Short Story Challenge

For the first time, I have entered the NYCMidnight Short Story Challenge. This one works a little differently than the other challenges in which I’ve participated. For the first round, we were given a genre, a subject, and a character, and given eight days to write a 2,500-word story. (Mine ended up at 2,497.) Only the top 5 in each group of 30 or so will advance to the next round, and we won’t get results until April.

My assignments were as follows. Genre: science fiction; subject: a job interview; character: a mercenary. I was so challenged by these prompts! I spent several days just mulling them over (and reading everything I could about mercenaries). After finally drafting something, I sent it to a male friend of mine for feedback because I had chosen to write in first person with a male protagonist and needed to make sure the character’s voice rang true.

For this one, we were required to include a title page with a 1- 2-sentence logline teasing the story. Here is mine:

Jackson Rhone Doesn’t Lose

Cocky mercenary Jackson Rhone has a chance at a lucrative mission to Planet Otera. The only thing standing in his way: a badass woman competing for the same job.

As always, I vascillate between loving my story and hating every horrid word of it. But I will muster up the courage to post it here.

Win or lose, the experience of writing for these contests is extremely rewarding. So, here goes nothing …

[Note: There are a couple of occasions of bad language, which I will censor here because I promote this site and blog as family-friendly.]

Jackson Rhone Doesn’t Lose

Through the glass, I saw seven dark suits sitting around a conference table. I opened the door and seven somber faces turned to look at me.

“What is this, a funeral?” I didn’t even try to suppress a smirk as I sauntered toward the table.

“We certainly hope not, Mr. Rhone. Have a seat.” Dr. Dalton was the one who spoke. The Dr. Dalton – scientist extraordinaire, mercenary headhunter, lethal mission maker. I had dealt with him before. I reached across the table and shook his hand.

“Whatcha got for me, Dalt?” I loved a challenge and was eager to wet the adventure dry spell I’d been experiencing the past few months.

“We have a serious problem,” Dr. Dalton said, “on another planet, and we need a serious solution.” Dr. Dalton spoke in a British accent, but I knew he wasn’t British (pretty sure he was from Oklahoma) – I suspected the man thought he sounded more sophisticated that way. “It is an extremely dangerous endeavor for which we have narrowed down the pool to two candidates—”

“And I’m one of them because…?”

“Your résumé speaks for itself, Mr. Rhone. There’s no doubt you have extensive experience in space travel.”

“I’ve been everywhere but Uranus.” Wink.

Not a flicker of a smile, not a blink of an eye from this guy. “Come on, Dalt, that was funny. And true.”

Dr. Dalton double-tapped the slick black top of the conference table, and an orb appeared. “How much do you know about Planet Otera, Mr. Rhone?”

My playful smile dropped, and I sat back in my chair. “I’ve heard about the problems there. The war. Brutal stuff.”

“Earth and Mars operatives there are making headway, but the Oteran beings are putting up a powerful fight. We’ve been able to identify two Oteran leaders; we need to take them out.”

“Planet Otera – getting there requires a bit more than a rocket ship, if I’m not mistaken.” I remembered news reports about people dying trying to get to the newly discovered Otera. Then those that made it the first time were obliterated by a surprisingly large population of Oteran creatures. But government leaders were desperate to take the planet because it could support human life and was a fantastic alternative to the overpopulated Earth. And that brought them to where they were now: a bloody war with an unrelenting (and unhuman) enemy.

Dr. Dalton must have read the hesitation on my face, because he nodded to one of the other suits at the table, and that suit cleared his throat, swiped the table, and a glowing green figure appeared above the table – a six-figure number with a dollar sign attached. “Mr. Rhone,” the suit said, “your compensation would be, I think you’ll agree, well worth the effort.”

Now they were speaking my language.

“You said you narrowed it down to two candidates. Who’s my competition?”

At that moment, the office door swung open, and a young blonde – early 30s – strode in, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

“Oh!” I said with a wide grin. “Lunch time already? I’ll have a chicken salad sandwich – hold the mayo –”

“What is this, a time traveler from 2019? Cut the crap, Neanderthal, I’m PMC Mina Hawk, and—”

“Mr. Rhone,” Dr. Dalton interrupted, moving swiftly around the table and taking the woman’s elbow, “this is Private Military Contractor Mina Hawk, who has an impeccable military background and extraordinary scientific knowledge and skills, not to mention several years of combat training and space exploration experience.”

