Teramar: The Gathering Night

by Thomas Michael Murray

  870 U.N. Plaza Penthouse

  He took a long look at himself in the mirror. “Do I appear nervous? I’m Shayne Wright. I can’t possibly be nervous.” Four hours until game time. He was running late.

  This year, New York finally had a shot at making the playoffs. This opportunity would be the first time in ten years the team even had a chance of making it to the big show. A large reason for their improvement was the acquisition of Shayne Wright as the new point guard. At almost seven feet, he was tall for the position, whereas most of the famous point guards in the league were shorter (relatively). Called the ball-handler, the position was responsible for walking the basketball up the court to establish a team’s offense. Big men didn’t normally have the speed and agility to play the position, but Shayne Wright offered the complete package. His height struck fear into the opposing teams. Shayne could easily pivot for rebounds as well as sharp shoot the perimeter. He felt comfortable anywhere on court. For a pleased Coach Radcliff, Shayne Wright was the last piece to a complicated puzzle as he rebuilt the roster along with his own tattered reputation. Radcliff was a hall of fame coach who won a ring early in his career, although he was never able to put together a respectable franchise after that.

  Shayne came to New York as the league’s “number two draft pick.” Radcliff sacrificed two good players to another franchise for the honor. The team’s supporting cast also featured another new hire, the nimble and clever center, Ben Smith. Facing down the twilight of his own career, Ben Smith had yet to win the elusive championship and the veteran player didn’t see that happening with his former team.

  Deep eyes gazed back from the mirror. Shayne thought he appeared calm. “Look responsible. Be a leader.” Coach Radcliff had everyone on edge these days. “I can’t be a nervous rookie to these guys.”

  The young sports star lived alone in a large, four-bedroom apartment that overlooked the East River. A television news anchor and conductor of the New York Philharmonic were the other famous residents. Initially, the building’s board of directors was hesitant to let Shayne Wright even live in the luxury high-rise. The complaints were the usual faire – that he was too young and a celebrity of the wrong kind. Since he was only renting, and the apartment itself was tucked away on the penthouse floor, the board ultimately accepted his application. Loud noise was the most cited concern, but thanks to the few basketball fans on the board, all the objections from the building’s cranky contingent were waved away.

  Shayne took great pride decorating his new penthouse, choosing wall colors and furniture. He also purchased three impressive pieces of art with the help of his agent who approved the transactions as good investments. When the paint finally dried, Shayne’s ultimate creation was a home that delivered the unmistakable feel of a Park Avenue apartment versus the gaudy self-portraits that adorned his peers’ cribs. His few friends teased that the place had a distinctly feminine flair. Shayne didn’t care what they thought. He felt like an adult here. The apartment was his one sanctuary from the flash-bulb world of professional sports.

  As he settled into this new life, Shayne quickly realized he was the only African American resident in the eastside apartment building. Moreover, his status as a star basketball player did not always shield him from cool receptions or rude behavior. Shayne wasn‘t sure if this was because he was black or because he came from humble origins. While the building’s staff was outwardly cordial, his friends, who were usually also black, had to consistently, show their drivers’ licenses at the front desk whereas the security people would waive others in. Or, a handful of residents gave Shayne the once over in the elevator, with expressions that said, “Who let you in?” At alumni events, he often played the trophy where the word “boy” might slip out. Shayne knew he couldn’t complain and that he was very lucky to have this talent for basketball and access to great wealth. And of course, New York, as a city, was a very long way from playing high school basketball in the Deep South.

  After signing a ninety five million dollar, five-year contract with a “stacked” and separate mega-brand sponsorship, people of all shapes and sizes were throwing themselves at him for sex, friendship and business deals – the list was truly endless. Acquaintances from his old hood jumped out of the woodwork in droves, claiming deep friendships, when in fact he barely remembered most of their names. With his mother gone, all he had left were distant cousins and an old aunt he barely knew but to whom he sent a lot of money.

