Twin Paradox

by Purple Hazel

  The admiral then added, looking back at her briefly, “I’ve read from your ongoing updates on the three space twins by the way. Very candid…wordy at times.” He raised one eyebrow when saying this to indicate a mixture of harmless annoyance and playful sarcasm. “But I appreciate the details, and find it to be quite informative. Fine job, Ensign.”

  Monika sighed with relief and demurred a bit, not expecting—nor at the time really wanting—a compliment from the “big cheese” at Space Programme. Right then, all she wanted was for the Lieutenant to spill the beans on what was going on with Ensign Jo.

  “Thanks, Admiral,” she replied respectfully, then Monika pulled her chair back and sat down at the table. She instinctively grabbed up the tablet in front of her and held it firmly in her hands, awaiting further orders.

  “Very well then,” continued Lieutenant Calles. “If you’ll please open the document in front of you, we can begin. However…I need you to understand, Ensign Steckel, that the conversation we’ll be having is completely confidential and top secret. Same with the document you’ll be examining today. What we’ll be discussing is not to leave this room—not to be revealed nor spoken of to anyone else. Not your colleagues. Not your husband. Not other officers in Space Programme. Not anyone. Is that understood?”

  Monika nodded, glancing up from her electronic notepad, saying “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I understand.”

  “Good then,” replied Lieutenant Calles. “If everyone else is quite ready, we’ll begin. Admiral?” The admiral nodded and gestured with his head to proceed. Lieutenant Calles looked around at the other three officers sitting around the table. Monika had never met or seen any of them, either. Then the Lieutenant asked, “Could someone please shut the door? We’ll be needing complete privacy for the next fifteen minutes or so.”

  When the door had been closed, and seeing no further objections, the tall fellow took a seat at the conference table and instructed everyone to place their right hand on their screens. Doing so activated an identity verification process of some kind; as everyone performed this task, the documents opened. Monika could now see what Space Programme Security needed her to know about the Jo twins…and Min-Pharma Corporation.

  PART TWO

  NOVICES

  AND

  VETERANS

  Chapter 4

  Rookie

  “Nnnnnnngh...Oh my God,” groaned Ozzie as he rolled over to get out of bed in his London hotel room. The Dallas Wranglers had travelled to England to play the London Red & Whites in a preseason Megaball game. Flew in the day before from Dallas by airship, and spent the evening trying to hydrate themselves and work through the “jetlag” as folks used to call it in the old days. It had been an eight-hour flight—plus crossing six time zones—but that was the least of his worries besides his sore, aching body.

  Ozzie was still desperately trying to make the team. This was the first game of preseason coming up that night at Wembley Stadium, and he’d heard there’d be another round of cuts Monday. He knew if he got a chance to play, perhaps in the second half, he had better perform well. Failing to do so would mean he might never get a second chance. It would also mean a very long, depressing flight home to Dallas.

  “That really, really hurts, dammit,” he then muttered, referring to his ribcage, where he’d sustained a vicious hit during practice earlier that week. His hotel roommate, Samson, an interior lineman who was half Japanese and half African-American, playfully taunted him from the other bed.

  “Feelin’ it, old man? Painful, huh? Startin’ to miss that ol’ rocking chair back in Houston by now, I bet.” Ozzie started to chuckle at his teammate’s playful sarcasm, but even laughter hurt. He didn’t mind the harmless kidding from Samson, of course, but he had to admit, others on the team were rarely that nice—or, for that matter, even mildly compassionate.

  This was the way it had been for months, by the way. Right from the start, the attitude toward players trying out for the team was one of cynicism and callous disregard. No one wanted to get too close or emotionally attached to those competing for a roster spot. Even the other new players were noticeably lacking in warmth toward one another.

  Samson was one of those who’d earned his job already. He’d been on the team for years, and Práxedis had briefed Ozzie on the man: one of his best friends on the squad. He’d grown up in Japan, the son of an African-American construction engineer and a Japanese business executive who ran a wholesale fish company. They’d met when Samson’s American father had visited Nagoya to meet with the middle-aged Japanese woman about designing a new facility. The two lovers never married, and split up after a few years of trying to maintain a long-distance relationship. Shortly thereafter, his mother, Miyuki, discovered she was pregnant.

