by Jim Rudnick
“Right,” Radisson said, “we’re on the time line and A-okay so far.” The doors to the turbo-lift opened and five more cadets came onto the bridge. One looked at Radisson, who nodded, and that cadet left in the lift immediately, only to return moments later with the Academy faculty, the ship’s Captain Grant.
“Cadet, all in order here,” he said, as he glanced at the now supine lieutenant, legs akimbo and one arm dropped across the left side of his chair.
“Sir, yes, Sir!” Radisson piped up.
“Fine, Cadets Fraser and Smith, ready for the next steps?” he said as he crossed over to the Comm station with them. Below them on the display panel, Fraser popped up the previously programmed screens, and all crowded around as the doors of all the real ship’s officers were first buzzed by a cadet waiting at their doors. Moments later they began to open, and each of them was quickly stunned by the assigned cadet. Most fell back toward the interior of their quarters, but Radisson noted that one of the officers, Lieutenant Baines, he thought, fell against the bulkhead and seemed to scrape his temple, but that was a small price to pay.
“Right, Cadets, down to the shuttle bay on the double. Cadets, let’s see if you can manhandle Lieutenant Brent. Um … Fraser, give them a hand, please,” he said as four cadets lifted up the lieutenant and crowded into the turbo-lift as they dropped down to Deck Four and the shuttle bay over to port.
As they proceeded toward the bay doors, they were met with more than a dozen of the on-board cadets, all encumbered with a stunned ship’s officer, all moving toward the shuttle.
At the loading doors, Captain Grant looked over the disposition of each of the stunned officers and arranged them all to be most comfortable. He also overlooked Fraser, who was in the process of removing three of the vital boards from the shuttle’s navigational computer, rendering it still space-worthy but not able to navigate with computer precision. As he checked and then double-checked all of the final items, he nodded to Radisson and then approached his colleagues, the only other Academy faculty officers on the CS Valiant.
“Right, men, we’ve about ten minutes only … so time to take that nap.” He received nods and then waited until each of the faculty was supine before giving them the lightest stun setting and they quickly lapsed out.
“Okay, just me, and then you’re to follow the plan exactly, Cadet Radisson, understood? You know the time-line. You know what’s expected of you as well. No variations, no ad-libs, not a single change to be contemplated. Understood, Cadet? Cadets?” he stated in a forceful manner as he looked around him as he sat on the deck before them.
“Sir, yes, Sir!” they all chimed back as they nodded back to him.
“Right, well, stun me, ship us out, and then make tracks to your rendezvous. Godspeed, mutineers,” he added with a wry grin and was stunned where he sat. Falling back slightly, he increased the stunned body count to nine, with five ship’s officers and the four Academy faculty officers all splayed out around him.
Fraser stepped away from the shuttle helm.
“Delayed takeoff in thirty seconds, as per plan,” he added. The cadets filed out and stood to the side of the bay as the boarding portal closed. Moments later, the shuttle seemed to quiver for a few seconds and then moved out and through the force-field curtain that held back the vacuum of space, and the shuttle’s engines blazed as its Inertial Drive kicked in and it moved off at sub-light.
“Bridge duty Cadets, follow me,” Radisson said, and they all dropped off their stunners with the armory cadet who’d stationed himself at the shuttle bay doors.
“Say, maybe I can keep mine,” Jorgenson said, “in case our cadet captain sticks me with lousy duty shifts,” he joked as he held up the line leaving the bay for a moment.
Radisson just stared at him for a moment.
“No changes to plan, eh, Jorg?” he quipped back.
He was met with a nod and a smile from his fellow mutineer.
“Right, as our captain likes to say, ‘no ad-libs either.’” Jorgenson laughed and dropped his stunner onto the armory cart and moved back starboard toward the turbo-lift and the Bridge.
Minutes later as Radisson sat for the first time ever in a cruiser’s captain’s chair, he gave the orders to Jorgenson to plot a course to ITO. As the CS Valiant gathered herself for the jump to light-speed and the quarantined planet ahead, he wondered if all the intel was correct too, as he knew there was only a very slow and painful cure for the Natrium Flu.
