this would be in addition to your regular Peacekeeping and Defense units.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
He stared at her, his gaze merciless, his face set in stone. “You’re a filthy Shadow. But you’ve got guts. And you’ve got gumption. You want me to do this, you make sure you sign a waiver and get it to your mentor and to Academy Records. When I break you in half, I don’t want the responsibility of paying your funeral expenses.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, grinning. “Thank you, sir.”
“Go ahead and thank me, girl. I promise you, tomorrow you’ll be cursing me. Five in the morning, main obstacle track. Every morning, rain or shine. You ever don’t show up, I’m done with you. We clear?”
“Yes, sir!” She stuck out her hand. “Thank you, sir!”
He stared at her hand like she was holding a steaming pile of dog turds. Finally Jet lowered her hand. It doesn’t hurt, she told herself, keeping the smile pasted on her face.
It doesn’t hurt.
“Tomorrow, girl. Don’t be late.” With that, he went back to his computer. He didn’t look up when she rose from her seat, nor did he acknowledge her final “Thank you, sir.”
Jet thought she saw him look up when she closed the door softly behind her, but she decided that she was mistaken.