  Young Samson grew up in Japanese society as a sort of outcast, really. His dark skin. His wiry hair. These set him apart from everyone. But his size was more often a factor than anything else in the way he was treated—especially after puberty, when he shot up to 1.9 meters tall! By then, every little Japanese boy who’d tried picking on him as a pre-teen—or who’d tried taking him on as the biggest kid on the playground—came to regret it. Miyuki saw to it her only child was prepared early on for what she knew he’d face as a hâfu growing up in Nagoya. By age ten, he’d studied Judo. By sixteen, he’d entered training to become a Sumo wrestler. After that, pretty much no one dared challenging him.

  “So…old age startin’ to catch up with ya’ yet…Rookie?” Samson chided him further. The big man knew he could get away with it, too. He’d entered the Professional Megaball Association after an outstanding college career at University of California. Previous to that, he’d played with the Obic Seagulls in Narashino, Chiba, Japan. By that time, he’d earned a reputation as a solid lineman, or Forward as they called it in Megaball.

  “You better get it together ’fore too long, niggah. We playin’ them pasty white English boys later on tonight. Lots o’ Dallas fans come out to see us every time we play here, too, ’n you know it. London ’bout to get turnt!”

  Ozzie got a kick out of Samson and his rough, inner city slang. It always sounded so affected, as though he’d picked it up over the years so he could sound tough, which was completely unnecessary…he was freakishly strong.

  Oddly enough, it reminded him of Shamiso, who, by coincidence, he expected to see later on that night! She was playing a concert at the arena near Wembley Stadium. His plan was to get a message out to her entourage at the concert hall after the game and travel over there to see her before team curfew. If it worked, Samson had agreed to let the two have the room alone for a while, pretending to be afflicted with insomnia and hanging out with the assistant coaches in the lobby, until the two lovers had enjoyed some “alone time”.

  By the way, Samson could hardly believe “Ranger” Guerrero was dating the one and only Rudo Love’s twin sister! Since he fully believed Ozzie Guerrero was, in fact, his old teammate “Ranger”, now rejuvenated and returning to the league, this was quite baffling to him. “When did you start goin’ for black girls, homey?” he’d taunted Ozzie when he first told him of the relationship. Frankly, Samson, just like the rest of the world, had no idea Rudo Love had any family to speak of. Nevertheless, he was happy to accommodate his roommate and risk a fine for being out of his room after curfew. It was the least he could do for the old veteran who had struggled so much these past six weeks to try and make the team…

  * * * *

  Training camp had been a nightmare. Every possible manifestation of one. The politics of it was what struck Ozzie immediately. The infighting. The rivalries. The unprofessionalism. The lack of comraderie. No one trusted anyone. Everyone was out for themselves. Practically anyone was vulnerable to losing their starting job. Players were tense and coaches were short-tempered. No one was friendly, or even slightly cordial. You could be cut tomorrow and they’d never see you again. So…why bother?

  The media loved him, though. Couldn’t get enough of him. It was the most
bizarre sports story of the entire preseason!

  Why? Why would a player like “Ranger” Guerrero bother coming back to play? What was left for him to prove? Reporters hit him with that question so often, he had run out of fresh answers by the time camp had ended. He could see their dilemma, though. They made a good point! His brother had done plenty enough. A legend of the game. Had most every accolade…and three championships. Virtually a shoo-in to the league’s Hall of Honor—first ballot most likely—even if he wouldn’t be eligible for that until three years after retirement.

  And yet, Ozzie continually wowed them with poise and class in every interview. So honest. So forthright. Never gave the boiler plate sports interview with all those tired, overused catch phrases like, “I just wanna do my part to help this team bring another championship back to Dallas.” No, Ozzie wasn’t that way. “Ranger” might have been at one time. Not Oswaldo. Besides, these people thought he was “Ranger”, and that was just fine and dandy with Ensign Guerrero, on shore leave from Space Programme and living out a childhood fantasy impersonating his twin brother. He had no contempt for them, nor ever seemed uncomfortable around the press. The North American sports media buzzed around him like honey bees. When they did, he gave it to them straight. Didn’t mince words. He was blunt but engaging. Hilarious, too. He’d crack up the entire locker room on occasion, and those eager reporters angling for a good story loved him for it:

  Reporter #1: “How do you like training camp, Ranger?”

