Deacon was thrilled when he learned the credit Julian was able to secure from local businesses, all eggar to sponsor the planned cruise of the shipping lanes around Hades Rising, both heavily active and remote. He was less so when Julian went on to tell him he had bet the lion’s share of it on the grav ball.
“You are the most pathologically irresponsible mother-fucker I have ever met!” Deacon raged.
“That may be,” Julian conceded, “but I’m not nearly as stupid as you always seem to assume. The Sharks will be victorious.”
“And you’re so sure these, what was it now . . . Oh yes! Six to one underdogs will find their way to the game let alone victory.” Deacon asked with incredulity.
“You suspect skulduggery?” Julian asked mockingly.
“What did you do?” Deacon demanded.
“Some bribes, some of the girls from downstairs are themselves avid Shark fans and agreed to, ah . . . ” Julian trailed off with a shrug.
“And what did all that cost?” Deacon asked, voice tight but trying to be reasonable.
“Pretty much the rest of it,” Julian confessed.
“You are the worst guy I know,” Deacon assured him and opened the door leading to Julian and Natasha’s rooms. Everyone was already there getting drunk in preparation for the game.
Every young kid who grew up in the Riftward Marches wanted to be a pirate or a grav baller. There were twelve inhabited worlds in the Marches and each had a team that toured and vied for the title of Rift champions of the year and the glorious payday that came with it. Unlike the mechanical, commercial-laden gladiatorial events of the Core Worlds, played by barely half-human drug-fueled cyborgs, grav ball was unique to the Rift and consisting of the local residents of the worlds they played for. There were many amateur ventures in the sport but only twenty from each planet were in the Rift League.
“Now how exactly is this savage game played?” Guy asked no one in particular.
“Basically,” Floyd stepped-in, “The team with the ball has to make one full circuit of the track before the captain, who starts with it, passes it to one of the four designated carriers or keeps it himself. Then two full circuits and an attempt to score on the goal. The defensive team can steal the ball and they reverse directions, making two laps and shooting, or they can gain possession by bringing the ball-carrier to a stop, in which case play stops and the whole thing starts again.”
“The whole thing’s in free fall,” Guy inquired, “how do they maneuver?”
Kruger answered this time, “There’s a set of thrusters set on their lower backs, see” He pointed to an example on the pre game warm-ups being shown on the wall monitor. “They’re linked to a gyroscope that keeps them level, they control acceleration by the way they extend their feet. You break by bending your knees, pull them up to your chest and the inertial break kicks-in, which is an effective if uncomfortable way to stop pretty-much immediately.” And with this Victor Kruger sat back with a musing look on his face and hardly spoke again that night.
“So it’s sort of like football,” Guy concluded, “but gay.”
Julian snorted a nose full of bourbon with the remark and it burned horribly. His dance of pain lightened Deacon’s mood considerably and met with general approval throughout the assembled party if one were to judge by the outburst of laughter.
“I’ll have all your guts!” Julian cried when the spasms of pain had passed. “I’ll keelhaul the lot of you through an asteroid field!”
“Quit yur bitching,” Natasha said wiping his face with a damp rag. “It’s starting. Sooka blet.”
Julian laughed again as he passed Guy, the English were a strange lot, and not many of them left these days. Most of what had constituted the British isles was underwater now for the better part of a millennia. What little remained was a frozen hell for half the year. They hardly complained at all though, except about how much they hated playing football indoors. They were largely independent, if impoverished, for the first few centuries of the New Era. The completion of the grandest archology to date, over the watery grave of London, made western Europe fashionable once more and it was decided to move the Federation capital there amidst a movement to relocate it to Earth from Mars, which was much more livable in the years after the God War.
That sealed the fates of everyone living on the remaining islands. Land was taken to build summer homes and retreats for the Federation’s elite. It was a commonly understood lesson of the Old Era empires that allowing dilapidation of the symbolic heart of a ruling power led to no good. The East Anglian Isles became an overnight fashion-hub four months out of the year, a traditional starting point for the grand tour of the continent. The ruins of Berlin and Copenhagen were a must-see for any well-bred con.
Julian’s grandparents had come from those parts he was told. A small chain of tiny islands called Ireland. Julian had never been there, or to Earth at all for that matter. He hadn’t heard good things.