# # # # #
Aboard the cruiser Sterling, the ship's Adept sat on her bed, in Siddhasana pose, awaiting the communal meeting that would cross over almost fifty light-years of distance in real-time. Gillian knew that Michelle needed to find the spot to be in to do this, but that could take time, so she waited.
The message would be an easy one to deliver but a hard one to make happen, she knew. Telling anyone what was expected of them was a difficult task, but in this case, it may even be a sentence of death. The Pirates’ hostages were for the most part treated cruelly and harshly, but only a few had been sacrificed by their captors … the ones who'd fought back or quit working the mine on ITO.
Gillian was about to tell Michelle she was to lead a miner's revolt, which was a difficult task for anyone, but Gillian knew that Adepts learned at an early age to comply and to follow the leadership of the Grand Master Adept, under whose name Gillian was now relaying these directions. Michelle was also the aunt of the young Adept, Roison, who at eleven was still short by more than a year from puberty and full Adept powers. She would be needed to help protect the miners from the Adept guard leader. She would fail, all believed, but she had to try. Such was the way of the Adept order and such it would always be.
Gillian stretched out her left leg breaking the yoga pose for a moment to massage her spasmed calf and then reposed back into the entwined leg pose, breathed deeply, and waited for Michelle to appear in her consciousness.
# # # # #
Jump Games Day on Neria Station was as to be expected, a day of total confusion for just about everyone who worked the event. The various Station residential and cargo wings, Station modules, and yes, even force-field umbrella’d barges were all arranged around the vacuum arena itself. Today’s competition, the annual championship after eleven monthly competitions, was the culmination of the year and would see the most in attendants, competitors, and wagering too. Thousands would attend today as this day someone would be crowned the Jump Games Annual Champion, and that meant automatic citizenry in the Caliphate and membership as a part of the Royal team alumni. All of the competitors wanted this spot as such rank enabled a life of ease while wearing the Royal indigo robes.
People thronged throughout the walkways, the malls, and corridors, and yes, almost fought for prime viewing stations at various window ports and scene-scapes that overlooked the almost totally surrounded arena area where the competition would occur. It was a festive air with everyone excited, and sometimes loud conversations on their own choices of entrants peaked while still others flaunted their own champions. Vac jumpers were well known throughout the Rim, and each colony, duchy, barony, caliphate, and world had its own champions. And today, they met on Nerian Station to compete for the Annual RIM Championships.
The local Caliphate casinos were there and supported by many other off-world betting conglomerates too; all were jammed along the center mall of the Station, as well as spotted throughout the various viewing stands and even out on some of the barges that surrounded the arena.
Games headquarters was stationed off to the side of the arena, and it was here that RIM Navy stationed their own presence with more than forty officers and CPOs, including a dozen more of the Marwick’s provost guards with their yellow Sam Browne belts and crossed, knurled lanyards. Positioned outside of the entrance to the headquarters, these provost guards were there to show the celebrants that the Rim Navy was in charge of the event policing even though the Caliphate troops were interspersed throughout the whole Station.
; Inside the Games Headquarters, past the general area, Competitor’s login area, and the Judges Only area, was a section that was used as the Competitor’s staging lounge, and it was here that voices were raised. Lieutenant Framingham, assigned the duty to watch over that lounge, finally spoke up as he moved between the Baronial Navy Corporal and an Alto from Randi and barked for quiet.
“Sirs! No one here,” he stated once the two had stopped yelling and now only glared at each other, “cares about who thinks who should or should not be able to compete. Judges have ruled already. Anyone who thinks different is wrong,” he said, his voice now commanding the argument.
“You don’t understand, uh … Lieutenant,” the Alto trilled, his voice almost musical with his anger, “no one can enter the Open Pro class who’s not jumped at least once before in the Amateur class. That’s the rules, that’s the rules,” he said, his face now pointed directly at the corporal held back from him by the lieutenant’s body.
