The Full Circle Six (11 page)

“Look, this is too much, D.J.,” Sammy spoke, trying to be the voice of reason. The mention of Croxon split open an internal wound that he would not show for anything. “Why don't you just wait till after the race and see if you still feel the same?”

“I've made my mind up,” Drake said. “Kraus is there any other favor you would require of me. I've paid Sammy here two favors, I'll do the same for you.”

Kraus stared at his hands in contemplation. Never had he imagined the captain would be asking what he could do for his weapon operator. Kraus virtually idolized Drake and didn't know what he could possibly ask for. Seemingly out of nowhere, he started thinking of the other members and how they could have avoided all of this. It took no time at all for them to rise against the captain like they were a bunch of neglected orphans. Then he remembered that Bruvold had stood by Drake as well. He also thought upon how great it was to be with Bruvold again just like the old days and knew what he would ask.

“Sir, would it be possible for you to request that Aristando be a permanent member of our team?” He asked this of Drake sincerely wishing it hadn't come to this.

“That is the most selfless request I have ever heard,” Drake, said this in a soft, non-Drake-like voice. “I will gladly do so, and I hope that Bruvold knows what an honor it is to be a part of any team with one man like you.”

This time, it was Kraus's turn to lose his speech ability. He was finding it very difficult to hide the weakness he was feeling. He didn't want to even think about racing without Drake Judge. Just as Sammy did, he thought all of this would blow over after they had won the race. He thought once more of the traitorous crew and how much it infuriated him. He would love nothing more than to take hold of that pathetic wimp Freddie's neck and squeeze until his eyeballs were popping out of their sockets. Also, he would like to rip off Jaws' freakish nose and slap Priscilla in the face with it. Juhaen, he would force into the delivery dispenser tubes in pieces. He was the one who had outright betrayed the captain deliberately. Kraus knew the little weasel didn't care an ounce about saving anybody for any reason.

“You guys take the rest of the shift off,” Drake said, with an unusual, playful half smile. “And play me in a game of Holo-Hand-Eye-Harmonization.”

Kraus and Sammy laughed and started to retrieve the equipment for the well-loved game. The reason Drake's challenge was so amusing is everyone knew the captain, although he was the best driver any of them knew of, had never won a game. The reason for this, little known to any but Drake, who didn't care, was he always wore his gazers, which showed the planetary charts and possible courses of the region. This interfered because of the way the game was played.

Using virtual reality simulation equipment, which was a box that sat in the center of the room on the floor and turned any room into a digital space, specified in parameters by the user of the game, they utilized holographic images of paddles and balls. The player's goal was to hit the ball, called the target, toward an opposing player before it touches any surface, but the paddle. If the target is missed, the player swinging at it is terminated and this continues until there is one winner. The aspect that made this pastime challenging was the fact that a player could not direct the target in any path that it had already taken. Doing so would result in elimination. Every player starts with two paddles and had to use a significant amount of concentration, as they were required to use each paddle alternately. If the target was hit twice in a row on the same paddle in one player's hand, or if the player drops any paddle, that player was consequently eliminated. Drake was consistently swinging at planets instead of targets.

Sammy set the box down in the middle of the recreational quarters and punched in the number sequence that would allow them maximum room to play. At once, the digital grid that outlined the playing field, which was a magnified duplicate of the boxes' inside perimeter, surrounded them. The paddles appeared in their hands, but the target would not reveal itself until they were in the proper start positions, with both paddles raised to shoulder level, arms fully extended.

The target materialized en route to Sammy, leaving behind a bright yellow trail. This was to represent the forbidden paths the target had already taken. Sammy smacked the target with his right, and it ricocheted rapidly toward Kraus, who used his left to force a sharp upward angle in Drake's direction. Drake ran at the wall, jumped, and kicked off of the wall about three meters from the floor, launching himself into the air just high enough for him to get his left paddle on the target and send it screaming back toward Kraus.

The more the game ensued, the faster the target became, making it much harder to hit or see. Drake was amazingly dexterous for a man his size. He ran faster, jumped higher, and created more intense angles than either of his opponents, but in the end, made a spectacular dive after running along a wall to score a direct hit to the planet they had just left. That leaves Kraus and Sammy. They are both seasoned players of this game and the battle that proceeded was a magnificent barrage of speeding targets, and it seemed the entire playing field would soon be solid yellow. Sammy finally hit an angle that he believed Kraus had no chance of getting to without his right paddle, which was just used in the former volley. He was right in that fact, but to his dismay, Drake had already used the angle in the exact same line earlier in the match. Kraus had won as a result of the foul.