  Before the national league firmly locked Shayne Wright in this gilded cage of wealth and celebrity, the star athlete had previously dinned at this table when he led his alma mater to a college title. Thereafter, Shayne immediately got the calls to “go pro.” As basketball is a demanding, highly physical game, he consciously decided to put youth on his side and abruptly left the prestigious school. Although he disappointed many people there, ambition had sunk its sharp claws into Shayne. He wanted to, desperately needed to win another championship. This time, the elusive O’Brien Trophy in the national league. Everyone attached to the team hoped for the same – the players, the owners, the fans and his sponsors most of all.

  Shayne made one exception to an ascetic existence when he fell into an easy friendship with Ben Smith, who was obviously the other new guy on the team. Ben appreciated the younger man’s great skills and genuine love for the game. After many years in the league, Ben had turned bleak and bitter about his career. He felt that basketball had changed, metastasizing into a vast corporation. Large markets always trumped the smaller ones for talent. Many times, he thought critical games were fixed when referees made odd calls in the last few seconds. However, Shayne’s genuine enthusiasm brought a fresh perspective to the veteran player. Shayne reminded Ben that anything was possible with the right attitude and enough hard work. Conversely, the older player’s wisdom helped Shayne settle down to become a steady leader. Ben admonished the younger man for being a selfish showboat. Shayne valued the honesty. Ben was already a famous basketball player and wasn’t looking to kiss somebody’s ass.

  The coach ordered the team to be “in the building” an hour before the regularly scheduled warm up. As New York traffic is normally a horrible snarl, Radcliff insisted that all his players, especially the ones living in their suburban mansions, arrive at the clubhouse at the appointed hour. The coach didn’t want to hear “I’m stuck in traffic” from anyone.

  After a quick shower, Shayne slipped into his most comfortable underwear. He then surveyed a large closet and put on a running suit that was manufactured by his sponsor. Shayne’s agent insisted he wear the brand in public as frequently as possible. Before leaving the apartment, he grabbed a high calorie sports drink - another product his agent insisted he use publicly and frequently.

  The elevator door slid open and the gas-imbued air hit his senses. An ostentatious car sat in the front row. At first, the automobile was an embarrassment, another item provided by his contract, but the interior was custom made for larger people. He also learned to appreciate the privacy afforded by dark windows. His agent would say, “Come on Shayne, you’ve got to look the part.”

  Shayne pulled up to the exit. The night attendant, an older black man waved at the star athlete. Shayne’s window came down.

  “We gonna win tonight?”

  “You know were gonna try like hell, Joe.”

  “I’ll be watching and rooting for you.” The smiling grey haired gentleman had a television precariously perched on the small counter in the booth. Joe always made sure Shayne got the best space in the building and he often let Shayne’s friends park there for free.

  Shayne handed the old man a twenty who flashed a smile that revealed smoke stained teeth. “See you when I get back.” Shayne stepped on the pedal and the car made a roar as sports cars do. He then turned right and headed west toward the stadium. Shayne’s blood started to race just a little bit more.

  The Planet Remus

  On the home world, Prince Titus, the king’s brother, sat at the head of a pol
ished table with his staff gathered round. The meeting took place at the only military installation on the mostly agrarian planet. Similar to all Teramarian spaces, the hall was cavernous and overdone.

  Initially, there were conflicting reports from Teramar. Then, an eerie quiet. All the official communication surreptitiously went dark and that included access to the monarchy’s computer. Titus attempted to directly contact his sister-in-law, the queen, but the line was dead. Text snippets began to pour in on private devices:

  “Uriah coup!”

  “King in irons. Prince has fled.”

  “Round ups.”