“Sounds like she’s been to Uranus,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

The woman stared coldly at me. “I hope you don’t expect me to train with him.”

“Train?” I raised an eyebrow at Dr. Dalton. I didn’t need any training. I was in top physical and mental condition, even with the occasional inappropriate outburst.

“Yes, Mr. Rhone. Due to the intensely dangerous travel method to Otera and the, shall we say, uncertainty of the mission, we will be putting the two of you through a series of tasks and tests.”

“To see which one of us is the best?”

“To see which one of you is best suited for this job,” corrected Dr. Dalton. “Think of it as an extended job interview. My team –” Dr. Dalton extended a hand toward his table of suits like Vanna White showcasing letters in the ancient TV game show Wheel of Fortune – “will be observing and evaluating each of you for the next three weeks. At the end of the training, the one with the highest score gets the job.” He paused to let this sink in, and I let my eyes wander up Hawk’s legs – Hawk’s incredibly fit legs. I had to concede that her calves may just be harder than mine. I blinked back to reality when Dr. Dalton spoke again. “And now, I think the only thing left to say is: May the best man, or woman, win.”

“May the best man win.” I winked at my opponent.

***

Training began in much the way I had expected – physical endurance tests, which I had no doubt I would ace. I set out on the first 10-mile course with ease, keeping an eye out for Hawk. I hadn’t seen her for an entire mile. She’s probably stuck back at the rock wall obstacle. Poor thing.

I dodged barbed-wire traps, skipped over metal spikes, and ducked through low-hanging thorns (smiling and waving at the not-so-well-hidden cameras the whole way) before slowing my pace. We weren’t given any hints about what to expect on this run, but so far it was comparable to military boot camp, with just a hint of that old movie The Hunger Games mixed in for fun. At points along the running trail, a random arrow, dart, or large stone would hurl past without warning, and I would duck, dodge, or dive just in time. I was grazed on the arm by a speeding knife but brushed it off – just a little blood, not enough pain to do damage. I imagined Hawk tackling these deadly obstacles and traps, with her blond curls and pink lipstick. No way could she do this. I had just dodged another knife and rounded a corner when Hawk veered onto the trail from a different direction and sped past me. Where did she come from?

“Hey!” I yelled, but Hawk just wagged her fingers without looking back or slowing down. I picked up speed but stumbled over a boulder when I glanced back to try to see where she had come from. When I looked up, she was long gone.

At every obstacle, every twist and turn of the trail, I looked for Hawk, but it wasn’t until I reached the finish line, huffing and wiping sweat from my face that I saw her. She was sitting on a bench, chatting it up with Dr. Dalton, hardly out of breath at all. Dr. Dalton looked at his watch. “Oh, Mr. Rhone. So glad to see you.”

I was incensed. “How did she— how did you—”

Hawk looked pleased, but explained matter-of-factly, “At the first turn-off, there was a map that showed a couple of short-cuts to avoid the worst of the weapons.”

“Oh, nice. Good to know my opponent takes the easy way out.”

She started to respond, but Dr. Dalton pulled her away toward the Jeep that would take us back to our base.

On the 20-minute drive, Dr. Dalton described our next test, but I couldn’t hear over the voice in my head berating me for losing the first task – to a girl. I ate in my lodge and remained there the rest of the day, lifting weights and brushing off my loss. I stood in front of the mirror in the workout space, flexed, turned and flexed again. I beat my chest and roared. “You’re Jackson Rhone. Jackson Rhone! You got this!” I had to have this. Not just for the money, but for my dignity. Jackson Rhone doesn’t lose.

The next task was a similar race, and this time, I’d make sure to look for maps – and shortcuts. But instead of deadly weapons on this trail – I learned the hard way – there were traps: water, food, duffel bags filled with necessities. Things designed to draw us in and then BOOM! An explosion, or a puff of poisonous gas, or a venomous serpent would threaten to take us out of the race. Which is what happened when I spotted what looked like a map. I reached for it, and just as my fingertips touched the paper, a snake latched its fangs around my wrist.

“Arrrghhhh!” I swung my arm around, and the snake dug in harder. I dropped to my knees, yelling in pain, then grabbed the snake just behind the head with my left hand, pinching with my thumb on the bottom and two fingers on the top, squeezing as hard as I could, digging in with my nails. I finally felt the snake release its grip and go limp, and in one swift move, I pulled a machete from my waist band, slammed the snake on the ground, and sliced it in two. Just then, I glimpsed Hawk running past effortlessly. She wagged her fingers again. I wagged just one finger in her direction and went to work wrapping the wound on my wrist.

