I've come cross a review where the reader is concerned that Rachel is turning "Mary Sue." I assure you, that's the furthest thing from my mind. If I wanted a Mary Sue character, it would have been easy, but she would have little substance and be of no interest to the reader. It's not something I would read, and that's my key to writing, both here and IRL.

I could have written a Benjamin that allowed Rachel to go to the academy to indulge or appease her. She could have taken an easy course of study. She could have been given the princess treatment at the academy. She could have returned to Grayson and assumed a cushy, safe paper-pushing Admiral's aide position. I could have written Rachel as a pious, chaste virgin who wanted to remain untouched until her wedding night. She could have been arranged to marry a steadholder's son instead of marrying for love. All those could haves would have made for a Mary Sue tale with little substance. The Rachel I've written about has her ups and downs, her highs and lows. She has good days; she has bad days. She's not perfect, but she's trying her best in a world where it's hard for women to excel outside of the home.

So being smart is "Mary Sue?" She's not a genius. She excels in a specific area. She learns, comprehends, and applies what she's learned. That's using your brain.

So being good at a sport that she's applied herself to since the age of nine is "Mary Sue?" If you'll note, she doesn't participate or have any interest in any other sport.

Now, on with the story.

Chapter 19

September 21, 1925 P.D. 1830

Alvarez Field Gym

In her gi, Rachel stood by the mat and welcomed the prospective coup de vitesse newbies. One had an armsman with him, and they nodded at respectfully at each other.

"Please, everyone, take a seat," she said.

They did so and took a seat with them. "Good evening, I'm Ensign Mayhew. As you can see, I wear a black belt. Behind me, those doing their katas, have all different colors. The colors represent skill levels. I've been doing this since I was nine; I achieved my black belt two years ago."

"If you're here to learn how to beat people up, the door is there, we're not interested in thugs," she stated. "This sport, this art, is not about beating people up. It's great for fitness, a fun and competitive sport, and may save your life one day if done effectively."

She gave them time to process that.

"It isn't easy. It takes time to learn. It's something you can't do halfway."

She looked at the tallest and largest men there. "Just being the biggest person on the mat doesn't guarantee a win, either. Look at me. I'm not the biggest or strongest person here, but I've won against people bigger and stronger than me. You'll be expected to train against people bigger than yourself. If you're afraid of being hit, kicked, or thrown to the ground, this isn't the place for you."

"Damn, she is a teacher," Lt. Hardin murmured and continued his kata.

"This sport humbles you, no matter your skill level. You're not going to hit me or any of the gentlemen behind me. That's just telling it like it is. You're not going to be able to hit us, not for a while. However, we're going to tag you, to teach you how to block and avoid hits and kicks," she said.

She signaled for Schmidt to roll an HD viewer to the mat.

"What I'm going to show you are the first, second, and third place matches from a tournament from last week. You'll note that two of the final six competitors were women; me and a professor from Grayson University."

She started the video and the third-place match started and the newbies were fascinated at the fight. The way the participants danced around each other, their stances, the ebb and flow of their movements showed that it wasn't just fighting, it was art. When she and Lt. Hardin appeared on the screen, he stopped his katas and joined her by the viewer. When she got the first point, she stopped the video.

"I think we were feeling each other out; with our skill level, rounds usually last longer," she noted.

"And I deserved that jab, I got careless and she was quicker than I thought," Lt. Hardin said, "but that's one of the things this sport teaches; to expect the unexpected."

She resumed the video and rolled her eyes at her own stupidity when the lieutenant got the second point. "And that was me being careless. No one is ever supposed to be on the ground for that long, and when I lost sight of my opponent, he got a jab in."

She resumed the video and the newbies were awed at the flurry of punches and kicks that started the third round. Neither gave ground, until the lieutenant's unfortunate footing mistake. The newbies stared and their bottom jaws dropped when they saw her knees-around-the-head take down. The video stopped and Schmidt rolled the stand away.

"Questions?" Rachel asked.

One raised his hand. "Sir, did that hurt…that thing with the knees?"

Hardin chuckled. "Uh, no. Perhaps you can explain that?" he asked her.

"This was a match, not a fight to the death. I wasn't out to hurt anyone, but I did want to win," she said. "You're going to find that you may have to go all out for a win, that's what I did."

Another raised his hand. "Does it hurt to get hit? Or kicked? Or knocked the mat?"

Hardin nodded. "Good question, and the answer is, it depends. You may be so hyped on adrenaline that you don't feel a hit. But if it's a solid hit, you'll feel it later, trust me on that one. Getting kicked, the same. As for being brought to the mat, you'll learn how to take a fall, to prepare yourself for it."

"When you're training or sparring, protective gear is worn. In matches, no, but that encourages you to avoid and block hits," she said. "As I said, if you're afraid of being hit or kicked, this isn't the place for you."

"M'lady, does your father watch you do this?" one asked.

Her lips twitched, and she and Robert glanced at each other.