The holographic generator automatically shut down the grid and again was dormant, just as an ordinary box would have been. The three friends shook hands with each other and commended the respective challengers on a game well played. It had been too long for all of them since they had last played and they made a vow to play at least once a week until Drake had retired. None of them had any real expectations of getting to play every week, but they all thought that it was a nice idea, and would strive to make it a tradition.

Kraus was the first back into the navigation center and promptly went to tell Bruvold the news about winning his harmonization game, along with being a permanent member of the team, giving him a higher pay rate.

“You is no for real. Is make joke at Bruvold, yes?” Bruvold was skeptical at this unexpected announcement.

“It's no joke old buddy, that is, if you want to be on our team past this race. I mean no one is forcing you or anything.” Kraus was smiling broadly at his friend, telling him he wasn't kidding with the look in his eyes.

“You is making me happy. I is staying always with Kraus. Is good for team. Is good for me.” Bruvold grabbed hold of his friend in a bear hug and tried to hoist the big man into the air. He had never been treated as well as he had by Kraus. In that moment, Kraus became Bruvold's truest and most trusted friend. The two brother-like friends walked away, with arms casually draped over one another's shoulder, to the consuming quarters.

Sammy was on his way to the navigational center when he passed the companions in the main corridor.

“Congrats, Bruvold. Welcome to the team. I think you'll be a great addition,” Sammy said to Bruvold, while pointedly not looking at Kraus. He was still bitter at the loss of his favorite game. He held no real animosity toward Kraus, it was just that he was great at the game and hated to lose.

“Yes is good,” Bruvold responded with more enthusiasm than was called for. “Is good for team and good for me.” He was so excited that he didn't realize he was repeating himself.

“Want to join us in celebration?” Kraus asked Sammy in an effort to break away the tension over the game. Sammy, who had seen the two men celebrating before, respectfully declined, thinking he would be doing himself a favor not to get involved with their catastrophic fights by simply being there. It was also unbelievably hard to understand a drunken Bruvold, who would slobber and yell in his show of affection for his friends.

Sammy then waved and continued up the main corridor to his original destination. When he arrived at his shield station, Juhaen was there. Upon seeing his new friend, the M.S.C. cheerfully gave his salutations. “I think I have something new,” He told Sammy. “There may be a way to give more power to both engines and shields at the same time. Now, hear me out because it sounds questionable, but I know it can work, just like the fire shooter did.” Sammy had forgotten that this was Juhaen's idea. Juhaen continued, speaking rapidly. “If we use the back-up life support generator power, it would not affect the status of the main life support that we always use, and we would have more than enough power to double engine and shield power. If the scenario came about where we needed the back up before it was restored to its original function, it could be all too easy to reverse the polarity of the energy flow.”

“So, what you're telling me is, we could max out our shield, and then be able to switch it back whenever we wanted?” Sammy was looking doubtful.

Drake surprised the both of them when he entered and said, “Make it happen. That's the best plan I've heard since we started. Good work, Sammy.” Drake knew that Juhaen had come up with the plan, because he had been listening just outside the threshold of the navigation hatch, but refused to credit anything to one still guilty, in his eyes, of treason. Just then, Freddie's voice carried throughout the racecraft, singing in the strange, yet lovely, melodic tongues of his home planet. He was dressed in his most lavish and cherished robes. These were important to him because, where Freddie was from, they represented patriarchal figure, and were his favorite colors, deep, dark purple and bright, sparkling, red. These robes were very renown and respected with the highest regard. His head was held as high as it could be, his steps were precise and confident, and his left fist was held with the first knuckles resting lightly on the bottom half of his right, shoulder muscle, throwing his elbow out to lead the way through the main and medical corridors. His arrogance emanated from his every pore with at least as much force as the tune coming from his mouth. Sir Frederick had all confidence that Priscilla would now succumb to her hidden fantasies that, in Freddie's chronic daydreams, involving the two of them throwing away all inhibitions and losing themselves in the passionate embrace of desire and ecstasy. He was on his way now to give his beloved the opportunity to confess to the undying, burning ache that was named love she felt for him as much as the other way around.

