The Other Eight (11 page)

In perhaps the most heroic example of
Roberts’s stoicism yet, the sergeant managed to avoid sighing in
disgust, palming his face, or otherwise succumbing to the absurdity
and lack of dignity that had so suddenly been thrust upon his
beloved institution. Instead, he simply said, “Very well. Corporal
McCoy, go clean yourself up. Everyone report back in ten
minutes.”

“Oh yeah! Score one for Team Green!” crowed
Gracias, raising his hand for a high five from Chloroplast. All he
received in return was a weary stare. “That’s us. We’re Team Green…
because you’re green and I grow—”

“Yes, Gracias. I got it.”

“Okay, good. Just making sure.”

“If we’ve got ten minutes, I’m going to go
get my stuff,” Nonsensica announced. “Don’t let them start without
me.”

She dashed toward the cabins, an almost giddy
expression on her face.

“When we resume, we will be starting with
Hocker.”

“In that case,” Hocker remarked. “You might
want to get a spare dummy ready.”

He removed a fresh packet of sunflower seeds
from a pocket of his fatigues and tore it open. The gathering of
heroes parted a bit to give themselves a safety buffer. Sergeant
Roberts flipped a few pages on his clipboard, glanced at Hocker,
and then retrieved his radio.

“Supply room, this is Sergeant Roberts at
Testing Site B. Prep and deliver three replacement human analogs,”
he instructed.

“Roger,” squawked the reply.

As the replacement dummies were carried to
the test site and leaned against the wall, a grin came to Hocker’s
face that was just demented enough to warrant a special notation
from Dr. Aiken on his psych file. The ten minutes elapsed and McCoy
returned, his expression a little harder and his fists tightly
clenched. He took his position, the fallen dummy rose to its feet,
and Hocker entered the circle.

“Fight.”

The dummy took the offensive this time,
charging at Hocker, who managed to lean his weight into the clash
and remain upright. McCoy attempted to turn the weight shift into a
throw, but Hocker tangled with his opponent, and the two began to
circle each other. Those who had witnessed Hocker’s ability wisely
decided to seek shelter on McCoy’s side of the wall, and not a
moment too soon. Just as Afterthought disappeared behind the
barrier, Hocker managed to grab the head of the dummy. With a sound
like a silenced pistol firing into a sack of wheat, the back of the
dummy’s head exploded.

“Yes! You do
not
mess with Hocker!” he
roared. “Who else? Who else wants a face full of sunflower? Huh?
Huh
?”

Sergeant Roberts nodded appreciatively. Dr.
Aiken shook his head and made the sort of note that required
multiple underlines and an exclamation point.

“Replace the dummy. Johnny, you’re up.”

Johnny On the Spot took his place in the
circle, not even bothering to enter a combat stance.

“Fight!”

Now with even more to prove, McCoy viciously
launched his sandbag surrogate at Johnny. The hero tried to dodge,
lost his footing, and stumbled into the dummy. His elbow found its
way to the chin of his sparring partner, and the head tore open on
contact. The now limp dummy fell to the ground. Johnny finished
stumbling, regained his footing, and turned to see the defeated
opponent. He didn’t seem terribly surprised.

“Quick work,” observed Roberts with a nod.
“Get the next dummy in here. Nonsensica, you’re up.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just a minute now. I hit
the dummy harder than that and it didn’t fall apart,” complained
Chloroplast. “That must have been a defective one.”

“All of our equipment is inspected before
being deployed,” Roberts assured him.

“Well,
something
must have
happened!”

Chloroplast marched over to the place against
the wall that the dummy had been propped and inspected it. In the
approximate place where the head had been was a chipped piece of
brick with a seed embedded in it.

“Ha! Here, see? That seed he spat must have
nicked it. I call for a do-over.”

“That’s the way my powers work,” Johnny said
with a shrug.

“By the rules of the assessment, the usage of
powers to achieve the desired outcome is allowed. The initial score
stands.”

Chloroplast grimaced. “Screw the rest of
this. I’ll be in my cabin if anyone needs me.”

“You will remain until your fellow team
members are finished being assessed,” Sergeant Roberts ordered.
“This is assessment and observation.”

