POSTHUMAN

Chapter Twenty-Six

"Phil, trust me," Marcus stood across from Phil on the quadrangle of the north-eastern hall. Both men wore grey jogging bottoms, dated t-shirts and trainers. Marcus had walked to Philip's hall at 6am, pestered the doctor into waking and then they had jogged around the village's perimeter. Phil thought he might be able to sneak off when Marcus had his back turned but the older man had press-ganged him into going out onto the quad for introductory combat training.

        "I don't particularly care; I've always tried to avoid giving big, scary men an excuse to hit me. Now here I am being encouraged to 'put my guard up'? My life is a strange farce," Philip grumbled even as positioned his feet and brought up his arms. Marcus had told Philip that all he wanted to see was Philip's natural fighting ability. "Are you ready?" Marcus asked, he was within arm's reach of the doctor now.

        "Not at all," Philip quipped.

        Slowly, Marcus began at a quarter of his normal sparring speed when going up against Morgan. He expected the doctor to be hit a few times at least. Something altogether more intriguing took place. Philip dodged every punch, and tried to get in a few sloppy strikes that Marcus swiftly countered but that was beside the point. Marcus, try as he might, could not hit the doctor. The agent sped up, the doctor matched him; Philip lacked finesse or grace in his avoidance but kept up with Marcus' ever increasing pace. Eventually, Marcus moved at the same speed he would be at if Morgan were his opponent. Astonishing did not begin to cover the doctor's skill at avoiding a blow. Preternatural would be more apt, like Kongolo...

       Marcus stepped away, shaken by the experience, and looked up to see that Philip had not broken a sweat. The man before him had no idea of what he was capable of. Marcus engaged again at blistering speed, the fastest he had ever tried to be, his body pushed to its very limits. Philip sweated, this was where the doctor struggled yet managed to pull off moves that resembled rudimentary Wing Chun. An entire minute, a dizzying and tiring one minute, passed before Marcus managed to clip Philip's upper arm.

        "Bloody hell, Marcus! It felt like you were going to kill me!" protested Philip, his hand on his bruised arm.

        "I don't think I could have killed you if I'd wanted to, I'm way too fatigued right now. Do you know, I haven't fought that hard since Kinshasa?" Marcus' breathing was laboured, "Have you ever actually been beaten up?"

        "I don't get into fights," replied the doctor, he fixed his friend with a searching look.

        "Well, let's say some asshole ever tried to attack you, did they ever get a hit in?" Marcus only partly knew what he wanted to get from this line of interrogation.

        "Well, I'm certain someone must have."

        "I didn't ask about the statistical probability, I want to know if you remember it happening."

        "...No."

        "I'm taking you to see the high chief."

Marcus had not been inside a headmaster's office for a very long time, Philip did not share his childhood unease – Dr Albion did not seem like he had been school-yard hell-raiser. Solosolo returned, he carried a tray loaded with a coffee jug, three mugs, a milk bottle and a sugar bowl. "What news do you have for me?" Solosolo set down the tray and took up his seat on the other side of his desk.

        Marcus glanced at Philip, who continued to be puzzled, then back to Solosolo, "You're a biological anthropologist, aren't you?" The high chief nodded and Marcus continued, "I think Phil is a passive psionic."