During his preposterous visions of Priscilla's innermost fancies, Freddie came upon the door to the medical quarters and gazed lovingly at it, while his song hit a dramatic and almost torturous climax. When the song was finished, he boldly strode into the quarters, swept aside a large fold of his robes, and announced to Priscilla that he was ready for her confession. The medical operator laughed, but not unkindly. She was flabbergasted to find that she felt his annoying antics were now for some reason endearing. No, she thought to herself, it doesn't matter how impressionable or interesting he made himself seem. She would still find him disgusting, vile, and downright pompous. She would never consider having anything more than a professional relationship with engine and fuel operator Stallworth. Even as she was telling herself these things, there was a spark inside of her she would not yet acknowledge that was powerfully attracted to
sir
Frederick. Priscilla firmly escorted the babbling Freddie out of her medical quarters in an embellished mood that did not quite fool her.

D
rake, along with his entire crew, had finished mandatory cleansing and napping. After his very short snooze, Drake began to look over medical charts provided by Priscilla. She seemed to him to be a little too thorough. He discarded the bunch without really making an entire overview, and went out to the navigation center to order everyone back to positions. Drake had decided to work everyone on the same shift, but make the shifts intensely longer and more demanding. The shifts were increased even more, when the commander received news that the number thirteen was occupying fifth place.

“Can you guys believe this? My plan of over-shifting is working perfectly. We are in fifth place, people.” Drake was beginning to visualize himself being rewarded on the victory platform and then afterwards, retiring in front of everyone who happened to be watching. “We will work even harder now. We are right there so only two-hour naps from now on, until we take over the lead. Everyone stock their bellies full of coffee and meat.” Drake couldn't wait to catch and pass the next four racecrafts; he wanted the secure feeling of being in the lead that was so familiar to him.

“We'll have to wait on that belly stocking thing, we've got company up ahead a couple of quadrants.” Jaws reported reluctantly. His stomach was grumbling loudly enough to be heard even while he was talking.

“Decrease engines to half power,” Drake ordered. “See if we can find out who it is before we get within range.”

“I am reading parameters equal to those of the twenty six craft, sir.” Jaws thought that something was out of place, but chalked it up to hunger when he couldn't figure out what it was.

“Are you saying it is Folders?” Drake asked Jaws while turning his chair to face him.

“Yeah, we're approaching contact range, should I make contact, sir?” All Jaws wanted to do was devour a large chunk of meat.

“Affirmative. Get me a visual as well,” Drake responded. He was already thinking of how he was going to praise his teammate for helping to get them both into the top five.

“Contact made, cap … uh … they disappeared,” Jaws reported with fright. Drake had witnessed this spectacle on the visual screen in front of him. This caught him by surprise. If Folder's had known it was Drake contacting, what would have made him run away? Drake surmised that the number twenty-six driver might have used a time disrupter, trying to lead his teammate to an even better position.

“He must have used a disrupter.” Drake spoke his thought aloud. “Anyone else for following?” Drake Judge would never have asked his crew's opinion on anything to do with driving, and he used this point to his advantage in order to make them feel guilty for their temporary mutiny.

“Well,” began Freddie, foolishly. Sammy quieted him with a look, and Drake smiled smugly. Had he said another word, Drake would have told him he knew nothing of racing, and knocked him out cold.

“It doesn't matter what you think,” Drake barked at Freddie. “We'll just leave the driving to me on this one. Is that ok with you, pretty boy?”

Freddie did have enough sense not to respond to this rhetorical question, having already been struck by the formidable captain on two separate, unrelated occasions, during this race.

“Kraus, let's follow, E.F.O., all engines stop.” Drake was set on not calling Freddie by name.

Then, unexplainable by any of them, a thick, white fog began to spread out from seemingly nowhere, and it appeared that it had the sole purpose of engulfing the number thirteen, as a tsunami would a small fishing village with no levy to offer any level of protection.

Confused, Drake ordered engines back on, just as they had wound down to a stop, then he pushed into a nose dive, taking an oblique line to the left. Even Drake's driving skills were not enough to outrun this cloud-like, gaseous substance. They were hit hard on the right by what could only be construed as cannon fire. Drake maneuvered into a back-loop with a half twist that sent him directly in the path of incoming fire. They were jolted; the force of the cannon fire had hit them head on, damaging their shield energy de-stabilizer.

