Colt stood outside an official, roped-off boxing ring, the fort’s western wall blocking the intense rays of the sun. The soldiers gathered around, excitement gleaming on their faces, as Big Tony collected the bets. Eight men had thrown their hats in the ring to participate in four refereed fights, with Lieutenant Crane overseeing timed rounds with established rules. They didn’t have boxing mitts but were encouraged to wrap extra bands of cloth around their army-issue gloves. They would soon discover if Marcus’s idea would be a stroke of genius or a washout. Either way, Colt had jumped all in.
“Contestants for the first match, come to the ring,” Marcus announced. Cheers arose as two men of similar size and weight ducked under the ropes in pants, boots, and gloves, pumping fists in the air. The crowd howled in delight.
While Colt couldn’t say he and Marcus had become fast friends in that first week, they had established a comfortable working rapport. Crane’s son remained emotionally distant but didn’t challenge his authority. It was an uneasy peace, which, given their intertwined circumstances, was the best he could hopefor now. Yet, given the love and respect Colt had for General Maddox Crane, he hoped friendship lay in their future.
“Come on, Smitty!”
“Knock ‘im out, Jimbo!”
The fights remained mostly in bounds, no one trying to seriously hurt the other. Marcus had come up with a way for the soldiers to blow off steam without free-for-alls, property damage, or serious injury, and it seemed to be working. When Colt discovered nobody dared challenge Rafe—the undisputed yard champion—and Rafe resented losing his moment of glory, he’d agreed.
“We’ll suspend the court-martial offense of striking an officer for the duration of the sanctioned boxing match,” Colt had told him. “For the good of troop morale.” While uncertain at first, the gleam in Sergeant Slater’s eyes told Colt that he couldn’t wait.That goes for both of us,he thought. It would be a pivotal moment, no matter what the outcome. He didn’t want to punish Slater; he wanted to gain his respect.
“And now for the final match up,” Marcus announced as he made a tight circle in the center of the ring. “In this corner, Sergeant ‘Slay ‘em’ Slater.” Rafe flexed his muscles and pumped his fist, a smug look of confidence radiating from his face. He’d actually shaved for the event and appeared quite intimidating with his muscles rippling across his body.
“And in this corner, Captain Irons the Indomitable.” Fewer cheers, but cheers all the same. Andrew handed him a mouthguard. He popped it between his teeth and punched his gloved fists together as his feet danced in the sand. As a youth, his father had sent him to martial arts schools in preparation for a military career. The disciplined, controlled fighter had no doubt he could take the brawler down, but how he did it was crucial to his plan.
“Places, gentlemen.” Andrew exited the ring, and someone clanged a bell for the round to begin.
Lighter, younger, and more agile, Colt could avoid getting hit for the whole fight if he wanted to, but that wouldn’t satisfy the audience. He and Rafe exchanged jabs, measuring each other. What Colt couldn’t do was let the meatierman clock him in the face. When Slater drew back for a wicked right cross, instead of spinning away, Colt twisted to let it brush off his shoulder.
“Owww!” he barked sharply. “You pack a punch, Sergeant.” Hopping around with fancy footwork, he rubbed his shoulder before snapping a lightning strike to Rafe’s chin. He didn’t throw all his weight behind it, still testing his opponent.
Taking a step back, Slater rubbed his jaw and grinned. “So do you.”
The two threw combinations, covering up to block or shifting to the side when they could. Colt’s well-timed jabs took their toll. Once, when he didn’t move fast enough, Rafe landed a fully invested hit, throwing him off balance and making him rethink the entire exercise. He wanted the fight to last the whole three rounds, giving the troops time not only to be entertained, but to see for themselves the stuff their captain was made of.
As the clock ticked down in the third round, both men threw everything they had into the match, Colt landing the final staggering blow before the bell. Rafe grabbed the rope to steady himself, blood trickling from his busted lip and a cut above his eye. He stared at Colt, also bruised and bloodied, and a wisp of a smile crossed his lips. The look in the sergeant’s eyes wasn’t resentment but gratitude. He was winded and spent, while Colt wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Well, looks like you aren’t a paper-pushin’ wuss after all,” he uttered in good humor before wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his glove.
“And your tough-guy image isn’t just an act,” Colt replied, satisfaction welling in his chest. He smiled despite aching all over.
“Well, who won?” asked an eager private, looking to Lieutenant Crane for confirmation. Marcus passed a speculative glance from Rafe to Colt and back to Rafe.
“We could keep going until there’s a knockdown,” Marcus suggested.
“Naw.” Slater waved that idea away. “I’m done, but you—” He squinted and jabbed a finger toward Colt, “better be ready for next time. Guess I’m gonna have to get in shape for the rematch.”
Colt moseyed over to him, extending a hand. “I’m glad you’re here to keep me on my toes.”
Rafe stared at the hand, snorted a laugh, and shook his head. “Why not?” He didn’t take the hand but extended his bloodied fist.
Colt bumped it in a sign of camaraderie.Mission accomplished. One down, one to go.
Chapter fifteen
Unstable Equations
Clover Hollow, Appalachia
Soren slipped into the room with only moments to spare before his early morning Systems Theory class. He was still adjusting to married life, grateful to have been matched with an accommodating woman like Krystal. As long as the Psychological Science major led the Institute’s basketball team in scoring, she was in no hurry to fulfill the Oracle’s reproduction requirement. She was a good cook and pleasant company, but she wasn’t Nathan.
Nathan,he thought, grinding his teeth.I should forget about him. He’s not coming back.
By the time Soren slid into his seat, the room was already buzzing. A student in front of him leaned over to the one beside him. “Did you find a solution to that homework problem?”
“I swear it was a trick,” the other student whispered.