  Ozzie: “I’d liken it to hell; however, that might not be completely fair, come ta’ think of it. In the case of eternal damnation, there’s at least the presumption that you got what you deserved bein’ sent there. With training camp, you can’t help remindin’ yerself repeatedly that it was your decision to put yerself through all this bullshit.

  Reporter #2: “What challenges do you think you face this year as a returning player?”

  Ozzie: “I’d say there’s ’bout seventy-nine of ’em. I’d name ’em for ya’, but I think they’re all listed on that thang over there that says ‘Depth Chart’. Actually, I forgot…make that eighty if you count me personally. ’N if I don’t get my ass in gear tomorrow, we can add about twenty-three more for the coaches and the trainers havin’ to put up with me.”

  Reporter #3: “How, in your opinion, is the team coming together, Ranger?”

  Ozzie: “This is a group of guys who come from all walks of life and many different backgrounds. We’ve all been brought together…with our different skill sets and abilities…to make a contribution to this fine organization in any way we possibly can. And yet I have to admit…after six weeks sharing the field of battle with these fine young men…that by and large we really do hate the fuck out of each other.”

  Reporter #4: “What do you see as the biggest hurdle to Dallas making it back to the playoffs in 2111?”

  Ozzie: “Biggest hurdle? Basically, in my opinion, there’s a sixteen-way tie between Mexico City, Houston, Atlanta, Phoenix, Buffalo, Frankfurt, Guadalajara, Detroit, Denver, Osaka, Brussels, and San Diego…unless I forgot anybody. Some o’ them boys we gotta play twice, you know? Other ’n that, I’d say it’ll be smooth sailin’.”

  That’s the way it was in practically every interview, too. Ozzie—posing as Ranger—was like the pleasant elder statesman of the locker room. The respected, gallant veteran. Players loved having him around for just that reason, too. He drew the attention of reporters who would otherwise be annoying them instead, and they appreciated that most of all. Ozzie, however, didn’t seem to mind. Práxedis had educated him well.

  “Treat the press like yer best friend,” he’d taught his twin brother. “They won’t always return the favor. But if they hate ya’, they’ll turn on you the moment you give ’em an excuse.”

  Not everyone shared such attitudes toward the press, though. For instance, there was Ozzie’s teammate and fellow Center Back Assegai Ndwandwe, a giant of a man originally from South Africa, who had evolved from a bruising rugby player into a fine Megaballer in his own right, at the University of Manitoba. His family had immigrated to Canada when he was seventeen. Assegai’s relationship with the media was far different—and so was his relationship with practically everyone else!

  Assegai’s take on the media was essentially that they were his mouthpiece to communicate his opinions, and, when necessary, stroke his boundless ego. They seemed to challenge him constantly to back up his bold words with heroic deeds—and the motivation he derived from this only served to fuel his determination to silence them.

  In Dallas, Texas, however…he fit right in. Meshed well with the centuries-old culture of Texan pride and stubborn regionalism it was always known for. The United States may very well have seen a rather sad end to its reign after two-and-a-half centuries of glory, but Texans still thought of and identified themselves as citizens of the Lone Star Republic. The African-American community in Dallas embraced him immediately. Caucasian women fawned over him like a movie star. Practically everywhere he went, photographers followed, and when they did, there always seemed to be yet another lily white or bronzed bombshell on his arm, contrasting his dark black skin and gleaming smile.

  Assegai had enormous hands and was bestially strong. Bulging eyeballs—and biceps. Two meters tall in cleats, he was bigger than many college Forwards, even if he was slender compared to most at the professional level. He could scramble well—a bit of a loose cannon—but he made things happen, and he moved offenses down the field. That was the key. His voice was so deep and resonant. When he spoke, it was as if he was singing—or belting out a Zulu war cry. Tackling him was like colliding with an angry rhinoceros protecting its territory.