“D.J., we got to get out of here,” Sammy screeched in a panic ridden tone that was very unlike him. “I've read about this before, it's the number fifteen. Their specials make them undetectable to visual and sensory output, like some sort of stealth. If we do not find a way out of this, we're going down. Our shields are dropping fast, and he won't stop till we're dead. He's a rookie, but the crafts reputation is that its killed more teams than both Oblizes.”

“Any ideas, Sam?” Drake had no clue how to get out of this mess. Every move he made seemed to put him right into harm's way. He was going as fast as possible, so he couldn't out run it. If he stopped the engines, trying to use a time disrupter, they would be battered to death. He was open to suggestions from his trusted second in command.

“Now might be a pretty good time for a planetary stop,” Sammy replied, good-naturedly to Drake. If Drake had been testing him, which was not uncommon for the captain to do, then Sammy knew he had passed with flying colors.

Sammy was right in thinking he was being tested. Drake had noted the fear in his voice, and marked as weakness. The commander was trying to catch the S.S.T. in the moment and see if he would falter. As he suspected, Sammy came through in making the same decision that Drake himself would have made. Drake had already mapped a course in his holochart gazers to a planet nearby that was satisfactory for race stops. The planet Dooghin was not the best stop to plan, but this was, yet again, another unplanned stop, and would suffice in the current situation.

The life support on the planet was not ideal, but could be tolerated for short periods of time by most humanoid species. The natives of Dooghin were considered to be among the strangest and violently defensive of their culture, which consisted of assorted aspects from random differing times and dimensions. Dooghinians did not, in general get along with anyone but themselves, and their colonies were constantly at war with one another. The main way of lifestyle seemed to be the trading of hides cut from unknown beasts, and the commerce was disorienting, if not startling.

Another missile slammed into the number thirteen, this time in the back. It felt like it hit the rocket booster, for the racecraft was jerked to the right, without Drake controlling it. He was descending at a reasonable rate to enter the orbit of Dooghin, but was still being pummeled like they were still in the meteor shower. The enemy had smaller cannons, but was able to fire many more rounds than the Future Fuels team. At long last, or so it seemed to them, the racecraft slid into orbit and Drake accelerated the main thrusters, switched the controls off of manual operation, and rubbed his forehead. He just knew the shields were nearly gone and they would be forced, once again to give up time and position, in order to get themselves back in racing condition. This roller coaster of emotional peaks and distresses was making him sick. Furthermore, he wanted nothing more than to be done with the despicable Full Circle Six and, accordingly, his career. Drake was tired of all the wrong turns in making his decisions, and was even more exasperated at the fact that every time something started to go right, there was a force of some sort present to bring it all crashing down around him.

He got up, looked to Jaws, and ordered that the communications expert meet him in the consuming quarters. Zarocostas had never been dismayed and relieved at the same time, but could not begin to care at the moment. His stomach gave a roar inside that was heard by Priscilla, who scoffed and turned away from what she considered the doomed long nosed extraterrestrial. They had all heard Jozwiak report to the commander that the vessel being approached was the number twenty-six Energy Elixirs racecraft. It was suspected by all that the little liked communication guru would be occupying the other isolation chamber very shortly. Bruvold was even preparing to answer the call.

By the time Jaws reached the craft's eatery, Drake had already pulled a loaf of bread from food storage and dispensed himself a large portion of meat and a serving of steaming hot coffee. Drake gestured to Jaws to have a seat across from him but, when the timid man reached for the keypad to order, knocked his hand away.

“I want your full attention,” he said around a mouthful of meat and bread. “You won't be able to give it to me if you're eating. So, wait till I'm through speaking, at least. Show a little respect for goodness sake.” It looked as if Jaws would cry. His face scrunched up tightly in a grimace as his gut moaned in heated agony.

Drake was enjoying this small torture, exploiting the weakness of a lesser man. It might even help Jaws to become a stronger man, but this was no concern to the commander of the Future Fuels transport racecraft. He relished the panic and hopelessness coming from the weakling in waves, but did not choose to terrify him any more than necessary, although that was what he truly wanted.

“Calm down, you're not in danger,” Drake reassured Jaws. “All I want to know is, why you would tell me that death craft was Folders.” He then took a long, slurping sip of the fresh, aromatic coffee, nearly driving Jaws mad.

“Sir,” the small creature managed at last. “The parameters were identical …”

“You didn't know it was the number twenty-six, so why did you tell me you did?” Drake interjected before wrapping the substantial amount of meat he had left in a wad of bread and tearing off a bite.