“Observe this,” Chloroplast said, extending a
middle finger as he walked away.

Gracias watched as his prospective partner
paced back to the cabin. “I just want to go on record here and say
that his actions do not represent Team Green as a whole,” he
explained quietly.

“Nonsensica, take your position,” stated
Roberts. If he was angry about the recent act of insubordination,
there was no evidence of it or any other emotion on his face.

“With pleasure,” Nonsensica said.

The fresh dummy stood with a vicious and
ready stance, the man in control now glaring angrily through the
glass. With three losses in a row, he seemed to have something to
prove. The cocky swagger and mischievous smirk Nonsensica had
showcased during her interview were back in full force, and in her
hands she stretched taut the chain of the non-chucks. She gave them
a few showy twirls.

“You haven’t put on any safety equipment,”
said Roberts.

“I prefer to do things au naturel.”

“Very well. Ready yourself. Fight!”

With two smooth steps, Nonsensica and the
dummy reached each other. A few quick attacks were exchanged, each
blocking or dodging those of the other before backing away again to
regroup. It was clear from the confidence and steadiness of
Nonsensica’s motions that the weapon was no prop, and her supposed
martial-arts training was no weekend hobby. The size advantage was
more than a foot, however, and sand carries a considerable bit of
force when it connects. Three punches and a kick managed to sneak
past her defenses, and she went to the ground for her first
fall.

McCoy had barely returned to his starting
position when she growled and coiled her legs, springing back to
her feet and diving into the second round with a vengeance. The
battle looked to be going in the same direction as the first when
McCoy shifted his weight for a thrust kick that Nonsensica was in
no position to dodge.

“Fiddle bacon!” she blurted.

The attack faltered as his brain tried to
make sense of the statement, and he faltered further as he tried to
cope with a fist to the face. Nonsensica delivered two quick kicks,
twirled up her non-chucks, and scored a knockdown blow. From that
point forward the battle was hers, random outbursts of nonsense
destabilizing McCoy enough to create openings and foul his attacks.
In short order she’d achieved the third and final knockdown.

“A little nonsense now and then,” she panted,
victoriously thrusting a finger at the fallen dummy, “is relished
by the wisest men.”

“Right here, right here,” Gracias said, both
hands low and awaiting a slap.

She stowed the non-chucks and obliged,
completing the one-two-three combo of two low fives and a fist
bump.

“Mark it down, Sarge. Boom!” she announced.
“That’s how a superhero does it.”

Sweat ran down her forehead as she took her
place beside Non Sequitur and gave a quick upward thrust of her
chin in his direction. He gave a nod of appreciation in return.

“That’s gonna be a tough act to follow,” he
said.

“And that’s just the beginning. I’m a pro.”
She tried to wipe the perspiration away from her forehead with the
arm of her suit, but all she managed to do was smear it around and
make an unusual squeaking noise. It robbed the moment of some of
its glory, but she shrugged it off.

“Non Sequitur, take your position.”

He took a deep breath, applied as many pads
as his anatomy would allow, and stepped into the ring.

“Come on Mr. Class C. Let’s see the combat
application,” Nonsensica called out, clapping.

Non Sequitur took a deep breath. He wasn’t
sure if his cabin mate was trying to encourage him or psych him
out, but right now it was having the latter effect. He stared down
the bundle of canvas and sand that would momentarily be manhandling
him and gulped.

“Fight!”

Instantly the head of the dummy snapped back.
The hero rushed in and delivered the blow that caused the snap back
and then tried to tack on a few more, but McCoy recovered and
retaliated, sweeping his legs and sending him to the ground. The
next round went much the same way, with a kick to the gut sending
the dummy stumbling backward a few seconds before it happened, but
the fact of the matter was that, beyond the initial surprise
attack, he just didn’t have the skill or know-how to capitalize any
further. Worse, for the final round the surprise attack didn’t even
happen, a quick spear to the gut taking him down hard and leaving
him dizzy on the ground. A moment later Nonsensica’s goggle-wearing
face filled his view.

“Class C, huh?” she jabbed.

“Fighting really isn’t my thing,” he said,
shutting his eyes tight and trying to convince the world to stop
spinning.

