Earth

The outskirts of West Haven

Jack's workplace

Year Of 2252, April

Holy shit, her ribs burned! As an instructor, she didn't dare react to any form of pain. It would create fear in her students. And fear of unarmed combat wasn't something she wanted to teach them. It was, for this reason, she'd endure this in silence. As fire scorched along her ribs, she couldn't decide what was worse, the pain or holding in the deep moan scratching her throat, demanding release. Her mind blurred for a few minutes under the shards lancing through her, almost as if she'd consumed too much cognac.

"Damnit! What do you think you're doing?" Steve, a fellow instructor, boomed as he rushed to where she sprawled across the blue training mats.

Her world settled, and she blinked at Steve, almost giggling at his girl-curls. She swallowed that too, instinctively knowing it would trigger hysterical laughter and call forth more pain. Flashing a forced smile at her recruits, she held up her hand, trying to calm Steve who looked close to losing his shit. Dragging in a slow, shallow breath made her wince, pulsing daggers at the outer edges of her consciousness. Her ribs were hopefully cracked with nothing broken. She didn't have the courage to test.

"It's okay, Steve. I'm just winded," she gasped, sitting up and wishing she hadn't as the icy-hot shards intensified calling forth a wave of nausea—she swallowed with care.

Nancy nibbled on her bottom lip with her brow furrowed. She rocked on her toes, as if readying to bolt.

Jack sighed and forced out what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "Well done. I didn't see that coming." She scanned Nancy and pinched her lips to quit gawking. Who would have thought could flip Jack over so effortlessly? Pride warmed her chest or was that the side effects of her cracked ribs?

Steve scowled as he helped her to stand, and she bit down hard on her inner cheek fighting the urge not to curse him for his jerky movements.

"You're laughing about this?" Anger skewered his features.

She stared at him, wishing she didn't have to deal with his melodrama. Not now, when her tolerance was understandably low. "Yes, why not? Look at how little she is, and she flipped me." Patting Nancy on the shoulder, Jack forced a faint chuckle past her aching ribs, hoping it appeared relaxed. "Proud of you, girl."

"You could have been seriously hurt." Steve pouted, irritating Jack to no end. One day she would catch his bottom lip between her fingers and yank it.

He had to have practiced it in the mirror, believing it made him irresistible. Averting her gaze, her focus fell on the recruits. They showed no emotion around Steve; experience had taught them he would rip them a new one if they reacted in any way. Their faces were pale, and their bodies tense.

"That's the point." Jack strode closer to the line of recruits, forcing her hand to release her ribs and fall 'casually' to her side. "Did you catch that, or should Nancy demonstrate on a few of you? Cranston, up for the challenge?"

Tentative smiles formed while their gazes darted between her and Steve.

"All right, split into teams of two and try not to hurt your partners too much."

Jack paused, raised her gaze to the beamed ceiling, and prayed for patience. Steve watched her with an intensity that was alarming. How did she know this? Thousands of bats swirled in her stomach then promptly plummeted to their deaths. The nausea curdling her insides was their tiny bodies decaying. She frowned at her morbid thoughts.

"I'm fine, Steve. I promise." She flicked him the tiniest of smiles, despite not wanting to. Any overt friendliness on her part encouraged him, as if her countless rejections meant nothing. Like she would miraculously change her mind, wowed by his impressive pout and his lack of height. "Thanks for coming right over."

His shoulders remained scrunched, narrowing his frame. "It's Friday, Jack. You got time for a drink after work?" He ran a hand through his brown curls. On him, the girl-curls looked good, if a bit effeminate. On Jack, if she styled her hair into curls, she'd turn her into a six-foot-two cherub—a creepy one.

"Sure. Just to show you I'm fine. But not as a date," she added and raised her forefinger at him in a threatening manner. "I don't want a repeat of last time."

"I told you, Jack, it was Dave's idea of a prank. He brought her in from up north so no one would recognize her. I didn't even know the woman."

"But you apparently cheated on her," she teased and tried to control her shiver. All the restaurant's patrons had looked at Jack with pity. A woman had even snuck a silk handkerchief into her hand. Worst date ever. "Did you prank him back?"

"Of course. I paid the same woman to hit on him at a bar in front of his fiancé." Steve's wicked grin was an unpleasant sight to behold, like a gleeful hobgoblin delighted with his mischief.

"Filmed it, didn't you?" Jack didn't need the answer; his expression said it all. He might as well have rubbed his palms together to complete the wicked joy twisting his face.