"Yes he does, but at first he didn't like me doing this, at all. Imagine that you had a nine-year-old daughter, and you saw her being hit and kicked. And oh, let me tell you, my armsmen hated it more. However, they saw me progress in skill, and the resulting confidence improved my performance in other areas of my life. Now, he says that it's entertaining when I get kicked in the head."

The group laughed as Robert rolled his eyes.

"We'll give you a few minutes to decide. If you want to stay, step off the mat and don that gear to your left. If not, thanks for your interest and good evening," Lt. Hardin said.

Three left and five remained. The team on the mats behind her started to spar, but she didn't join in.

"I'm a duty pilot this week, so I can't get banged up, but I'll go over some katas and introductory moves," she told the newbies and stretched her shoulders and wrists.

She pointed to one that had six inches on her. "Your name?"

"Um, Petty Officer LaSalle."

"All right, bow and step onto the mat."

She demonstrated a proper bow and he repeated it.

"Good, now come and stand before me."

He did so.

"Now, try to hit me."

"Huh?"

"Hit me."

He gave her slow, weak, off-center jab. She casually titled her head sideways to avoid it.

"Really? A big guy like you and that's all you've got?" she asked.

He huffed and sent a better jab her way. She slapped it away with her left hand and her right hand grabbed his head gear and brought his head down to rest a centimeter from her knee.

"That was fast," one of the newbies whispered.

She let go and he looked at her, amazed.

"That jab was better, try again," she suggested.

He did so. She stepped aside and took his jabbing wrist in one hand, the front of his Navy sweatshirt with the other. She yanked him off balance, he yelped, and she did a leg sweep. He went to the mat with a startled grunt.

"How did she do that?" one whispered.

"Did that hurt?" she asked and held out a hand to help him up.

He shook his head and took her hand, surprised at her strength when she assisted him to his feet.

"Were you surprised?"

"Yes."

"And do you want that to ever happen again?" she asked.

"No."

"Then you've had your first lesson. Please bow and leave the mat."

While LaSalle stood by the mat, rethinking his entire existence, she called for another to step up. He looked at his fellows, wondering what she might do to him.

"Name?"

"Ensign Sutter."

"As you can see, Mr. Sutter, Mr. LaSalle's size meant nothing. We're the same size, but as a male you're stronger. So I want you to try and hit me, as LaSalle did."

He did so. She slapped his hand away with her right and tagged his head with her left. His head snapped back, and he looked stunned.

"Are you all right?" she asked and she saw the armsman shake his head in resignation. Well, she could understand that.

He nodded. "I was just surprised."

"Have you ever been hit?"

He shook his head.

"Try again?" she suggested.

He did so, and it was a stronger swing, but she blocked it and followed up with a gentle jab to the solar plexus. His "ungh-oof" was heard. She stepped back and nodded in approval.

"That was a better swing, but my jab would have been a match point. Did it hurt?" she asked.

"Some," he admitted, his cheeks flushed.

"Good, you're honest about it."

She faced the group. "Honesty is vital here. If you're hurt, say so. No one expects you to be invincible. We have a medic here to make sure it's not serious. Injuries do happen on occasion, but with proper training and conditioning, injuries can be mitigated."

She looked to Sutter again. "You're not conditioned for this, but you will be. You weren't prepared for a bare-knuckled jab to the solar plexus, but you took it well. Please bow and leave the mat."

He did so and the armsman whispered to him and patted his shoulder.

"Tonight, I hope you've all learned a lesson: that you don't want to be hit. That should motivate you to learn to avoid being hit. Next, I'll demonstrate some stretches that are beneficial; you'll need to develop some flexibility for coup."

#

Later that evening, Benjamin was enjoying a cold stein of beer when his comm console signaled an incoming call. He answered it and Steadholder Sutter's face was seen.

"Edward, good evening. It's been a while," Ben said. "What can I do for you?"

"It's a social call, m'lord. You remember my youngest son, Adam?"

Ben nodded. "He's in the Navy, correct?"

Edward nodded. "Commissioned this past August, same as your daughter. Anyway, he's been looking into some extracurricular activities. For some reason, only known to him, he attended an introductory coup de vitesse this evening."

"And let me guess, my daughter was there?" Ben asked.

"Yes, m'lord. He's never been hit in his life, never even a fight as a child. However, he was hit tonight, courtesy of your daughter."

Ben's lips quirked. "Is he injured?"

No newbie was ever going to get a hit in on Rachel, he knew that much.

"No, m'lord. He was surprised and humbled, his words. He wants to continue, as a matter of fact. I think it'll do a world of good for his confidence. That's some daughter you brought up, m'lord."

Ben nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. "One tries. Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?"

"No, m'lord. Please give your lady wives my best. Good evening."

"The same to you, Edward. Good evening."

Ben chuckled and saluted Rachel's Navy picture hanging on the wall. "That's my girl."

Twenty years prior, he would have never received a call like that from a steadholder. Progress!