“I'm sorry, sir, I was hungry and …” again the communications expert was interrupted.

“That is no excuse to endanger the lives of the entire crew.” Drake was in the process of trying to figure out how to punish this little ugly miscreant, so wanted to stall a bit more. He began to make a dramatic display of how delicious his rations were, and how much he was enjoying each morsel. Jaws was near to fainting by the time Drake had stood and crossed to the coffee tube to replenish his already empty oversized mug.

“I'm going to dock your pay and divide it amongst the other members you almost killed today.” Drake said this as he was walking out of the consuming quarters and without looking at Jaws.

Before Drake was even out of eyesight, Jaws had ordered meat and was ravaging it as a wild animal will do to its recent kill. He was well aware of the severity of his mistake and was quite grateful for the light punishment, although it was not so light from his point of view. He tried to take too big a gulp of coffee and scalded his throat. The only thing for it, without going to the medical quarters was to ease the burn with bites of bread. Drake had eaten the last of the loaf that he had retrieved from food storage, so he just had to endure it until he got to the bread. Jaws felt the engines slowing and privately hoped there would be cold drinks on this stop. He couldn't let any of the other crewmembers see him drink it, of course, that would only solidify his image as worthless in their eyes, but he would relish the delicious, crisp bite of cold coating his esophagus, which, at the moment, felt like an inferno. Jozwiak didn't want to linger too long in the consuming quarters, so, stuffing bread into his mouth, he left to the personal quarters to await the landing.

Drake Judge was in his own personal quarters, trying to cope with the enormous load on his mind. He still had not had sufficient time to grieve the death of old Croxy, and this was the main problem he had in dealing with all of the difficulties he had been forced to endure at the hands of some cruel and spiteful power that was determined to keep him from the glory that he fought so hard to achieve. After this planetary stop, which hopefully would not be more than a couple of hours, he was thinking he would have to use another disrupter to make up lost time. It seemed to Drake that that was all he was doing in this race, yet, astoundingly; he had continued to gain position in spite of the entire catastrophe that had befallen him and his crew. Drake let out a pained sigh and picked up a photo of his first day as commander. His former medical operator Iriarte Croxon was grinning and shaking hands with the then brand new driver of the number thirteen racecraft, Drake Judge. The rest of the original, five-man crew of the racecraft was also in the photograph. Sammy, Kraus, and Freddie stood side-by-side, sporting matching race suits and grins of their own. He put the picture down and shook his head to clear it. Thinking of the body of the highly valued Croxy floating aimlessly through space would not help him right now. He felt helpless that he had to wait for repairs and refuel again. When he felt the engines slowing, he sulked back to the navigation center to find out how long it was estimated they would have to be here.

Sammy was overseeing the entrance into the planet‘s atmosphere, as he usually did, and, when prompted by Drake with the question, he guessed they would take around five hours to get back into the race. He was concerned for his friend, the commander, and was beginning to doubt his earlier opinion of Drake announcing his retirement as being an irrational outburst, brought on by extreme stress and taxing conditions. Also, he was still a bit overwhelmed at being offered the job of navigational commander, as well as half ownership of the racecraft itself. Samelak Riordin had never thought of the prospect of becoming a commander, but had to admit, the thought was not displeasing.

They were starting to commence the landing sequence and the Dooghinians were just becoming visible like little ants on the surface of the planet, when it occurred to Drake that something didn't seem to belong in the scene of the planet's horizon he was watching unfold. It wasn't until they touched down that he figured it out. The surface of the planet had been inconsistent.

The area of the planet they had touched down upon was made up of mostly rock formations and cliffs. The vegetation around them was sparse, and what little there was, was dry and looked dead. There were large insects that may or may not have been pets to the natives, which scurried every which way. The ground was layered dust, but was smooth, not cracked. There were buildings erected sporadically, but it was not apparent whether these structures were personal habitats or businesses. The people dressed in clothing that was out of date, but could not be considered primitive, by any means. Many people carried large bundles of unrecognizable pelts, teeth, horns, and anything else that had struck the fancy of the one who carried the bundle, to cut them off of some creature. There were two suns so it was comfortably warm, but the oxygen was low and the gravity was slightly above average, which can be very difficult to deal with after some time. There were also high winds in this area of Dooghin, which added to the illusion that it would support life very well.