"Yup, showed it to all his friends, and come Christmas, the family will view it too." His anticipation was palpable.

"You know it's conflict escalation, right? He'll retaliate, and I won't be a part of it. You so much as consider including me in any of that, and I'll shave your head while you're sleeping."

"My brother is a dick," he muttered, tugging on his precious curls.

"Doesn't mean you have to be a dick too." For Jack, this was one of the reasons why she couldn't date him, his immaturity.

"He ruined my chances with you. I'll never forgive him for that."

"Chances with me?" She sighed. Her ribs throbbed as her patience drained from her body. Maybe she should have been honest, told everyone his constant lecherous gazes, touches, comments, and incessant whining about her dating him made her skin crawl. Lying about his height bothering her had seemed the simpler approach. She gritted her teeth. "You do know you're shorter than me, Steve?"

"I know you're sensitive about your height, Jack, but I'm shorter by one inch. I didn't think it would matter."

"It does, and yet you blatantly ignore my preferences. I'll be at Fred's after class," she said as Nancy flipped over the class bully—Jimmy Cranston—with more effort than she needed to. The man hit the padded floor with an oomph.

Despite Jack's ribs pinging in protest, she smothered a chuckle. Damn right, girl!

"Can't we ride together?" Did Steve just whine?

"Of course, we can; I have my spare helmet. You can be my bitch." She tried not to laugh at his disgruntled expression. He wouldn't find it funny if she explained it, with pictures, and it would just squeeze her ribs. Might be worth it, though.

"Damn. Forgot you bought a solarcycle. You know how dangerous those things are, right?" When he wagged his finger at her, she was tempted to bite it off.

"Yes, Mom. I promise to do less than the required speed limit." Gliding away ended the conversation, thank the Lord.

Jimmy lay on the mat wheezing, having had the wind knocked out of him. She strode toward him to assist. Despite wanting to congratulate Nancy on her epic throw, she was unable to show favoritism. She didn't crouch, but kept herself upright, gesturing to him with controlled movements how to avoid Nancy's techniques. And when he thwarted her next flip, Jack strolled across to the other sparring pairs. When an unexpected bolt of pain squeezed her lungs, she nodded at Steve before leaving the training room. Their full-time nurse, Melissa, was her destination.

~*~

Jack peeled off her faux-leather tavlex jacket, wincing as her ribs complained louder than their usual grumblings. Genuine leather made her sweat, not that she could afford it. But tavlex was better, lighter with steel fibers making it heat-resistant and durable. If only her academy jumpsuit was of the same stuff. They were testing out a new synthetic fabric that might as well have been leather.

She placed her helmet on the barstool beside her.

Melissa had strapped her ribs and given her pain meds. There was no known treatment for bruised ribs except immobility. A tumbler of cognac slid onto the counter, stopping inches from her hand. The brandy was expensive, but she needed it. She hadn't taken the meds yet since she wasn't sure how her body would react. It was unwise to ride a solarcycle or drink alcohol while on medication.

Sliding onto the stool in trepidation, she leaned her elbows on the counter with a grateful sigh. They were the only part of her body not in pain. Her head throbbed which meant she hadn't broken her fall fast enough. The back of her head must have bounced off the mat. Rest and pain medication would certainly help with that.

"Thanks, Fred." She forced a smile in greeting. The mirror lining the back of the bar reflected her grimace, so she gave up on a friendliness she was far from feeling.

"Bad day, Jack?" he asked as he polished a glass with a clean cloth.

His methodical actions seeped contentment into her. He didn't need to do that, but he said it put people at ease, and he hated to have idle hands. Fred Munroe had known her parents long before they died. Hell, he even knew her older brother Mich, the astronaut in the family.

"You should have seen it, Fred; little Nancy flipped me." With a wince, she shifted on her stool.

"Nope, don't believe it, Jack. I mean, what are you, six-foot-four?" He grinned. His humor was unappreciated yet warmed her heart regardless. He teased her by purposely forgetting her height since she was sensitive about it. Last week, she'd been six-foot-seven, the week before that six-foot-three. He'd randomly 'guessed' her height since she first broke six feet.

"Six-foot-two, Fred, I don't need you making me taller." She sipped from her glass and savored the explosion of flavor across her tongue. Intense, smoky, and dark made her taste buds hum with pleasure.

"I see pretty boy wore you down." Fred gestured to Steve who'd entered the bar.