“Well, then it sure is a good thing you’re
trying out for a spot on the army’s super-team,” she said, offering
a hand and helping him up to his feet.

“Thanks a lot for the help,” he said, dusting
himself off.

“No problem,” she said, adding quietly, “I
figure they might be grading us on teamwork or sportsmanship. Can’t
be too careful.”

“Ah. Well, thanks a little less then.”

“Number, take your place,” Roberts
instructed.

“Okay, just a minute. This takes some prep,”
said The Number. He pulled a sack of little yellow pieces of foam
out of a bag that had been at his feet. “Earplugs for everybody.
Put them in, unless you feel like dancing. Anybody who can hear the
music is going to dance, so don’t be shy. Probably that means you
too, camera guy, and you, sound guy. I’ll leave the bag here.
Should be plenty for everybody. While you’re putting them in, I’m
going to get the music set up.”

“Number, this is a combat drill. In a group
combat situation it would not be feasible or advisable to deprive
your squad mates of their hearing so that you can activate your
powers.”

“Plus if there was shooting, probably people
wouldn’t be able to hear the music,” Gracias suggested.

“Look, you’re doing a combat assessment.
Other people got to use their powers. Do you want to see how mine
apply to combat or not?”

Roberts looked at his chart, then glanced
over the remaining heroes, most of whom had already begun to insert
the earplugs. “Very well. Proceed.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

A few minutes passed as the onlookers
finished inserting their earplugs and The Number selected a song on
an MP3 player hooked up via a long wire to a set of speakers
outside the circle.

“Okay, ready,” The Number said, giving a
thumbs up to Sergeant Roberts.

“Fight,” Roberts instructed.

McCoy, by way of the dummy, sprinted toward
The Number, but he pressed play and assumed a pose, tossing the MP3
player aside. The music started and McCoy slid to a stop, assuming
a similar pose. A thumping, percussion-heavy techno song began to
play, and The Number started shifting through a sequence of low,
sweeping steps, moving his legs in graceful floating motions that
McCoy, strangely, matched with equal skill. They began to leap and
roll, keeping opposite each other in the circle. They both moved
with the music, synchronized, though from the point of view of the
earplug-equipped onlookers, they appeared to be engaged in a slow
and rather flamboyant fight that so far included no actual contact.
That ended when, coinciding with a musical flourish, The Number
swept McCoy from his feet. The process continued in roughly the
same manner, with a second sweep scoring a second knockdown. It
likely would have repeated once more for the win had The Number not
lost track of where he was and swept the MP3 player with his foot.
The motion pulled the plug free and promptly ended the music. The
instant the music stopped McCoy pounced, tackling The Number to the
ground.

“Hold on! Time! I didn’t—
oof
!” He was
knocked to the ground a second time. “I said stop! The music
isn’t—
gah
!” And the battle was over.

“That looked pretty good until the end
there,” remarked Phosphor, heading out to the circle to pull his
cabin mate to his feet. “So he was doing whatever you wanted him to
do?”

“No, no. He was doing the other part of the
dance.”

“Well, why didn’t you just knock him down
three times right at the beginning?”

“Because it has to go with the music. That’s
the way the powers work. And I should get a do-over. I pulled the
plug by accident.”

“There are no do-overs in war,” Roberts
replied, pocketing the earplugs.

“Hmph. Very clever choice of dance. Too bad
it was so clumsily put together,” Primadonna taunted.

“What kind of dance was that, anyway?” Non
Sequitur asked.

“Get with the program, Non Sequitur,” said
Nonsensica. “Capoeira. Dance martial arts. Smart.”

“Smart, but crude. My way is much better,
you’ll see.”

“Primadonna,” Roberts said, “am I correct in
assuming that your assessment will require similar
preparations?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“For the sake of efficiency, you’re
next.”

“But of course!” she said with a thin
smile.

A groan of irritation went up from the
finalists as they replaced their earplugs. Primadonna’s music rig
was a CD boom box with a remote. She clicked in a disc and took two
strides onto the battleground before deciding that the high-heeled
boots simply were not going to work on the sandy ground. She leaned
down to unlace them, instantly capturing the undivided attention of
the males in attendance, and removed them to fight in her
stockinged feet.