By half-time the Sharks were indeed trouncing the Curacao Assassins, six to one favorites, and Julian reclined with a terribly self-satisfied look on his face. Deacon considered hitting him again, but there was business to deal with that required the captain’s attention before he was too drunk to sit upright. He got up and motioned for Julian and Billy to follow who did so after refilling their glasses.
“What’s up?” Billy asked when they entered the kitchen.
“I was approached by an agent of those Fringe politicos who’ve been making such a racket down that way,” Deacon said in a muffled voice.
“They can’t have the ship,” Julian interjected at once. “I don’t give a fuck the price they’re offering which couldn’t be that much anyway judging by the wreckage they fly.”
“I made that clear,” Deacon continued, “But I think there might be a compromise we can all live with. If we turn them down flat they’ll come after her and we’ll have to deal with them and the Feds.”
“Agreed, what’s your idea?” Julian asked.
“We have all the technical data on that entire vessel including all of her subsystems. They’re worth almost as much as the ship itself and we can keep selling them.” Deacon said in a suggestive tone.
“Piecemeal,” Billy said, his eyes lighting up. “And bring-in other buyers. If we had an ‘in’ I bet Lockhard’s competition would pay astronomically for it.”
Deacon and Julian looked each other in the eye and had the same thought. “Guy,” Julian called, leaning into the common area. “Get in here for a minute.”
“So what’s up with you and the ‘Y’ chromosome having freak?” Ursula prodded Natasha once in the bedroom where they and Miss Kitty, as she preferred to be called when not working, had retreated when the boys began wandering-off or getting rabidly drunk.
“Julian iz teddy bear,” Natasha said with a dismissive wave, rasing the half-dead bottle of vodka to her lips. Ursula and Kitty exchanged a look of concern for a brief moment but it was one Natasha noticed.
“I am not alcoholic!” She declared, “I am fucking Russian!”
“You’re fucking Russian,” Kitty acknowledged with her hands up in surrender.
“Julian is sweet boy,” Natasha continued, “Look what he write.” She went to the table by the bed, grabbed her portable and began calling something up. “I read hiz journal,” the fucking Russian explained. “I make copy.”
Ursula accepted the computer with a curious look on her face as Kitty leaned-in to see.
“Holy shit,” Kitty laughed. “Who’d a thunk it?”
You are my favorite stormy port, my dear,
In an otherwise boring, tranquil sea.
The water’s always a’rage as I near,
Oh please, let me moore for the night in thee.
You are an island of utter madness,
Your rocky surf sweet and savagely sings;
So welcome me to your shores in gladness
For I’m an explorer of twisted things.
You’re a pirate queen, I’m a man adrift,
Rescued but pressed into service’s woes.
Then down to your cabin after my shift,
Better then drowning to death I suppose.
You’re the albatross hung about my neck
And I am the squall that tosses your ship.
You’re the steel-eyed sail-mistress on my deck,
Let me be the cutlass upon your hip.
“Emily Dickinson is rolling in her grave,” Ursula said, “I can’t wait to rub his face in this.” Kitty began laughing even harder.
“You can’t say anyting, blet!” Natasha demanded but Ursula waved her off.
“There is no way in hell I’m keeping this to myself,” Ursula said now laughing herself. “I’‘m sorry, I’m a bitch. But I’m a bitch who knows a good time when she sees one!”
When Julian returned for the second half, he noticed the gals had retreated to the bedroom. They were all howling in delight. It made him nervous.
That night they walked the streets to admire the glow of scattered fires and the cries of the distant mob who ransacked their way through the inner city. People were overwhelmed by the stunning and unexpected upset victory over Curacao. So great was the feeling of jubilation that there was no way to contain it; nor, it would seem, to express it without overturning a few vehicles and burning some buildings down. It was all in good fun, of course, but the local constables had their hands full trying to keep the destruction to a minimal.
From time to time, an individual or small group would cross their path and shout something like “We won! We won!” Julian would always tell them that they were welcome, nod and continue along with a proud smile.
“It’s a fine thing, to be able to bring such joy to the hearts of so many,” Julian said, as a great fireball reached to the sky from a block away, causing another corse adjustment. “And such lovely chaos . . .”
“You are an explorer of twisted things,” Ursula said as she passed him, frozen in his tracks. |
Submission Name: Iceni Queen 4--Grav Ball