Jack glanced at the door and groaned at Steve's persistence. Agreeing to this meeting had been easy when she'd had plans to come here, especially after the day she'd had. He bounced as he strode toward her, his enthusiasm worsening her day. Muttering, she buried her nose in her glass before raising it for a sip.

"Nope, not gonna happen." She winked at Fred before grunting a greeting at Steve who slid onto the stool next to her.

"Heard from Mich?" Fred asked as he slid a glass of beer over to Steve before he'd even ordered. Being in a small town, memorizing every customer's beverage of choice was a given.

"Nothing, not for a while now. It's worrying, you know?" She shrugged then winced when the slight use of her back and chest muscles rippled fire through her. "I mean, anything can happen out there. Space pirates are becoming a nuisance. The government is thinking of setting patrols." She shook her head in disbelief, keeping the sway to a minimum. "Our firepower is pathetic in comparison to the aliens out there."

"Ever thought of finding your own way among the stars?" Steve asked before he took a long draw from his glass.

"I did, once, but then Mich beat me to it."

"What? Where would you go?" He wiped his thumb down the glass, clearing the condensation.

"I'd work security, probably. Any of the space stations would do." She took another sip, and swallowed, relishing the sweet heat in her stomach. "I still might. I like the idea of me against the universe."

Steve scowled, unhappy with her for even thinking of going. Not that his opinion mattered. "You're insane. It's bad enough worrying where the shooter will be without factoring in the possibility of the air filtration system exploding, or losing gravity, or being hit by an asteroid."

"Pessimistic much?" she teased and pushed her empty cognac glass aside. Splaying her hand on the bar, she slid off the stool. She swiped her wrist over the paypad embedded in the fake-wood counter. "See you Monday."

"You're leaving?"

Scooping her helmet off the stool next to her, she waved at Fred before she tugged it on, not bothering to answer Steve. He'd witnessed the hell of a day she'd had.

"If you even knew her, you'd realize she only drinks cognac when she misses Mich." Fred frowned at Steve. At least he understood her.

Gratitude welled within her, strong and comforting. Every year, on the anniversary of her parents' deaths, she would be there drinking herself into oblivion. Fred made sure she got home safely. He'd also been there for her when it seemed as if Mich would never come home. Best of all, he was there on days like today where everything threatened to overwhelm her.

Strolling out of the bar, she swiped her thumb over the keypad, before throwing her leg over the 'leather' seat of her new purchase. Tugging her gloves from her jacket pocket, she slid them on, stroked the throttle, and flipped the stand back. She checked the traffic and pulled out, thrilling in the power beneath her and the wind sneaking into her protective gear. Purchasing the hybrid bike had been an impulse she hadn't regretted yet. Zipping through the small-town traffic gleefully, she was home in less than ten minutes.

After parking her cycle on her solar-paneled driveway, she flipped the stand and paused for a moment, leaning her weight back as she slid off her gloves a finger at a time. Unclipping the helmet, she lifted it off, tossed her gloves inside it, and cast a glance over her double-story old-style farmhouse. Painted in dark green, it matched Mich's house on the outskirts of West Haven. They had bought the paint in bulk. It had once been a wooden house, many years ago, but across its various owners, brick and steel had replaced the wood.

She paused on her stone porch doing a three-sixty, gazing at the domed mega-cities on the horizon. The powered domes contained their pollution, and to live under a clear blue sky was a precious gift. It was why most schools and academies were relocated to farming communities with their free, clean air.

With a sigh, she entered through the stained-glass aluminum door; it rattled when she allowed it to thud closed behind her. Dumping her helmet and gloves on the antique foyer table made of wood—a rare find and had cost her a month's salary—she stripped off her jacket and hung it on the hook drilled into the brick. Flashing a glance at the framed photographs of her parents who'd died when she and Mich were little. When she settled on the photograph of Mich, she stilled. Sniffing, she raised a trembling hand to slide a finger over her brother's face.

With slumped shoulders, she undid her braid and scraped her nails over her scalp, massaging as she did so. Her boots were next. She dropped them carelessly before climbing the stone stairs to her bedroom. The railing was wrought iron. The earlier owners had sold the original wood to collectors. Her footsteps were silent as she crossed the paisley carpet runner, past her empty spare bedrooms—indicative of her life—before entering the room at the end of the hall.

Along the way, she stripped off and tossed her clothing on the floor—as discarded and disrupted as her thoughts and hopes. In her T-shirt and panties, she crawled onto the bed and gingerly lowered herself, choosing to lie on her back. Only then did she let the tears fall.