Johan hissed as he struck the punching bag. The familiar weight shuttered and sent therapeutic shocks through his arms and core. He executed familiar combos, the bag jumping and swinging under his blows. Sweat poured down his face and neck. His shirt and neck brace lay in a discarded pile a few feet away. His neck ached dully, though the regen-therapy had sped the healing process.

  Free weights clamped into wall brackets and bolted-down benches crowded the Vortex Rider’s small gym. He was glad to find a free-hanging punching bag but wished for a speedbag or a proper ring. Usually, the gym helped clear his mind—but not today.

  Johan imagined Stefanus' face on the punching bag. In the recesses of his mind, he heard Mbeki snicker at him as Stefanus called him out in front of everyone.

  He stepped back, slipping, then ducking phantom fists before leaning back into the bag with a left jab, right cross, and right low hook combo.

  He saw a mutiny in process and intervened. How was that a bad thing? Being a man of action had backfired in the past, but not like this. The sooner he got off this boat, the sooner he could be free.

  He disengaged, and a figure entering caught his eye. Previously alone in the rec room, Johan frowned at the intruder.

  Short and athletic, Mandla weaved past weights in their steel clamps and bolted benches, encroaching on Johan's precious little space.

  In a physical manifestation of his irritation, Johan laid into the heavy bag, shocking and rocking the padding with each punch.

  Mandla stopped a few paces away, so Johan paid him no heed, focusing on his set. Like a shell in Johan's shoe, Mandla waited, getting more annoying until he couldn't ignore him anymore.

  Johan smashed the bag with a final cross and whirled at the ship's commander. "What?" He demanded.

  "Stefanus told me what happened," Mandla said.

  "Yeah, well, Stefanus could communicate his plans better," Johan said, delivering a pair of jabs.

  One of Mandla's eyebrows rose in amusement. "I find it interesting that you're critiquing Stefanus' communication skills."

  "What do you want?" Johan demanded.

  "I need your help," Mandla said, his voice soft.

  "Not interested," Johan snapped, turning back to the bag.

  Mandla scowled, his eyes hardening. "I'm trying to maintain a fragile balance on this ship. Your undermining isn't helping. Potential enemies surround us, and they watch me tolerate your disobedience. On top of that, you've hurt my men and placed them in needless danger."

  "Sounds like your problem," Johan growled despite the logic of Mandla's words. "If there's a real mutiny, I'll deal with anyone who threatens me or Thulani, but this isn't my crew, so why should I care."

  "What's your problem?" Mandla demanded, folding his arms defensively. "I could have you thrown in the brig."

  Johan snorted. "Who's going to put me there? You?"

  "Do you have problems with all authority or just mine?"

  "I don't have issues with authority," Johan said.

  Mandla snorted.

  "I respect my coach," Johan said. "But he earned it, the guy can kick my ass."

  "So all I have to do to get you to cooperate is knock you out?"

  Johan froze and turned to the smaller man, a vicious smile creeping on his face. "Grab some gloves, chump."

  Mandla frowned, seemingly considering the risk. If he lost, his credibility with the crew could plummet. "I don't think I would win," Mandla confessed. "I'm not a boxer."

  Johan snorted and turned back to the bag. He executed a few more combos, ignoring Mandla. A dull thud behind him made him turn to find Mandla shirtless, experimentally beating two gloved fists together. A deep purple bruise with a scab as a nucleus marred his lower left abdomen.

  Mandla frowned as he considered the padding in his gloves. "I might not win," he said, raising his hands to guard his head, "but I'm no coward."

  Johan grinned.

  "Don't hurt me too badly," Mandla said, tapping his lower abdomen. "I was recently shot."

  "So was I," Johan stretched his neck to show the pink scar tissue. He frowned when he noticed artistic scarring on Mandla’s arm. The pattern depicted a deep-sea worm coiled around a compass starting just above Mandla's wrist. The worm wrapped around Mandla's bicep, revealing hinged jaws at his shoulder. Razor barbs and segmented carapace almost seemed to move as Mandla threw an experimental punch.

  "What's that?" Johan asked.

  "Beat me," Mandla enticed, "and I'll tell you."

  Johan grinned, bobbing on his toes in a relaxed fighting stance. "Ready?"

  "Ready—"

  Johan crossed several meters in a fraction of a second, landing an uppercut to Mandla's abdomen. Mandla gasped as he was lifted off his feet, and a vicious jab from Johan sent him sprawling across the rubber gym floor.

  Mandla curled into a ball, trying to find his breath, but no air came.

  Johan backed off, bouncing on his toes. His neck twinged in protest to his aggression. He grinned at the down figure—right where he belonged.

  Mandla found air and coughed, pulling himself to his feet.

  "Sorry," Johan mocked. "Maybe you weren't ready."

  Mandla motioned invitingly with a fist.

  Johan, breathing heavily but fueled by the thrill of the fight, lunged, feigning to the side as Mandla jabbed, fist passing harmlessly by. Johan rocked Mandla with a pair of body hooks.

  Mandla fell back with a groan, and Johan pressed, lashing out with a combo.

