Herculanium (25 page)

Judge Thorne and General Cube moved towards Preston and Jayna, flanking them on both sides and raising their hands for the audience and the cameras.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the world,” said General Cube into the microphone with bass authority, “we give you Preston Jones.”

Preston looked at Jayna and smiled, gripping her hand tighter than he had ever held anyone’s hand before.

Preston cupped his hands tightly around his eyes as he pressed his head flush against the thick glass window, blocking the glare from the observation deck’s overhead lights. It was pitch-black outside, save the lane-light buoys marking the boundaries of the hydro jumbo jet runway/flight path. The global airspace above the Pacific Ocean was too heavy with traffic, so his first destination was to be reached by water. In the future, the ocean itself was used as a freeway by hydroplanes the size of commercial airliners. Compensating for the drag in speed over water, these jet-propelled transports were capable of impressive speeds almost comparable their aerial counterparts.

He walked up to the observation deck to get a little air, still unsure of what was to come. Jayna had turned in a few hours before and, save for a few unsuspecting couples reminiscing of days past and times to come, the deck was empty. Preston always kept his vision on the horizon, on the subtle change of color where the sky met the ocean. If he looked—really looked—at what was in front of him, then he knew he would get overwhelmed and eventually drown.

Closing his eyes, he could feel the hum and vibration of the hydro jumbo jet through its hand railing. The roar and tilt of the waves could be heard and felt, even through the window plating and thick bulkhead. It would be dawn soon, and he had never seen a sunrise tint the ocean like this before.

Preston couldn’t help but think of the precariousness of his position; how long was it going to last? Would he survive the ordeal with his dignity intact? Would he even just survive? Jayna Rogers was probably the only saving grace to his experience, God bless her soul. But in the end, only
he
could save himself.

A salmon-colored arc, barely visible behind the waves, finally slit the horizon. He knew his destiny, whatever it was, lay before him inside the sunrise ahead.

The Bushi Dome Coliseum

Narita, Japan

The Bushi Dome was considered the most technically-advanced baseball park in the world. The entire seating section rotated slowly around the playing field, giving all fans and spectators equal view of the action. Hissing monorails circled above on elevated railing, snaking slowly around the baseball field in a vast orbit that gave its passengers a panoramic view of the park. Statues of great players of the past stood on raised pedestals above each seating section, resembling medieval saints mounted atop old cathedrals. The fans were lost under a shimmering canopy of flags, pennants and towels, chanting in a chorus to cheer their teams on to victory.

Uniformed vendors streamed the isles and walkways, balancing exotic foods and team paraphernalia on their heads and shoulders. Automated vending machines rolled on banisters and railings between seating sections, humming around like little cars in traffic.

Beneath the towering statue of the newly-canonized Buddhist god of baseball, Preston Jones was a child in a wondrous comic-book store. Jayna could barely restrain him from leaving his chair and wildly pointing at something he had never seen before. In-between gawking at attractions, he stared intently at the small monitor mounted behind the headrest of the seat in front of him. Audio-visual statistics flashed in various languages across the screen, with a control pad enabling him to change camera views instantly, zooming in and out on any player on the field.

“I can’t believe you actually like eating seafood hotdogs,” said Jayna, grimacing at Preston as if in pain. “You don’t know what kind of meat they use for filling.”

“Hey, it’s no different than the hotdogs we have back in my time,” he replied back, smacking his lips. “I don’t care if it’s made from a pig, a cow, octopus, seal, or blue whale. If it tastes like red meat, I’m good to go.”

Preston finished his last bite and carefully elevated his food tray up to its folded position.

“Man, if I didn’t know better, I would swear I was sitting in airplane seats.”

“Yes, it
is
quite nice here, isn’t it? Quite generous of Judge Thorne to give us free passes to tour the world. I don’t think you give him enough credit, Preston.”

“This isn’t exactly a freebie, you know. I’m a poster boy for the military with no choices. It sounds like a slave contract to me.”

“A what?” asked Jayna. “What was that you said?”

“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The crowd collectively rose to its feet, cheering as each player was introduced in-between the cadence of synthesized Taiko drums. The towering scoreboard, easily one-fourth the size of the playing field itself, came to vivid life. Looking around full-circle, Preston had never seen such fan worship and adoration. The ambient noise was almost thick enough to touch.

