I didn’t want to be the one to have to say it. I also couldn’t be the one not to say it.

We were all still new recruits to the Tribal Liberation Force. And while our appearance was uniform, we were as varied as were our life stories, I was sure. Some were younger than others, and some of those young ones had that innocent and naive exuberance that just made those of us not so young cringe inwardly; youthful idealism and all that.

It was mandatory for every pilot in the Tribal Liberation Force to undergo basic hand to hand combat training.

As I mentioned, many were green around the gills, never having experienced anything even remotely akin to physical labour, let alone an up close and personal violent encounter.

I had grown up a slave; fighting was what we did to just survive another week. There was never quite enough food to go around, and while I know it amused the Amarr slavers who “enlightened” us, it reduced us to the lowest rank of animal, turning on one another aggressively, our individual survival paramount even over long friendships. I had heard stories since from other former slaves of a much more civil existence amongst the Amarr, but I attributed that to the drug addiction that was commonplace amongst slave raised capsuleers.

When I had claimed my freedom through the blood of many Amarr, it was through violence. When I killed the pilots of the shuttle I stole to get offplanet, it was through violence. When finally I was recruited by a mercenary group in Hrober, having made my reputation known in that constellation, it was through violence.

I took no pleasure in violence.

Like anything else, it was something to be employed when needed. And like anything else, it made sense to be efficient with the tools we employed.

You wouldn’t find a pod pilot speed tanking a Drake; it just wasn’t a good use of the tool. Similarily, modern “martial arts” fit very nicely into the same analogy.

Which brings us back to the beginning of my story.

I didn’t want to be the one to have to say it. I also couldn’t be the one not to say it.

Our training commander had brought in a special guest to demonstrate to us the rewards of mastering the martial arts through years of discipline and hard work.

His performance included kicking melons from the heads of others, hanging in a perfect split between two chairs, leaping, rolling, screaming, all kinds of acrobatic feats, which while impressive by their own right, just didn’t seem effective to me.

At first I said nothing, merely content to keep my growing disdain to myself.

The “master” had one of his students “choke” him, that is to say, lay his hands on his neck in the loose position of where a choke would occur while applying none of the force to the choke itself. The “master” then proceeded to demonstrate a lengthy and impractical method for countering the “choke”.

This was followed up by a student attempting to “punch” the master, except the punch was directed beside the master’s head, and stopped four inches short of his face, posing no real threat in the first place. The “master” then countered, and did some type of leaping crescent kick at the student, who promptly fell to the floor, as the “master” landed on his feet, took a side stance, and yelled while exhaling, frightening his enemy into submission by the power of his inner “chi”.

Many of my fellow pilots clapped in appreciation for the display. I harumphed, tasting the rising bile of bullshit in the back of my throat; that’s a figurative phrase.

Then the “master” decided to show one of the higher disciplines, not to be treated lightly, and proceeded to engage “multiple opponents”. You’re probably noticing a lot of quotation marks in my draft, and if you aren’t, please look more closely. I really want to make sure you don’t miss any of the sarcasm I am putting into this.

Where was I? Oh yes, multiple opponents. And when I say multiple opponents, what I should say is “five men standing around one man, each waiting their turn to individually attack said man.”

I’ve been attacked by multiple opponents. I’ve laid on the ground, covering up, while they kicked at my ribs, my face, my head, anywhere they could connect boot to body.

In real life, they aren’t polite enough to fight one at a time. Hmmm, that’s going to be today’s Rule for sure.

My corpmates applauded once again, with renewed enthusiasm. I shook my head in disgust, wishing I could go back to my quarters. I’d rather be catching up on some muchly needed sleep than having to sit through that crap.

I chuckle to myself, remembering how undisciplined I used to be. Back to the story.

The “master” then asked for a volunteer…

While others raised their hand, or stood to be acknowledged, I had already pushed my way forward and had surged onto the practice mats.

Some of my corpmates chuckled. My commanding officer frowned, knowing me too well already.

“Spear Lieutenant Wieler, I assume you wish to volunteer?” he barked at me, inciting much laughter.