  Mandla pawed a few blows away and slipped a hook. Then Johan's vision flashed red as Mandla's glove appeared out of nowhere, smashing into his nose. Despite Mandla's claims about not being a boxer, the man hit with his weight. Johan bounded back with a hiss, protecting his distance with defensive jabs, when he noticed the Corsair Officer Francois and a woman with crutches watching from the doorway.

  Johan lunged, trusting his training, and his glove skimmed Mandla's forehead. Mandla staggered, and Johan clipped his jaw with a hook, shaking him.

  Johan pressed forward. Mandla caught his neck in a clinch with gloved hands. Johan snarled as he drove Mandla's back into racked weights.

  Mandla hissed as steel clips jabbed into his back. Johan shoved Mandla twice more.

  Mandla struck Johan's forearm with a sharp elbow. Pain flared in Johan's arm, and it went partially numb, dropping slightly.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Mandla took the opening, catching Johan in a hook. Mandla's knee found his gut, and Johan stumbled.

  Johan grunted; elbows and knees were illegal in boxing, but Mandla had already prefaced that he was no boxer, and they hadn't established rules.

  Johan gasped for breath, and his neck wound spasmed; enough fooling around—time for a decisive victory.

  Johan lunged, catching Mandla with a surprising jab and striking him with a cross. Mandla fell back, interposing a cable machine between himself and Johan.

  Johan feigned left, and Mandla flinched. "Hiding now?" Johan gasped, sweat pouring down his chest and back.

  Mandla broke left, and Johan mirrored him, opening the space between them. Mandla hurled his glove. The airborne mitt pinged Johan between the eyes. Johan Flintched and before he could react, Mandla struck his nose hard with his gloved left hand.

  Johan snarled as blood poured out of one nostril. He seized Mandla in a bear hug and hurled him. Mandla hissed as his shin collided with a lifting bench, and he spilled over the other side.

  Seeing his opening, Johan pounced with his opponent on the ground; roaring, he kicked off the bench, ducking low to avoid the low ceiling, and came down with an overhanded punch.

  Slippery as an eel, Mandla slithered under the bench as Johan connected with the floor. Mandla popped up on the other side, flinging himself at Johan.

  Johan swung, but Mandla twisted in the air, snaking his legs around Johan's neck and armpit, locking his legs in a triangle before his weight jerked Johan down.

  Johan gagged as his own shoulder and Mandla's legs constricted around his airway.

  Mandla grunted in exertion as Johan tried to pull him off, but with gloves and hands, Johan couldn't find purchase.

  Johan's heartbeat thrummed in his ears, and he started to stand, lifting Manda's weight.

  Mandla snaked a free hand around Johan's knee, locking him before he could rise or slam him.

  Time stretched, and an odd calm came with the restricted blood flow to his head. He had time to figure this out, right? His vision tunneled, and his body trembled in protest.

  No, he wouldn't lose, he—Johan fell asleep.

  ********

  Thulani stood next to his bunk in his shooting stance. Hands holding nothing but air, he pantomimed, clearing each probable jam in succession.

  Dud bullet—Thulani slapped his imaginary magazine and racked his nonexistent slide.

  Magazine not seated—the exact same clearing procedure solved both problems.

  Double feed—Thulani locked the ghost gun's slide back, ejected the magazine, and pretended to rack it twice before popping the mag back into place and pulling the slide a final time.

  He wasn't fast on the training pistol but was finally getting smooth. According to the computer targeting system, he was a decent shot at close ranges but got impatient, leading to inaccuracy at a distance.

  "What are you doing?"

  Thulani jumped, having been so engrossed in his drill. Johan had entered the male bay, where fifty bunks surrounded the room, each with an assigned locker.

  "What? I—I'm shooting," Thulani stammered, realizing how stupid he must have looked.

  Johan didn't retort or sneer, and Thulani frowned as Johan lethargically turned toward his locker.

  What was wrong? "Johan?" Thulani asked.

  "What do you want?" Johan mumbled as he fished a towel and a change of clothes from his cabinet.

  "Are you okay?"

  Johan rubbed his neck and shut the steel door. "Everything's fine."

  Mbeki, a short Jobergian, rushed into the bay along with Andries, the acting medic.

  "Aye Boet, howzit I heard you punched Mandla?" Mbeki asked, nearly hysterical.

  "What?" Thulani's blood chilled. "You struck the Captain?"

  "We were sparring," Johan muttered, and I lost."

  "But you smacked him good?" Mbeki asked, leaning forward and eyes wide.

  "We heard you scuffed him up," The doctor grinned.

  "Yes," Johan growled, throwing his towel over his shoulder. "But he beat me. He's better than I realized."

  "Tjommie!" Mbeki exclaimed. "Mandla trained all of us, but no one has been able to lay a hand on him. You have to teach me."

  Johan hesitated in surprise. "You want the guy who lost to Mandla to teach you how to beat him?"

  The intercom buzzed.

  "All none tasked hands to the docking bay for formation." Lieutenant Botha's voice commanded. "Prepare for a commander's brief as we approach Pitchmarrow."