“Remember, Preston,” said Jayna with a scholarly tone, “the object of this game is to score by hitting the sphere pitched by the opposing team. Assuming the ball doesn’t get caught and bounces on the ground within the established playing zone, you must then sprint and touch the four bases in sequential order before…”

Preston shook his head and raised his hand to prevent her from finishing.

“Girl, I’ve seen
and
played this game two hundred years before you were even born. If anything, I should be telling
you
how this game is played, not the other way around. This was actually my first sport in high school, not basketball. Please don’t treat me like an amateur who’s never seen anything in his life.”

“My, we’re in a bit of a snit today, aren’t we? I meant no offense, you know. I was just suggesting the rules, because certain…elements have changed since your time. I don’t think you’re aware of them just yet, o scholarly know-it-all.”

“What’s to know? I see four bases, two players’ dug-outs, umpires and a scoreboard. This is baseball, not rocket surgery.”

“True, but you have to remember that all their uniforms and playing gear are made of Herculanium. Like I told you in our briefing, that alloy from your Olympus station changed the way sports are played. Light-weight and high density material make for a more wicked match.”

“Can we skip the kindergarten lesson and just watch the game, please?” The gall of someone lecturing him about sports, he fumed. Had it not been for his desire to become the best athlete in the world, he would have surely written an epic novel about this himself.

The first batter calmly strolled to home plate and practiced some swings, readying himself for the first pitch. Preston casually looked up at the player’s profile and statistics on the giant scoreboard display, but he couldn’t quite see his face from his seat. Using the remote control pad of his seat display, he zoomed the camera view in for a close-up, panning it vertically to view the entire figure of the batter from head to toe.

Jayna smiled quietly as she stared at his reaction. Preston switched his gaze alternately from the scoreboard, to home plate, to his video display, confused at the discrepancy before him.

“Is that the same guy on the mound?” he asked Jayna, pointing to the scoreboard. “What’s with the get-up? Is he some kind of fucking android or something?”

He stared at the batter’s costume; while half his body was in a standard uniform, the other half—the lead side facing the pitcher—was encased in segmented body armor. From half-helmet to shoulder and rib-plating, to reinforced shin and ankle guards, the ball player was half a tank ready to swing.

“Is he wearing prosthetics? Was he born handicapped?”

“It’s body armor, love,” said Jayna, unsure of what “handicapped” even meant. “Look at the players in that team’s dug-out; do you see what they’re wearing? All batters must wear armor on their lead side to be protected from the pitcher’s strike. He could choose to either go for the classic strike-out, or try to disable the batter.”

“What kind of rule is that? Why the hell would you want to intentionally hurt your opponent?”

“But I thought you knew how this game is played,” she said with a smile. “Like I said, sports here is not played the same way in your time. Herculanium has allowed each player to deliver and absorb more impact. Not only do you want to score, but you want to inflict as much damage on your opponent as possible. People want to squirm, they want to see blood and maiming. This is the age of Herculanium, the age of blood-sport.”

Preston continued to pan the camera view, this time concentrating on the bat itself. Like the player’s armor, it too, was metal, gleaming in the sun and textured with rivets and studs. Behind the batter were the home plate umpire and the catcher, dressed in full body armor. Standing in a near-squat, they were hunkered-down like human bunkers just waiting for an offensive strike.

“How do they pitch the ball so strong? Do they shoot it out of a cannon or something?” Preston panned the camera to the pitcher, specifically to his pitching hand.

“He’s wearing what’s called a magnetic glove,” she explained. “The ball and glove have opposite polarities, but there is a mild magnetic field around the ball that enables the pitcher to grip and curl his hands around it. Using strength and momentum, he can actually launch the ball with much greater impact and control. He is also wearing an optical targeting sight that’s attuned to the catcher’s glove.”

“That’s cheating!” he protested. “What happened to the good old days of man-to-man duel, pitcher versus batter?”

“Like you said, those were the…‘good old days’?”

The first batter gently patted home plate and slowly cocked the bat behind his head. The pitcher stared him down, then shifted his gaze at the catcher behind him. Locking his optical targeting sight at a specific point on the catcher’s armored mitt, the pitcher chewed his snuff, cupped the ball in his hand and looked away in disdain. In one devastating, untelegraphed motion, the pitcher snapped his head forward, cocked his arm and threw the ball in a tight arc, sending it whistling through the air as if it were a missile. The batter swung his bat forward in a small orbit, hitting the ball flush past the left field foul line in a halo of sparks. The impact from the swing sounded like the sharp ping of clashing swords. The ball speed meter read “200 mph.”