“SIR! YESSIR!” I said with loud formality, coming to complete attention, demonstrating earnest respect and discipline. He put his gruff face against mine, whispering/spitting into my face.

“You’re gonna be a good soldier, understood? No funny business today, pilot.”

“SIR! YESSIR!” I yelled as loudly as I could. I swear I heard someone fart in the audience they were laughing so hard.

My C.O. walked away, and the “master” bowed towards me, beckoning me to come to him, so I did.

“Chorkuh meh.” he said, and I obliged, bringing my meaty hands up to his throat.

As he smiled, I crushed his throat, not releasing my grip. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, tapping my arm to release. I immediately released him, and helped him to his feet, feigning complete ignorance, as he choked, gagging for air.

“I am SO sorry.” I said, my expression sincere, though inwardly I was laughing my ass off.

“Iz orkay. Re rill movah to nextah demonstation. Trowooh a punchah at my head, Spearooh Rieutenant!” he said calmly, backing into the same side stance he used for most everything.

The problem with side stances, in my opinion, was that they telegraphed your every move. There was no way to surprise someone from that stance. They knew the rear would be the power, the front would be the quick; it was simple biomechanics. The fault in it lay in the hips and shoulders. You didn’t need to look at your opponent; you could see everything they could do simply from looking at their center line.

I preferred a full frontal stance, just casually facing you, hands and feet shoulder width apart. Think about it for a moment. Where would I attack from? Which direction was I going to move? Where was my balance vulnerable? It was a much more difficult read.

The “master” awaited, in his side stance. I approached slowly, and stood casually, waiting. He misinterpreted my hesitation for fear, and as he went to speak, I struck him, hard. I had aimed two feet past the back of his head. The loud crack of fist to face made me fairly certain I had reached my target.

By this time, my corpmates were divided. Half were laughing in hysterics; half were as silent as lambs.

As I turned to smile at my corpmates, I was expecting my C.O. to grab me by the scruff of the neck at any moment, leading me to the nearest latrine and leaving me there for the next month.

Instead, I heard the “master” shout what I think was a challenge. I really had trouble understanding him, and I hope that doesn’t racial in any way, as it wasn’t my intention.

I had turned my back to him, and reactively spun back to face him. It was a rookie mistake.

The “master” kicked me in the head, hard, and I have to admit that given the speed and flexibility required to successfully perform such a feat, I was impressed. It actually hurt, but nowhere near enough to end the fight.

He bounced around, from side to side, and I was tempted to let him tire himself out, but back then I had no control of my emotions whatsoever.

He wore a giddy, child like expression, and I found him infuriating.

I saw his hip twitch, and quickly drove myself forward diagonally towards his opposite hip, his kick moving beside me. With my forward momentum I grabbed his extended leg, putting the heel of my front foot behind his, and drove him into the ground, driving the wind from his lungs and possibly cracking a rib or two. Without missing a heartbeat, I snatched his arm, and bent his elbow against the joint around my knee, which bore my full weight on his chest.It was a perfect joint lock. I could snap him like a twig from here, drive the air from his lungs, or do both while rolling away in case any of his “students” decided to intervene.

He tapped twice.

“That’s enough!” our commanding officer bellowed, and the entire room fell silent.

I immediately released the “master” and stood at full attention, my eyes never resting on anything but the small point of space directly in front of me.

I don’t remember what the C.O. screamed/spat at me. I don’t remember the punishment he had declared. I don’t remember anything but being stoic on the outside, while smiling with pleasure on the inside. I was distinctly pleased with myself for no other reason than having hopefully educated at least one person on the follies of putting foot to face.

It was the last time in my life I gave any credence to any sport with the name “martial art” in it.

As we were summarily dismissed from the practice room, what I failed to notice was a young man staring after me, a look of bewilderment and disillusion in his eyes.

I had left him with questions he didn’t want to know the answers to, but knew he must.I had challenged what he believed he knew about combat, but wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss what he had just seen.

He had been forced into a choice: continue along the path he now knew was false, living in conscious ignorance, or explore the study of biomechanics, of leverage and effective use of force, and pursue an entirely different path.

I would never know what path he chose, this young man. I would never know his name was was Escoce.