CHAPTER 9: Zoots, Zoards, Zikes, Zanks and Zoot Suits
Alexander had never imagined anything so big and empty in his life. Even space didn’t seem so big. Maybe it was because space was too immense to comprehend, but this space, on the inside of the Methuselan ship was mind bogglingly big. It was what looked to be a hollow cylinder running through the center of the ship. It was about two hundred yards wide, or so he guessed, and it ran the entire length of the ship—over a mile from end to end.
“Wow would you look at that!”
“It’s incredible!”
“I think I’m going to be sick again.”
The sheer immensity did make Alexander somewhat queasy, but what gave him even more trepidation was the fact that the space wasn’t really empty. There were literally hundreds of people in the space. Some were engineers and scientists working on the ship—they were always discovering knew things about Methuselan technology—most however were cadets. Cadets could be seen jetting through the ether presumably on their way to and from classes. They were also riding or driving various vehicles, but most interesting were the groups of cadets competing at various games as far as the eye could see. There was one group just to their right playing on a spherical “field” with a net in the center. Around the net swarmed two dozen cadets in red or white uniforms. To Alexander’s surprise everyone carried Lacrosse sticks. It was soon clear to Alexander they were simply playing a zero-gravity version of lacrosse! He played lacrosse, but not like this. The cadets zoomed around in jet boots, playing in a spherical set of boundaries instead of within a set of lines painted on a field of grass. Still, he could hardly wait to try it.
“Well cadets what are you all standing there gawking for?”
Five instructors jetted over to the hundred and sixty cadets standing on the edge of space. One was out in front of the others; he wore the eagle insignia of a centurion. He was a brooding, glowering, menacing officer with flaming red hair, brows to match and a long handle-bar mustache—it was Centurion Fjallheim. He put his hands on his hips, gritted his teeth and thrust his lower jaw out so far it looked as if he’d dislocate it. He turned a slow corkscrew before stopping perfectly in front of the cadets, albeit upside-down. “Welcome to your first zero-gravity class. Welcome to the largest zero-G facility inside of space itself. Its designation is the Central Methuselan Axial Zero-Gravity Training and Docking Facility, but we call it the Tube. Got it?”
“Sir, there must be some mix up, we’ve got this period free—our schedule says so,” said one bold cadet, showing him her schedule. There were various nods and assents from other cadets, including one who added, “We’re all covered with throw-up, we need to get in clean uniforms.”
Centurion Fjallheim looked at her in mock surprise and addressed his fellow instructors. “What on Terra could have happened? Could we, the instructors, actually be wrong?”
Alexander grimaced, girding himself for what he knew must happen next, nor was he disappointed.
The Centurion’s face grew beet red, and he shouted, “In all my days of commanding you lackluster so-called cadets I’ve never heard the like! Never, I tell you! Such cheek, such blatant disregard for authority; I’m glad my father isn’t alive to see what’s become of this man’s Legions! You’re all on probation—no—you were on probation, I say ship the whole lot of you back to Terra and have you raking muck the rest of your lives!”
Some of the cadets had no military background whatsoever. They were shaking in their boots, white as ghosts. Even Alexander, who recognized the set up, was dismayed. Then one of the other instructors jetted over to Centurion Fjallheim and whispered something in his ear. Fjallheim nodded, but he looked mightily put out. Grimacing, he addressed the shaken cadets in a more moderate tone of voice. “I’ve been reminded that I can’t send you back to Terra as of yet because no transportation is available. You’ll just have to stay and we’ll be forced to work hard to make something out of you.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to slowly jet back and forth, up and down, side to side, sometimes addressing them upside-down or while turning slow corkscrews.
“The reason you are scheduled for a free period is to demonstrate the concept of disinformation; that is, we want you to think every time you do something. Just because you’re told you have a free period doesn’t make it so. You need to put away the teachings of Aristotle; instead, Non-Aristotelian, Null-A, thinking goes, “The map is not the territory, the belief is not the fact.” In other words, accept reality as it is, not as you think it is or want to think it is, and adapt to the situation. During your time at the Academy you will train to adapt instantaneously to the requirements of any and every situation no matter how far- fetched it may be.” For some reason, Centurion Fjallheim looked directly at Alexander when he said this. It wasn’t by chance. He whipped himself around and looked right at him. “You must train yourself to accept the requirement of the situation and act on it!” He turned back to his former manner, his tone becoming more congenial. “There is another less nefarious purpose for you being here directly after Professor Cantor’s infamous space physiology class. The most important physical training you will receive at the Academy is zero-G training. Whether you go on to the Legions or to the Fleet, zero-G training will form the foundation of your survival in space and your ability to fight anywhere in the galaxy.”
He smiled and laughed. “Of course it’s a new environment for your body, so if you’ve got anything left in your stomachs you’re about to lose it! No sense in having you go clean up when you’re going to get messed up again is there?”
Alexander laughed nervously as did most of the others.