That night, after an anti-venom treatment, I entered the dining room, looking forward to a good meal. Hawk looked up from her plate. But not looking forward to seeing her.

“Good work with that snake,” Hawk said as I sat down. “I couldn’t have done that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t have been bitten by the snake in the first place,” I said. “What, was there a clue after the first turn-off that listed all the dangers ahead?”

Hawk suppressed a smile. “Yes, actually, there was.”

I laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me?!”

God, why is this so infuriating? I was thinking about getting up to go sit somewhere else when a waiter brought out a plate piled with food, so instead I tucked in. I ate in silence, ignoring my humiliation and anger, and ignoring the cause of it, sitting right across from me.

“I’m qualified for this job, you know,” Hawk said abruptly. “And I want it.”

When I looked at her without responding, she added, “And I’m gonna get it.” Her eyes bore into mine, and I glared right back. I wouldn’t be the first to look away.

Suddenly I felt a need to know more about this modern-day Wonder Woman who finds secret maps and takes shortcuts and thinks she can beat me at this.

“Tell me your life story,” I said with a wink. She looked surprised at this shift in the conversation.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said after looking down at the table and clearing her throat.

“Of course there is. You just don’t want to tell me.”

“You know all you need to know.”

I sighed. She couldn’t make this easy, could she? “I know you’re a Soldier of Fortune.”

“I hate that moniker,” she said. “It’s insulting. And it doesn’t come close to describing the danger we put ourselves in.”

“You’re former military.” It was a question, posed as a statement of fact.

“Yes. And you?”

“I don’t want to talk about myself just yet. I want to hear more about you. Tell me something personal. Tell me about your family.”

I learned that she’d had a traumatic childhood – abusive father, drunk mother – and she mentioned an ex-fiancé but didn’t say more about it. She did open up about her previous missions, though. As she talked, I watched her eyes light up. She seemed to relish the memories of fighting in warzones and leading security detail in dangerous countries. Damn, she loved this stuff as much as I did. I’d never met a woman mercenary, and I’d definitely never met a woman quite like her. She would be tough competition, for sure, but what she didn’t know was there was no way I’d be losing this job to a girl.

“Earth to the great Jackson Rhone.” Hawk snapped her fingers in front of my face. When our eyes met, she asked, “What were you thinking just now?”

“I was thinking…” Let’s see, how can I put this in the least offensive way? “Bring your A-game, Hawk, ’cause Jackson Rhone doesn’t lose.”

Hawk flinched. “I think I’ve already brought my A-game. Where’s yours been?” And she got up and left the table.

“It’s been on the trail,” I called out, “not on shortcuts.”

Throughout the next several tasks, I kept thinking about what Hawk had said. I couldn’t help but admire her tenacity. She was strong, there was no doubt about that. Clever and ruthless. It was obvious this was more than just a mission to her. Damn, this woman is going to steal this job from me. OK, earn it, whatever. Oddly, this made me smile.

We started training together every morning – not on purpose at first; we just happened to show up at the facility’s gym at the same time. But she let me give her some pointers, she laughed at my jokes, she spotted me on bench press. So our workouts became planned, almost like we were friends.

“Hey, Rhone,” Hawk said one day after a training session. She reached out and lightly brushed my hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me purpose.” Taken aback, I watched her walk away.

At the end of the third week, Hawk and I, dizzy from an anti-gravity exercise, trudged to the conference room, where we would learn who’d won. A large scoreboard hung above the conference table. The judges had ranked us on each of 18 tasks. My eyes scanned the rows and columns, numbers blurring. I heard her gasp just as my eyes found the totals at the bottom.

Hawk took the lead by two points.

She looked so attractive as she beamed with pride. I shook her hand and congratulated her, not feeling as dejected as I thought I would. I slipped out slowly, watching as Dr. Dalton took Hawk aside to show her details about the Otera mission. I was sorry to see our training end.

On my way out of the main building, I heard voices coming from an office. There were shouts punctuated by angry whispers. I ducked into a niche beside the door and listened. I couldn’t make sense of most of what they were saying, but what I did hear made my knees buckle.

“… Otera is unstable … no way back … will end in death … Dr. Dalton insists … the woman is expendable …”

Heat. Numbness. Can’t breathe. This can’t be. This was not a “mission”; it was a death sentence. A death sentence that I’d just purposefully handed to Mina Hawk by flubbing the last challenge.