  A senior commander stood before a large halo-screen that ran along the grand table. The screen presented an Uriahan fleet in motion and on course for Remus. Autonomous deep-space probes captured the rolling video. In a voice that was accustomed to being heard, Prince Titus’s headman authoritatively delivered the briefing, “Their armada will be here in a few hours. As our planet is lightly armed, as it has always been, we cannot send a war party out to meet them.” The man paused, suppressing a warrior’s outrage. “Remus, however, is not without resources. As everyone in this room knows, the capital city was recently fitted with a new shield system. We are therefore moving the entire civilian population into Carpinia. We can hold out indefinitely although the capital will be a tight fit.”

  Another at the table addressed the king’s brother, “My lord, I suggest that you return to the capital. With the king and prince royal missing, we cannot have you out here at the base. They will hit this place with everything they’ve got.”

  In a second halo-screen, stood a young commander on the bridge of a large hover. He had a hard dark face. Anyone could see the marked resemblance. Flanking the young man were equally young officers who also wore the equally serious expression of their commander.

  Titus turned to that halo-screen and said, “Alexander, I want you to leave for deep space. You must scatter and save what we can to fight another day.” The room was quiet as Prince Titus spoke to his son. As Alexander kept the lights low on his bridge, Titus found it difficult to gauge the reaction.

  “Father, you want us to run like cowards,” said the young man? His tone exuded disgust. The crowded room bristled at the disrespect. The father knew his son was entrusted with far too much responsibility than he deserved. Prince Hadrian and Alexander were close kin and it was the prince royal who lobbied for Alexander’s promotion to fleet commander.

  “Our young men are a spoiled lot.”

  In a voice that carried the full authority of the crown, Titus admonished his son, “Alexander, we don’t require hysterical bravery right now. With the new shields positioned round Carpinia, we will hold fine. You need to find our Hadrian.”

  The king’s brother also knew of the existence of the new warship and second great computer. His brother had shared that much. In the face of catastrophe, those assets were the king’s firewall although a lazy complacency had settled over the king’s family. With a Uriah princess as queen every one of them had comfortably eased into a world where Livia Uriah couldn’t possibly betray the father of her children. This bloody coup truly astonished Titus and the Capet high command.

  Frustrated by a cautious father, Alexander complained, “Shouldn’t we provide cover as you move the people to safety?”

  Titus saw himself on that screen. He knew the young man craved an opportunity to prove himself and deliver their revenge. “Claudia, are you listening?”

  “Yes Titus, answered his wife.”

  Many thought it a weakness that Prince Titus consulted his woman. Another halo-screen dropped, revealing her kind face. Princess Claudia was in the capital, overseeing the massive influx of refuges. His wife stood in the great room of their house addressing a group of civilian leaders. With the town’s people standing as witness to this conversation, Titus needed to be brief. There was already enough panic on their small world. An agricultural planet, the king’s ancestral home grew the finest wine in the ring of planets.

  “My dear, how is the evacuation of the vineyards progressing? Do we have most of them?”

  Claudia had been following the conversation in an earpiece. “Yes Titus, all of the vulnerable are behind the shield. I would say we are near complete. Most of the current flow is military from the base.”

  “Very good. Please proceed with due haste. I will see you shortly.” He abruptly switched the screen off.

  Titus gave his son a hard look. “Alexander, you need to leave presently. Even now, they can still give chase. Preserve our small Remian fleet and find your cousin. Embedded in your flight package are significant clues for the prince’s whereabouts. I am not at liberty to further discuss this on the open channel. That is your mission. Good luck.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he switched off all of the halo-screens and Alexander evaporated into thin air. He turned to the group and said, “I suppose we are ready for Darius.”

  Immediately, the headman roared, “Bring the Uriahan representative on Remus.”

  Forest green guards pushed a disheveled man to the ground at the feet of Prince Titus. From his knees, the man fearfully stared at all of the Capet officers with a wary countenance. This man was the half-brother of Lord Charles North and the Queen. A delicate aristocrat, wisps of grey hair encircled a long head. Darius Uriah had been drinking. A womanish embarrassment to the clan, the family shuttled him off to Remus to remain out of sight.