  Mbeki Grumbled, and Andries rolled his eyes.

  "Are we expected to go to that?" Thulani asked.

  "I would," Andries said. "Pitchmarrow has a lot of rules."

  ********

  Andries and Mbeki separated from Thulani and Johan, jogging to fall into line behind Liela, who supported herself on crutches. Her tiny squad presently only hosted four others.

  Stafanus Stood in front of Liela as the platoon leader of the single squad.

  The Corsairs had two squads, each only slightly bigger, with Francoice presiding over both.

  Thulani noted the diminished ranks before he spotted Mandla facing the formation and hurried over to the Captain.

  "Excuse me, Mandla," Thulani said. "Where do you want me?"

  "As a civilian consultant, you can just stand behind me," Mandla said.

  Johan stepped forward. "And what about me, Sir?"

  Mandla frowned, studying Johan. "Jobergian soldiers are in the third squad. Your chain of command is Leila, Stefanus, and then me."

  Thulani's eyes widened as Johan—usually irritable and rebellious—fell into formation with Mbeki and Andries.

  A few stragglers rushed into the bay to get into their positions.

  Mandla looked to each of his platoon leaders, who each nodded, signifying they were ready.

  "Fall in," Mandla called, his soft voice not carrying far.

  The formation snapped to attention as one.

  "Report."

  Francois saluted. "Captain, First Platoon, twenty-three assigned, fourteen present, six performing duties, and two in quarters for hypoxia. Eight in the brig."

  Mandla returned the salute, and Francois dropped his hand.

  Stefanus saluted in Turn. "Captain, second platoon, eight—" Stefanus looked back at Johan. "Nine Assigned, Seven present, and two performing duties."

  Mandla saluted Stefanus. "At ease!" he said, and the tension in the room eased. Thulani found himself relaxing with the others—despite never having stood at attention in the first place.

  Mandla nodded to Francoise, who stepped out of line and jogged up to stand beside Mandla.

  "Listen up," Francois called. "As you may know, we foiled an attempted mutiny yesterday. This rebellion was really a test. Anyone who reported the plot is now authorized to carry a firearm on the ship. Everyone who participated has been detained; Everyone knew about it, so if you didn't report it, you are still on probation. You can leave the crew when we get to Pitchmarrow, but only after we finish our business there. There will probably be a Coral Corsair presence on Pitchmarrow, so we must be discreet."

  Francois looked back to Mandla, who stepped forward to address the formation. "A Pitchmarrow snorkeling team just contacted us; they're sending a decontamination unit to ensure there is no viviclast contamination in our flooded chambers. At Pitchmarrow, we will register a new Unique Identifier Signature, patch the hull, and hire more hands to fill our many vacancies," Mandla explained. "We'll then have a data transaction and head back to Joberg, where we will build nuclear generators, manufacture torpedos, and potentially even war subs. This is the next step for Joberg's independence from the Corsairs."

  Mandla surveyed the formation. "Many of you haven’t been to Pitchmarrow, so Stefanus will brief you on the city."

  Stefanus nodded. "Some of you have never left your colony, so let me give you some pointers," He looked at the Joberg mini platoon specifically. "Pitchmarrow is an oxygen refinery. They don't use electrolysis oxygen generators but snorkel air from the surface and filter the Viviclast elements. It's also an oil rig where they refine combustion fuels. Needless to say, it's a hazardous place, so they have very particular rules."

  Francois studied the Jobergians to search their faces for understanding. "The Te Ika a Ngake, a Maori clan, rule Pitchmarrow. Their number one rule is no combustion-based weapons whatsoever. This means no guns. If they find you with a firearm, they will beat you, if you’re lucky. More probably, they’ll just execute you on the spot. They take this law very seriously. I'll say it again. No guns will leave this sub. Do you understand?"

  The company muttered in acknowledgment, and Thulani couldn't help but feel relieved despite his gun training. If there were no guns, it would probably be safer—right?

  "Good," Francois continued. Pitchmarrow is infested with pirates and gangs. The Te Ika a Ngake patrol their streets, but it's to enforce their rules, not ensure safety. Nobody travels alone. Try to stay in groups of at least four. Maintain situational awareness at all times; if you wander on your own, you will undoubtedly get stabbed and robbed."

  Mandla cut in. "No uniforms in Pitchmarrow. We will wear civilian clothes, and the last thing we need is to run into Corral Corsairs, who wonder what we're doing here. Any questions?"

  No one spoke up.

  "Very well then. We'll enter the city after we've been decontaminated." Mandla went to attention. "Company, attention!"

  The formation snapped to attention, Johan mimicking the motion without practiced grace.

  "Stomp on thorns!" Mandla barked.

  "Fear no pain!" the company responded as one.

  "Dismissed."

  The formation broke, sailors muttering to each other in anticipation. Mandla turned to Thulani. "You just make sure to stay close. We'll keep you safe. We need you for the data transfer."

  Thulani swallowed. Something about Mandla's words frightened him more than they assured him. How bad could a pirate oil rig and oxygen refinery be?