September 26, 1925 P.D. 2030

Shuttle Bay Offices, Alvarez Field

From flight control, Rachel saw the two Marines that made their once-hourly security circuit around the base. She chewed on a cookie and turned the page on the electronic book she was reading. Her uni-link chimed, and she answered it.

"Any flights yet, Miss Duty Pilot?" Matt asked.

"Just one this whole week, on Wednesday night."

"And you've been stuck on base all week. Are you getting any rest?"

"There's a cot here, no worries."

"The master bedroom furniture arrived earlier at the house. They said the dining room stuff will be delivered tomorrow."

"That's good. Now we just have six more bedrooms, offices, and living room to go."

"I claim the office off the master bedroom."

She chuckled.

"I'm serious. I'm going to be doing a lot of studying once med school starts."

"I wonder if I should start grad school."

"You don't have enough to do?"

"That's what Commander Kimbrell asked."

"With your additional duties on top of your everyday work, I don't see how you'd have time for grad studies."

"That's what you, dad, and the commander said. Commander Kimbrell told me something that made a lot of sense, because he felt the same way when he was an ensign…he said that right now, it would be best to learn about being an officer before tackling grad school. A wise officer learns balance and recognizes what's a priority, and what's not."

"Good advice. All Lieutenant Randall told me was don't fall asleep in histology class."

"What's histology?"

He snickered. "The study of the body's tissues."

"And with that, I'll try and get some sleep here on this cot. I love you, good night."

"Same to you, love."

September 28, 1925 P.D. 0930 hours

R&D Shop

"So, how many flights did you pick up?" Lt. MacLeod asked.

"Just one. I got a lot of reading done on the downtime," Rachel said.

Robert answered a call on his uni-link and said he had to leave the shop for a moment.

"Just watch out for the door when you return," she teased.

He nodded and left the shop. A few minutes later, he returned to the shop with none other than Captain Nate Tucker. Rachel saw him walk through the door, hurried to him, and threw her arms around him.

"Everyone, I'm pleased to introduce Captain Tucker. He's just returned from treatment and rehab at Bassingford," she said to the shop.

"Welcome back, captain," Commander Kimbrell said.

Nate nodded. "Sir."

She looked him over. Aside from being a little pale, he looked as hale and hearty as ever.

"I regret not being there for your commissioning, but I saw the video. Congratulations on your accomplishment," Nate said.

"Thank you, you were missed. Was rehab difficult?" she asked.

"Growing back the leg was uncomfortable, but rehab was mainly time-consuming. I already knew how to walk, it was just a matter of training the new nerves and muscles in the regenerated leg," he explained.

She pushed the hair from her ear. "Lost part of it, and Robert, not a scratch."

"It's a relief to me you weren't seriously hurt," he said.

"That's what dad said you'd say," she replied.

"Speaking of your father, that gift of his…I briefly saw your new home. I look forward to setting up the security system for it."

"Just let me know what you need, and you'll get it," she said. "We also need to upgrade your ID badge for the shop. Wait a minute, how did you get here?"

"One of Lady Harrington's armsmen drove me here," he replied.

"Dad gave me car,"

"-and a house," someone from the shop murmured.

"So we don't have to hitch rides or borrow a car," she said.

"Which one?" Nate asked.

"You know the older Road Trek model with the green stripes? That one," she said.

#

At lunch, Matt saw Nate and greeted him with a handshake and smile. "Good to see you, Captain. I know Rachel's glad to see you. Any effects from regen?"

"None, Mr. Goodson. Congratulations on your commissioning as well."

"Hey, what about me?" Ensign Cordell asked from the table.

Nate looked around the table and recognized many of Rachel's academy friends. "To all of you, congratulations."

They were surprised by yelling from the adjacent enlisted mess hall. A metallic clang was heard, then sounds of cutlery and plates hitting the floor. The officers rose and went to the enlisted mess hall entrance and were shocked at what they saw. There was a full-fledged riot in the hall. Some were backing away from the fray, trying to get away from it, and a table was overturned. An aluminum pitcher flew their way, and Nate stepped forward to block it mid-air. Blood-curdling bellowing was heard from bosuns and senior NCOs that streamed into the hall from the adjacent NCO mess hall. They grabbed fighters left and right and put them against the wall, yelling at them to "if you snot noses know what's good for you, you'll stop this shit right now!"

The fight ended as quickly as it started. Food, trays, cutlery, and dishes littered the mess hall. Spacers lined the wall and stood at attention with bloody noses, busted lips, and coveralls adorned with food.

"And here I was, enjoying my lunch…" a master chief lectured, and spread his arms to gesture to the wrecked hall.

Another bosun marched back and forth, hands on his hips, putting the wrath of God into the miscreants. "…and if you infants think for a second that the stewards are going to clean up this disaster, you've got another thing coming! Aaanndd since you've got so much energy—"

"They've got this," Lt. Hardin said lightly and they returned to their lunches.

"It's the fallout from that Exhaust mess," Lt. MacLeod said and shook his head.

#

(P.S. I go the idea for the mess hall food fight from one I witnessed at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina many moons ago.)