  Slowly, Darius Uriah found his bearings. A stale vinegary musk rolled off a dirty tunic. In a weaving speech, he addressed the king’s brother, “Yessssss, Titussss. Pleassse excuse my condition. I started to envibe the wonderful beverage this planet produces the moment I heard of the madness. You have to know - hic - I don’t support my brother and sister - hic. I already confessed everything to your people.” His body lurched from side to side.

  One of the guards purposefully kicked the ambassador in the stomach with a loud thud. A stream of wine colored vomit rose from a tired mouth. Coughing the prisoner sputtered, “You are violating our treaty with this treatment.”

  The prince sneered, “Please, what do you call the treatment of my brother, the true king?”

  Darius Uriah replied in a slurred voice, “I always liked and admired your brother. You know they don’t listen to me. I thought Hadrian was a good king.”

  “Can you raise your sister on the com?”

  “I have tried. None of them will answer. They know I am calling to complain.” One of the attendants in the room handed him a rag.

  “Are you aware that an invasion force is presently bearing down on Remus?”

  “I am now.”

  Titus curtly nodded to another guard who roughly pulled back Darius’s head. The same man that kicked him then began to repeatedly strike his face until blood oozed from the nose and mouth. The large room was getting warm. Perspiration beaded on all the foreheads. Back and forth, the guard continued to work the older man’s face. “For some reason, I like having you beaten,” said the prince. “Really, I should have invited your brother to observe. Maybe then he would have returned my call? He seems to enjoy this sort of thing.”

  Everyone present cruelly smiled with satisfaction. Here was a bleeding Uriah clansman, a top tier noble, half-brother to Lord North and the queen, someone who could accept immediate punishment for his family’s outrage. Titus savored how the fussy Darius Uriah cringed underneath the open hand. Before the scene went too far, however, the prince loudly snapped his fingers and the guard ceased the activity.

  The victim sputtered, “By all means, please continue, Titus. My objective is the satisfaction of your need for revenge.” The stench of vomit crawled up all of their noses.

  “Darius, you are an odd man. You have not taken a wife and you do not have immediate family nearby. With you, the traditional notion of a hostage is not available. Yet, I do know you carry a strong attachment for your servants. We have therefore taken all of your people and they are now comfortably ensconced in a r
azor room.” Multiple images bounced around them. Razor rooms were used in the production of wine. Darius could see the worried faces and an empty residence.

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “And, your brother’s strike force will be gentle with my own people? We hope the knowledge of these hostages will be sufficient motivation to instill an ardent effort to negotiate on our behalf.”

  “They don’t listen to me, Titus.”

  ”Yes, your brother and the queen despise you, but you still carry their name.” Titus delivered an insincere smile.

  “Take this scum out of my sight. Make him presentable for the halo-screen and clean up this mess,” the prince roared.

  The room jumped to life.

  Suite 2024

  After the early morning jump from the sky, Prince Hadrian slept until noon by earth time. He enjoyed the quiet hours in this comfortable bed and his body appreciated a return to a real world environment. Even with the most advanced technology insulating and protecting him, the prince’s body missed the pull of gravity and the softness of real air.

  Winter’s dull light timidly filled the room. Hadrian was eager to get out and see the city. Jessica would probably insist he return to the ship if not after tonight’s game, then certainly the following morning. Setting priorities as a young man can, the prince willed his mind on the moment. Hadrian put on his earpiece. “Jessica, tonight’s basketball is in seven of their hours?” The prince’s hair fell about his shoulders. With the faintest whiskers, he resembled a forest lion.

  “I trust you had a pleasant rest. You slept deeply, my lord.”

  “Again, please stop these tiresome pleasantries, machine. You know you’re not wishing me well. You are only programmed to wish me well. I’ve always had my suspicions about grand computers, which ultimately proved to be true with Cataline’s treachery. Please only engage when asked a direct question.”

  Jessica spoke coldly, “To answer your direct question, yes sire, the basketball game starts in seven of their hours?” When she spoke, she exaggerated the words “direct question.”