“Not a problem, as I’ve said now for ten times,” the Barony Corporal stated. My brother was entered in the Amateur class eight months ago and had to pull out after only one jump … but that qualifies his ‘must haves,’ and we’ve already proved that to the Judges earlier this morning.”
Lieutenant Framingham looked at the corporal in his red and blue Barony uniform that always, to him at least, looked just a bit gaudy. The nameplate read, “Corporal B. Doering,” and his dearth of campaign badges showed him as either a new enlistee or a paper pusher from the Barony capital world. He nodded to the corporal in agreement.
“Exactly, Corporal. Judges rule and we follow those rulings and that’s how it is. This man … er … well, his brother, I mean, was passed into the Open Pro class and that’s final.” He turned his back now on the corporal and faced the Alto directly.
“Do you have anything else to complain about, Sir?”
The Alto was taken aback but swallowed his anger as he shook his head negatively, as his hair combs flopped back and forth.
The lieutenant nodded and pushed away from the men, who also faded into opposite corners of the room. He noticed that the Alto was a part of the Alto team, Randians all in their event finery, and noticed that the humanoid reported back to the team leader, he suspected, who glared back at Framingham with a look of displeasure. As he moved back toward the center of the room to purvey the various teams and their competitors, he noticed that the Barony corporal was the only one who accompanied this disputed Pro … and wondered about that for an instant. Unlike the Barony to not fully support a system champion, he thought and moved over for a closer look at their competitor.
He was surprised once he was able to take a good look at this man, this supposed Pro Jumper, very surprised.
The man had what could only be called an elongated, misshapen head, with a large forehead much, much bigger than normal. His face, however, was pretty plain and almost childlike in its stolid stare. He nodded to the man and wondered if this could have been the results of jumping into a vacuum … then his science training took over and he knew that wasn’t the case. This man … oddly dressed he suddenly realized in a stylization of caliphate dress, carried anatomical baggage from something that had nothing to do with the results of being in a vacuum for a time … this was something else. He moved around the two who sat on their benches and back toward the observation point he liked near the center of the room. Time now until the Amateurs were over was brief, and that’d mean a large influx of entrants from the arena and that would be noisy. He sighed. All losers except one who’d be crowing while around him others would be wailing. Such is the life of a contest … any contest. He nodded to himself and moved back to oversee the lounge to watch over all.
# # # # #
“Celebrants, welcome to the Rim Vacuum Jump Games Open Professional Class finals,” said the speaker system over Tanner’s head as he peered out the side port of the launch module. Being in charge, he realized had its perks, and this was surely one of them, as he and his XO were positioned directly to the left of the jump field where the Pros would launch themselves into the vacuum arena. Beside him with monitors aimed at them sat the judges, all off-worlders, he noted, from many Confederacy planets. There were Eonians and Altos, UrPoPoians and DenKoss natives, Ducal and Baronial types, and Leudies and Junoites too. All together, the twelve Judges were a cross section of the Confederacy, as it should be, Tanner realized and hoped this would mean that there would be no problems at all. In fact, he thought, the Judges really didn’t do much other than police the entrants’ bona fides before the competition even began. Once the entrants had jumped, the force-fields monitored the time spent out in the arena, and that meant that the time spans of each jump were measured down to the nano-second, hence, he knew, there would be no room for argument or interpretation— as the clock could not lie!
Within the launch pad to his left, the Pros were gathered with their teams around each of them, nodding and listening to both advice and counsel. Surrounded by the plain Station walls, on three sides and the force-field green sheen on the fourth, there was a hubbub of voices and comments all around. Some of the competitors were stretching, while others had trainers massaging their legs or backs. A few were seated in straight-backed chairs, listening to their handlers, while a couple more were lying supine on the gray Station decking, gathering themselves, it appeared. He wondered for a moment what became of a competitor who didn’t win today, and where they’d end up, if anything would happen to them? With ten competitors, nine competitors from other worlds would be also-rans … but where to, he pondered as the milling around seemed to slow over in the launch pad area. In fact, things seemed to stop. And then he saw why.