  Arriving in Dallas from Manitoba, Assegai became quite a sensation in the worldwide media as well. Sponsors seemed to line up out the doors at Wranglers World Headquarters in Frisco, Texas, to sign endorsement deals with him. But this was quite typical. Práxedis had educated his uninformed younger-looking twin on this concept before he headed off to Dallas.

  “Big companies wantin’ the next big thing…wantin’ to jump on the bandwagon, so to speak…they love to sign up all them bright young stars to promote their products as quickly as possible,” as Práxedis put it. “Right after that first big season…’n right before the next season starts preferably. Gives ’em a chance to cash in b’fore them youngsters crash ’n burn in their second year. A lot of ’em do. Some of ’em flame out so fast it’s amazin’.”

  Yes, Assegai was a character. He’d pose for photographs, model underwear, dress up as a Zulu warrior in full battle dress, with spear and cowhide shield to complement his skimpy loin cloth and muscular bare chest. Makeup artists needn’t do a thing but spritz his face with water to make his dark black skin shimmer. Directors rarely had to repeat themselves. He read cue cards, spoke the words with his sing-song accent—which had hardly faded since leaving South Africa—and consumers embraced him. Products flew off the shelves. Online orders lit up E-commerce sites. Didn’t matter if he was promoting cologne, deodorant, condoms, cars, or clothing.

  But…there was one big problem with Assegai. He absolutely HATED “Ranger” Guerrero. With a passion too. Not Ozzie of course…Ranger…the real one. This hatred had developed two years before when he’d come to Dallas training camp and been put through the ringer trying to make the squad. Such a proud fellow, he’d resented his lowly status on the Dallas roster. Rookie? No. Bullshit. To him, Ranger Guerrero was the past. Assegai Ndwandwe was the future. Each day, he’d claimed to reporters during that demeaning ordeal, was yet another opportunity to unseat the aging legend. At first reporters scoffed at his arrogance. Teammates took him to task about it, too! However, in time, Assegai proved them all wrong.

  By the end of the 2109 season, Ranger Guerrero was a physical wreck. Hardly ever finished a game. Injured reserve by the end of the year. Replaced by the end of next year’s training camp. Meanwhile, Assegai was only slightly gracious about it. Just gave off an “I told you so” atti
tude with the sports media who had to eat crow and admit they’d underestimated him once he was firmly in place as the starting Center Back.

  This, however, only fomented animosity toward him. Yet, despite all the targeting by players in the league, Assegai bested them, one by one. After all, he wasn’t just a pocket quarterback like in the old American sport of “football”. Didn’t have to stand back there like a statue and find open receivers, risking his personal safety from mauling linebackers. Not in Megaball. Players went both ways. Forwards played offense and defense. Backs had to play both offense and defense. Possession change merely meant the hunters became the hunted. Thus, Assegai exacted terrible retribution on those who’d lit him up the previous play or taunted him from across the scrum line. He’d run them down, drive them into the ground, or throw them out of bounds.

  “Payback, bitch!” he’d yell at them, pointing at them like the grim reaper as they lay on the ground, and the home crowds loved it. Could almost count on it, too, every time Dallas went back on defense. The targeting abruptly stopped. Respect took its place. And fear.

  With the starting position firmly in hand…and Ranger Guerrero firmly planted on the sideline, signaling in plays from the Offensive Coordinator…there was basically no reason for Assegai to resent Ozzie’s famous brother. And, yet, he continued to anyway. No one could figure out why he wouldn’t be at least civil toward his defeated/supplanted foe, from whom he’d usurped command of the offense. Yet the grudge never faded. And now poor Ozzie found himself thrown right into the fray—to continue the feud.

  Coaches rarely intervened. Seemed Assegai had it out for him the moment he showed up to training camp. The animosity served to sour any warm welcome Ozzie might have anticipated from teammates glad to see their old leader return. No one wanted to get on Assegai’s bad side. Instead, the reception was lukewarm at best. Each day at practice, the conflict picked up right where it left off. Reasoning with the angry South African was futile. Retaliation invited all-out war between the two men. Soon enough, Ozzie learned to be ever-watchful of his antagonist’s location. Forget where he was, and Assegai would plow into him from out of nowhere, knocking him flat, to the sounds of whoops and hollers from the sideline.