skin
now pale, and his hard features now slack from exertion. He reached
for Cyrus in a feeble attempt to help him up, but Cyrus stood on
his own, kindly waving Davidson’s hand away. Cyrus coughed again,
trying to eject as much of the stench from Davidson’s insides as he
could. “Will these sessions always be characterized with pain and
vomit?” Cyrus heaved more than asked, sweat spraying from his
nostrils with his words.
Still in his authoritative voice, Tanner
answered, “Vomit, no; pain, yes. But the pain you will learn to
love.”
Struggling to stay in his stance, Dr.
Milliken’s unkempt, reddish-brown hair fluttered, and sweat dripped
from the ends. His normally rosy complexion was now so sanguine he
looked as if he were developing a rash. His typical,
worried-looking facial expression had been replaced with an
expression of exhausted determination as he fought gravity and
atrophic muscles to hold his current body position. He turned to
face Tanner, who paced before him, Cyrus, Davidson, and Torvald as
his voice quivered in time with his unconditioned thighs, “Exactly
what kind of sadist are you, Dr. Tanner? Why are you torturing
us?”
“Firstly, in this dojo, makeshift as it may
be, you will all refer to me as Sifu Tanner,” the
consternation in his voice pressed against the padded metal walls
that began to close in again as Cyrus struggled to his feet. “And
in answer to your final question, I am torturing you so this brutal
environment that we will land on in five years cannot.” Tanner
moved over to Cyrus and adjusted the position of his ankle rather
brusquely. “And as far as the question of my particular brand of
sadism, it is the only brand you need fear.”
“So you’re saying we should fear you?” Dr.
Torvald asked, almost stumbling out of his own stance as he craned
his neck to face Tanner. “That doesn’t strike me as very
monk-like.”
“You need not fear me . I,” he paused
for theatrical emphasis, “am your friend, your colleague. What I
meant Dr. Torvald, is that in this room, the only paradigm
you need understand, is that when I hit you, you will fall—which means, when you bow at that door, Dr. Villichez and Dr.
Fordham no longer exist. I, and only I, write policy in this place.”
“So you…” Dr. Torvald began, but a stark
bellow drowned out whatever came afterward.
“Enough talk! Horse stances!” Tanner moved to
the side of the three men, closer to Dr. Torvald.
As Sifu Tanner passed outside of earshot,
Cyrus mumbled to Dr. Milliken, “This man is a lunatic.”
Cyrus turned to face forward, square his
shoulders, and suddenly Dr. Tanner was in his face, eye-to-eye,
close enough for Cyrus to smell his breath. He stood there for a
moment and Cyrus felt something icy at the nape of his neck. It
felt as if even his pores had stopped expelling sweat. Then Tanner
turned. It seemed as if he had smiled as he moved to his spot in
front of the line and dropped into his own horse stance, deeper and
infinitely more solid than those of his students. He demonstrated a
punch, crisp and firm, punctuated by a forceful ki’a erupting from his diaphragm. “This is a corkscrew strike,” he added
after the echo subsided. “This is the first attack you will
learn.”
• • • • •
The dinner table was busy with conversation
as Cyrus sat at the seat Tanner had saved for him. For the last few
week cycles, the mysterious unction that had served as the staple
of their diet in the first month had been replaced with real food,
or rather the most reasonable facsimile the Shipmate could produce.
The space, mass, and limited supply of nutrients reduced the
Shipmate’s palate to that of soybeans, wheat grass, and a breed of
grape genetically altered to minimize vine length. But that palate
and creative programming resulted in meals that were a welcome
departure from the warm pints of viscous fluid.
As Cyrus took his first bite, he marveled
over the taste of the sizzling soy-steak
now pale, and his hard features now slack from exertion. He reached
for Cyrus in a feeble attempt to help him up, but Cyrus stood on
his own, kindly waving Davidson’s hand away. Cyrus coughed again,
trying to eject as much of the stench from Davidson’s insides as he
could. “Will these sessions always be characterized with pain and
vomit?” Cyrus heaved more than asked, sweat spraying from his
nostrils with his words.
Still in his authoritative voice, Tanner
answered, “Vomit, no; pain, yes. But the pain you will learn to
love.”
Struggling to stay in his stance, Dr.
Milliken’s unkempt, reddish-brown hair fluttered, and sweat dripped
from the ends. His normally rosy complexion was now so sanguine he
looked as if he were developing a rash. His typical,
worried-looking facial expression had been replaced with an
expression of exhausted determination as he fought gravity and
atrophic muscles to hold his current body position. He turned to
face Tanner, who paced before him, Cyrus, Davidson, and Torvald as
his voice quivered in time with his unconditioned thighs, “Exactly
what kind of sadist are you, Dr. Tanner? Why are you torturing
us?”
“Firstly, in this dojo, makeshift as it may
be, you will all refer to me as Sifu Tanner,” the
consternation in his voice pressed against the padded metal walls
that began to close in again as Cyrus struggled to his feet. “And
in answer to your final question, I am torturing you so this brutal
environment that we will land on in five years cannot.” Tanner
moved over to Cyrus and adjusted the position of his ankle rather
brusquely. “And as far as the question of my particular brand of
sadism, it is the only brand you need fear.”
“So you’re saying we should fear you?” Dr.
Torvald asked, almost stumbling out of his own stance as he craned
his neck to face Tanner. “That doesn’t strike me as very
monk-like.”
“You need not fear me . I,” he paused
for theatrical emphasis, “am your friend, your colleague. What I
meant Dr. Torvald, is that in this room, the only paradigm
you need understand, is that when I hit you, you will fall—which means, when you bow at that door, Dr. Villichez and Dr.
Fordham no longer exist. I, and only I, write policy in this place.”
“So you…” Dr. Torvald began, but a stark
bellow drowned out whatever came afterward.
“Enough talk! Horse stances!” Tanner moved to
the side of the three men, closer to Dr. Torvald.
As Sifu Tanner passed outside of earshot,
Cyrus mumbled to Dr. Milliken, “This man is a lunatic.”
Cyrus turned to face forward, square his
shoulders, and suddenly Dr. Tanner was in his face, eye-to-eye,
close enough for Cyrus to smell his breath. He stood there for a
moment and Cyrus felt something icy at the nape of his neck. It
felt as if even his pores had stopped expelling sweat. Then Tanner
turned. It seemed as if he had smiled as he moved to his spot in
front of the line and dropped into his own horse stance, deeper and
infinitely more solid than those of his students. He demonstrated a
punch, crisp and firm, punctuated by a forceful ki’a erupting from his diaphragm. “This is a corkscrew strike,” he added
after the echo subsided. “This is the first attack you will
learn.”
• • • • •
The dinner table was busy with conversation
as Cyrus sat at the seat Tanner had saved for him. For the last few
week cycles, the mysterious unction that had served as the staple
of their diet in the first month had been replaced with real food,
or rather the most reasonable facsimile the Shipmate could produce.
The space, mass, and limited supply of nutrients reduced the
Shipmate’s palate to that of soybeans, wheat grass, and a breed of
grape genetically altered to minimize vine length. But that palate
and creative programming resulted in meals that were a welcome
departure from the warm pints of viscous fluid.
As Cyrus took his first bite, he marveled
over the taste of the sizzling soy-steak
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