A double brace of Caliphate guards, khaki brown and blue booted, marched into the area, making much ceremony for only four of them. Behind them came a string of trainers, a couple of medical aides, and then yes, there was the Caliphate Champion, this Jocko.
He looked small in size and heft, but having seen vids of the long standing jumps this man had made, Tanner knew he could jump. His skin still looked so much like green tea leaves did, dark but rusty somehow and leathery near the eyes and temples. He wore the mandatory simple stress jump suit, but his was in the Caliphate khaki brown with their traditional indigo blue exit-pod belt cinched around his waist. His bearing was like he was already the winner, Tanner thought, but that remains to be seen, and shortly.
Jocko, however, appeared pretty unimpressed with what was going on around him as he strode along behind his entourage and took over a small spot close to the force-field. He began some stretching exercises as he got ready for the Class Jump finals. Having earned his spot over the past months via winning at least once, he and the other nine champions from worlds across the Confederacy, all were getting—wait, Tanner thought as he watched a final competitors enter the launch pad area.
A single Barony officer—no, it was a mere corporal, Tanner could see now accompanied in a very odd-looking competitor with his arm around the larger man’s waist. This jump-suited man, lad actually, as he looked younger than all the rest of the competitors by a large factor, had a very odd … very different looking head, and Tanner thought that “larger than life” about covered it. His forehead is as large as my ready room console monitor, Tanner thought, and his hair clumped out of his scalp in tufts and wisps. He was large, about a full six and a half feet in height but wouldn’t weigh more than 150 lbs, and he wore, like Jocko did, the colors of the Caliphate competitor’s jump suit. Odd, Tanner thought, and he reached for the monitor screen at his station and quickly fingered for a competitor’s listing … and yes, there were two Caliphate competitors, Jocko and this one, a Caliphate intern, named of all things, Junior Doering.
Intern, Tanner knew, meant he had applied to join both the religion and the worlds therein and was awaiting final review of his application. Winning today would help his case, Tanner thought suddenly, but against Jocko, most of these competitors’ personal best times were at least thirty seco
nds short. Tough crowd, and the competition was about to begin as the launching pad coordinators stepped up to announce the rules formally and to arrange the line up of worlds to be applied. Most were listening, Tanner noted, but this Junior was off in his own world, nodding his head to a distant drummer while Jocko too appeared to be ignoring the launch configurations around him.
Once done, the competitors all drew starting positions via lots, which seemed to take more time than was needed, echoed with the encouragement of their retinues and cheering and catcalls from those in the competitor’s guest's area. Beside the competitors’ deck lay that small bleacher area, holding competitors’ family and friends, investors and backers too. Within that group, from across the RIM, were almost an entire pageant of the various races and citizens, all cheering for their own world’s champions. While no one waved a flag or sang an anthem, they just about could have, Tanner saw.
Jocko, Tanner noted, earned the number three spot from the starboard line while the Junior lad was at the end in the number ten spot, as far to port on the force-field as one could be. And now it was time to get ready for the call to the line and the competitors last chance for oxygen. The launch pad quieted, and Tanner watched as all did these final moments before the launch.
The ten competitors all moved forward ahead of the yellow line on the deck and awaited the masks to drop from above. Moments later in front of each of them, a mask appeared from above connected via a clear tube to the Station’s infrastructure, each hissing from the supply lines. All of the competitors reached for one and held the masks over their nose and mouth to inhale, to take in the gas that would help them last longer, hopefully, than their competitors. At least that’s what each of them thought, Tanner surmised as he, among all the rest, watched the ten competitors breathe in … then out … then in … then out … slow methodical breaths that were to bank the oxygen for use in less than a minute. Some competitors stopped before others, and Tanner noted that Junior stopped well before all the others, his taking of O2 being less than half of all the rest. Others stopped soon after, and then a buzzer sounded, the ten-second warning, as they all moved ahead of that yellow line to the green line only ten feet short of the force-field. Some dropped into a crouch, while others used a set of starting blocks like Jocko did, to launch themselves into the arena a short ten yards away. Quiet ensued, and all awaited the klaxon to begin the championship round.