He rubbed his hands together in glee, beaming, “From now until the day you graduate the only way to get from one pod to the next will be through the Tube. As you can see, there is no gravity here. Gravity itself is simply energy transmitted in the form of gravitons. Gravity can be generated through mass as with any celestial body or conglomeration of matter; mechanically through centrifugal force; or artificially by the generation of gravitons. The floor you’re standing on emits gravitons of a certain polarization creating an artificial gravity field. The gravitons allow us to bend space in any way we want by altering the spin. We could just as easily generate that field from the wall or the ceiling. Everything is relative.” Again he looked at Alexander. “The floor is only the floor because that is where the gravity field is generated; the floor could just as easily be the ceiling.” He looked away again, and it struck Alexander forcibly. His father used that analogy, in fact, his father often talked of the Non-Aristotelian way of thinking. He said exactly the same things to Alexander as he grew up. Dad, how can you be a cowboy one minute and a spaceship captain the next? Son, I am what I need to be according to what the situation dictates—I adapt.
It was too strange to be a coincidence, but what on Terra could it mean?
“Now, you will adapt, and soon zero-G will become second nature to you. You’ll see why presently. Let’s start with the basics. Cadets, put on your gloves please.” Alexander took out his pair of black gloves tucked in his belt. He put them on. They were soft and malleable, like the softest suede gloves he’d ever seen on the farm—no good for hard work. These had long cuffs climbing almost halfway up his forearm.
Centurion Fjallheim nodded and held up a hand. “There are jets in your gloves that fire when you squeeze your hand into a fist.” He made a fist with his right hand. There was a sharp puff of gas and he started to wheel away from the direction his hand pointed. He opened his hand and steadied himself by making his palm flat. A reverse jet fired and he reversed his direction and then stopped.
“Now you try it.”
Alexander made a fist with both hands and jets of air obediently puffed out of the knuckles of the glove. He flattened his hand and the jets came out of the cuff at his wrist. There were lots of “oohs” and “aahs.”
“The jets in your gloves are stabilizing jets. Your primary source of propulsion is in
your zero-G boots or zoots for short. You activate them by pointing your toes.” He did so and began to move upward. “The more you point your feet the more thrust you get, but the tricky thing is that there’s no reverse. To stop, you need to bring your legs forward like this and hit the brakes!” He tucked like a diver doing a reverse gainer and thrust his legs out in front. The jets roared to life, slowing him down to a stop and then propelling him back toward them.
“That’s basic zero-G maneuvering, which you will start momentarily. During your probationary year and your first year you will be restricted to zero-G maneuvering via zoots. So let’s get started. Everybody out here, come on, on the double!”
No one moved. Despite the obvious fact that Centurion Fjallheim and the other instructor’s weren’t falling, to Alexander who stood uncomfortably close to the steel edge it sure looked like a cliff. He knew there was no up and there was no down. His senses and his experiences as a land-locked sentient being all told him there was an up and that was fine, but there was also a down and that meant bad things. He tried to tell himself that this was the exact thing his father talked to him about, the exact circumstance that Centurion Fjallheim reminded him of. The map is not the territory; the space is not a fall. I’m not going to fall! He couldn’t move.
“No takers eh?” Centurion Fjallheim laughed. Inexplicably he jetted over to Alexander. “How about you Cadet Wolfe; you look like the adventuring type. Come on, take a step away out here and try it out.”
Alexander had no choice, he couldn’t even hesitate. Screwing up his face to look as unconcerned as possible he took a step out. He expected to fall at least a little. Instead, his momentum carried him out and away from the edge of the corridor. His left foot landed on nothing, it was like pedaling a non-existent bicycle. His foot, however, was programmed to reach for the ground, but when it found nothing a burst of adrenaline shot through him—fear. Even though he wasn’t falling, his body knew that he must be falling because he wasn’t in contact with terra firma. Alexander automatically looked down and the feeling of fear grew worse. There was nothing below him for over half a mile. Even the knowledge that he wasn’t falling wasn’t enough to make up for his bodies instinctive reaction to the new environment. Still, he didn’t panic. He wanted to, but the chuckles and laughs from the other cadets steeled him to the task. His abortive first step had him turning a slow somersault and drifting forward. That meant he should fire one of his glove jets—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I hope Newton was right!
Carefully, Alexander fired his left glove to try and stop the somersault. It stopped the somersault alright, but he began to twist around to his left. Of course, I have to fire both gloves otherwise I’m firing off my center-of-axis, so that’s what Doctor Strauss meant in science class! He fired his right glove and slowed to a stop. That left him cockeyed. Slowly and very methodically he maneuvered himself upright again and jetted over to Centurion Fjallheim.
“Don’t be afraid to use your zoots, just use your gloves to stabilize your flight!”
He did so, and for some reason it felt very right.
“Outstanding,” Centurion Fjallheim applauded. “You’re a natural!” He waved at the other cadets, and called, “Everybody out, come on!”
After seeing Alexander do it, the cadets spilled off the steel edge of the corridor like lemmings into the sea. Of course, a good number were still squeamish. Their fellow cadets pushed them into the Tube in their eagerness to try what Alexander had already done.