The pitcher calmly took his position on the mound and repeated his staring routine. In the same untelegraphed motion, he launched a curve ball that the batter nicked. The ball ricocheted off the bat and spiraled flush into the third base man, knocking him unconscious and 10 feet backwards.

Preston looked at Jayna. “Is…that a point?”

“That’s called ‘oops’,” she said with a smile.

The batter repeatedly pounded the home plate with his bat, egging the pitcher on for another attempt. Unfazed, the pitcher stood his ground and stared back, this time stalling a little bit more by rolling his shoulders and stretching on the mound. When his gaze finally settled, his optical targeting sight was locked between the batter’s eyes. Without shifting his stare, he threw a searing fast ball that virtually disappeared in a blur before being struck flush by the batter.

“What happens if one of those balls lands in the stands?” asked Preston at the point of impact. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

The ball seemed to accelerate in slow motion. The area ahead of the projectile quickly came to life as alarm claxons and flashing red lights erupted in unison. Fans in the stands quickly poured from their seats and ran for cover in the nearby exits and stairwells. The ball struck the center of the area, splitting a dozen chairs in half and raining pieces down on adjacent sections.

Preston slowly raised his head from behind a chair and wiped the settling dust from his head. Jayna looked at him and laughed out loud.

“What the hell are you laughing at? We could’ve fucking got killed!”

“Don’t you just love this game?” she said, clapping.

Fort Adriatico Military Base

White Knuckles Gym

Manila, Philippines

Preston gulped down one glass of mango shake after another, doing his best to stave off dehydration and the searing humidity inside the former cock-fighting arena. It had been years since he visited the country, putting on basketball clinics for the local professional teams. Despite his long absence and the changing of times, he was glad to see the charm of riding shotgun in a Jeepney hadn’t lost its touch. The traffic jams and pollution remained the same, exactly as he remembered it. Quick to smile and eager to offer a helping hand, the people hadn’t changed a bit.

Jayna couldn’t quite adjust to the tropical climate comfortably, and opted to stay in their temporary billeting quarters. She assigned a bodyguard to Preston while he attended one of the boxing training sessions. Preston was safe enough to wander, she felt, being toured on an Allied military base with bodyguard. She was only a short distance and a phone call away in case of an emergency.

Preston was quick to make friends inside the gym, sitting ringside next to some of the competitors and trainers. His day was spent watching fighters from different weight-classes spar in the ring. He actually felt good that Jayna wasn’t there beside him. After all, this was boxing, a true man’s sport where two people would slug it out to see who would come out on top. Having Jayna there would force him to act prim and proper, as opposed to the raw burping, farting, screaming and drinking male-bonding experience this was meant to be.

The ring was slightly larger than those of his day, elevated and encircled by padded cables that ran the length of its four posts. The cabling was pressure-sensitive, drawing taught when leaned upon during a match. Cameras sat on top of the four corner posts, panning continuously back and forth to capture the action.

Between rounds, chairs would automatically unfold from the floor in each fighter’s corner, helping him to relax as he received instructions and treatment from his trainers. Different styles of gloves were worn, depending on the fighter’s preference and the predetermined rules of the match. Gone were the traditional thumbed cushion gloves, replaced instead by fully-fingered padded gloves worn by no-holds-barred competitors. Boxers were allowed to grab their opponent by any handle above the waist, and punching inside a clinch was allowed to continue uninterrupted. Studs, bolts, even small spikes, lined the gloves across the knuckles, wrists and forearms, to produce maximum damage. Before each match, fighters were rubbed down with a secret liniment to toughen the skin and help it heal quickly. Headgear varied in design, ranging from partial head coverage, to a full helmet. Each boxer was required to wear knee and elbow pads, along with a hip-encircling groin cup tucked neatly beneath a short loincloth. Fighters belonged to a team or stable, having to wear tank-tops with their individual number displayed on the back. Form-fitting mouthpieces were vacuum-secured into the mouth, protecting the jaw while preventing the unit from flying out from impact.