Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

other cutting implements. There was one puckered bullet scar near his navel. It had almost killed him. The slug had plowed through his intestines and blown out his back. He was thankful for modern medicine.
    Cyrus floated in the chamber, holding a practice knife. Five marines were at anchor points on the padded walls, ceiling, and floor. A sweaty, locker room odor filled the area, while First Sergeant Mikhail Sergetov floated at the opposite end of the chamber from Cyrus. Mikhail was older than Cyrus by ten years, bigger and more heavily muscled. He had the square jaw that most people thought of when picturing a marine. The NCO also gripped a practice knife, and his dark eyes were hard on Cyrus.
    One of the things Cyrus liked about the marines was that they didn’t pull any punches during combat training. It was their religion, he supposed. Normals, if they had anything to do with him, kept at a safe distance. The marines in here…
    “What are you grinning about?” Mikhail shouted across the chamber.
    “How I’m going make you look like a little girl,” Cyrus said.
    Several of the watching marines laughed.
    Cyrus and Mikhail floated weightless, as did an extremely heavy medicine ball in the center of the chamber. The ball had more mass than five big men.
    Normality seemed to have returned to
Discovery
, but that was a false conclusion. As Cyrus debated combat strategy, he counted the disturbing clues. First, the monitors had become even more grim than usual. Second, around half the crew was on lockdown at any one time and third, Jasper seldom spoke with anyone, not even him. The man had become a recluse. Jasper shifted and stayed alone in his new quarters.
    The fourth clue manifested now. A hatch hissed open and shut. Cyrus didn’t look to see who had entered the training chamber, as he kept his eyes on Mikhail. The first sergeant had thrown a practice knife at him once, nearly hitting him in the forehead. That would have given the man his first win over Cyrus at knife fighting, something Cyrus was intent at never letting happen.
    “Better start spitting,” Mikhail said.
    That was one way to get out of a motionless float while weightless in the middle of a chamber. The spit would be the ballast that fractionally moved one in the opposite direction. A better way would be to take off your clothes and throw them, as it would be heavier ballast.
    “We need more action and less talk,” a deep-voiced man said.
    Cyrus glanced back and was shocked to see the commander of the ship’s marines in the chamber. He’d only seen the man once before at a distance.
    Colonel Boris Konev was big and red-faced, with heavy sideburns and a thick neck. He was the strongest marine here, a classic specimen of a warrior. He was a foot shorter than Argon, but the difference made Colonel Konev six feet tall. He had taken rejuvenation therapy. The colonel was sixty-two, but had the strength and reflexes of a man in his mid thirties.
    “Cut him, First Sergeant,” Konev said in his booming voice.
    “Line,” Mikhail said.
    One of the marines on the wall threw a lead weight at Mikhail. Attached to the weight was a thin rope. Mikhail grabbed the line with his free hand.
    Cyrus could have shouted, “You cheater,” because this was a cheat. But he knew a setup when the jaws closed around him.
    “You should not have gone on the surface during a shift,” Colonel Konev said. “If no one else will teach you obedience to the rules, I will, Special Fourth Class.”
    Cyrus had no idea what the colonel was talking about. What was wrong with the man?
    Mikhail was moving now, yanked toward a padded wall. He released the line and twisted so he hit the wall with his feet.
    Cyrus tucked his knees up against his chest. If he’d bent his head, he could have touched his knees with his chin. He shot out his legs while torqueing his stomach muscles.
    Mikhail grunted as he pushed off the wall, aiming at Cyrus. The marine extended his arm, with the practice