“Now everyone spread out, we have this whole section of the Tube. Give yourself some flying room!”
The cadets tried to do as he told them, but there were four flights of inexperienced fliers, one hundred and sixty cadets all vying for flying space. They ran into each other, ran into the walls of the Tube or simply spun out of control. To make matters worse, the inevitable disorientation of zero-G made many if not most of the cadets sick—again. Streams of vomit began to circulate around the Tube. Instructors were dashing in and around the whirling bundle of cadets, trying to give instruction, prevent injury and avoid the vomit minefields. With that in mind, Alexander pointed his toes and jetted away from the danger zone, intent on practicing. He was only about twenty yards away when he saw Treya rise out of the mess and head toward him, perfectly under control.
“Treya, you can fly,” he exclaimed.
“I can zoot,” she corrected him, laughing. “Of course, they teach us zero-G maneuvering in grammar school; it’s always been that way. You’re doing well, very well, are you sure it’s your first time?”
“Yes it is,” he said quickly, a bit stung that she might think he was trying to show off. “I never had a chance to do this on Terra. The closest I came to flying was riding a horse.”
Her eyebrows went up and she smiled widely, showing her sharp Chem canines. “You rode a horse, how wonderfully barbaric! I never got a chance to ride any animal on Chem.”
“Yeah I guess it was kind of cool,” Alexander said, not really knowing how to react to something he saw as backwards. He began experimenting with his jets again. “I got a long way to go before I really know what I’m doing, so I better start practicing.” He moved up using his zoots, then by judicially using one glove and then the other he began a few lazy turns.
Treya kept right with him, calling out encouragement. She flew around him effortlessly, like a mother bird with her fledgling flyer. It was very irritating. “Do you mind?” Alexander exclaimed angrily.
“No, not at all, I already know all about zooting! I can’t wait to try out the other things you humans have invented though. They look like loads of fun.”
He looked back at her, “What are you talking about?” While he did that he forgot to look where he was flying. Wham! He hit something hard. It knocked the wind out of him and sent him tumbling. The Tube whirled around him so fast Alexander had no idea how to stop his spinning. He tried a few cursory blasts but he spun faster not slower. The whirling lights and blurred objects started to make him feel ill. Pride gave way to panic, “Treya!”
A hand closed around his wrist, and her reassuring voice said, “Got you!” She brought him under control and the Tube came into focus again. “You’re going to have to learn how to recover if you’re going to start playing sports,” she told him.
“Thanks, but what happened; what did I run in to?”
“Me!” The voice was harsh, and Alexander twisted around to see a dark skinned humanoid that was definitely not human. He was taller than Alexander, but had something of Treya’s features; he was either another Chem or their bellicose cousins the Golkos. He zooted over to Alexander and thumped him in the chest. “What’s the big idea?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you; I’m just learning to zoot,” he replied quickly, half angry, half flustered because it really was his fault.
“What are you doing over here,” he demanded. “We’ve got this space for practice. Get back where you belong.”
“Cool your jets,” Treya snapped, her eyes turning purplish red. “You’re a cadet just like us. You can’t tell us what to do!”
He got right into her face, baring his teeth in a snarl, and Alexander saw that they were just as sharp as Treya’s. “You Chem are so high and mighty,” he said viciously. “I don’t bow to you effete snobs; I’ll put you in your place!”
He grabbed Treya’s uniform by the collar and tossed her over his shoulder. Alexander erupted in anger, something he inherited from his father—much to his father’s dislike. He curled his toes and pointed his feet. His zoots came to life, sending him flying at the taller boy. He grabbed the Golkos but his momentum carried him and the alien boy whirling away into the space of the Tube. Pushing and shoving in zero-G was different than anything Alexander had ever experienced, but their wild flight was largely lost on him. He was too busy fighting the alien boy to notice how they careened all over the Tube. Despite the vast interior space they managed to get in the way of a lacrosse game, of course called Z-
Crosse for the special environment in which they played, careening through the players and directly into the net. That didn’t stop them but it slowed them down.
This didn’t go un-noticed.
Large hands and bodies grappled them, slowing down their flight and then stopping them altogether. One set of hands pinned Alexander by the shoulders but he noticed with satisfaction that another pair of hands did the same to the alien boy.
“This isn’t over between us Terran!” the boy snapped, his canines clicking together menacingly.
“That’s enough out of both of you,” growled a stern voice. Alexander looked up to see Centurion Fjallheim. The Centurion was not happy. “If there’s one thing we won’t stand for in the Academy it’s fighting amongst ourselves,” he glared at the alien boy, cutting him off. “I don’t care who you are or who you’re related to Cadet Khandar,” and he turned back to Alexander, “and that goes for you too, Cadet Wolfe!”
“Wolfe,” gasped the alien boy, as if someone shot him. He glared with bestial fury at Alexander. “Your father assassinated my father!”
The Methuselan Circuit Page 8