∞
Welcome to Blaster School
AN INTRODUCTION
It is perhaps unusual to find a science-fiction story in a serious website (such as MathCreativity.com) intended for weighty papers in the fields of education and mathematics — especially this tale of a six-year-old math prodigy whose idea of a pleasant afternoon is knife throwing, sharp-shooting with an automatic crossbow, wielding an atomic blaster, and facing almost certain death in the wilderness of a far-away planet in a far-away galaxy. However, creativeness in and with mathematics will certainly lead us to some interesting futures, and maybe — just maybe, mind you — this is one of them!
(I hereby admit that the directness, the honesty, the physical and mental abilities and the sheer power of my heroine are firmly based upon the lives of real-life boys and girls I have had the great pleasure to help with their math courses over the past 17 years.)
“Welcome to Blaster School” is the first chapter in my 600-page novel, The Living Hand, a sci-fi space opera that takes place in the White Cloud Galaxy. This short story introduces my heroine, a feisty, 6-year-old, curly-blond algebra whiz, poet and quintessential warrior whose outrageous exploits and lofty ethical qualities bring to life what could happen if one day we bickering humans get our mathematical act together and produce a dependable faster-than-light drive that lets us visit at least a few of the 100,000,000,000 (one hundred billion) stars of our home galaxy, the Milky Way.
Without further ado, I give you Missie May Trofim, future Empress of the 75,000 planets and stars of the Voluntari Federation, her Auntie (Tactics-Captain Breta Studabeak), and Mathee, a telepathic adolescent unicorn, as they begin a life-and-death adventure on the faraway planet of Windy Place.
∞
The White Cloud Galaxy
∞ Advice to Instructors of Crossbow Drill ∞
by May Trofim
Empress of the Voluntari Federation of Planets and Stars
Academy Instructors, teach your students this truth: The crossbow is a killing machine appropriate to our humane military force. Sailors, Marines and Guards of the Voluntari Federation of Planets and Stars harbor neither hatred nor evil intention toward any sentient being, even those who would attack our planets and harm our citizens. Using modern Regeneration Tech, we can return to vibrant life most combatants (ours and theirs) who have died from crossbow wounds, but when the blaster has exploded or vaporized a head, then that body is dead beyond resurrection.
How unfortunate, then, that our state-of-the-art Trillium Automatic Crossbow has become the most neglected handweapon in the Navy’s arsenal. Far too many recruits — recently arrived on the HomePlanet from one of the 75,000 spheres of the Voluntari — scorn this civilized, silent killer in favor of the dramatic purple fire of the SantiKory Blaster.
Remind our boys and girls of the veteran warrior’s adage: “Launch your bolts and leave unseen.” Remember, blaster beams can easily be traced back to the shooter, but the device or technique that can track the path of a Trillium bolt back to the bowman does not exist. Train our young warriors to use their crossbows properly that they may fight well and live to fight again.
To help your students understand how far we have come from the wooden stocks, iron bows and hand cranks of the first crossbow, each HandWeapons Demonstration Hall at the Naval & Marine Academy on the HomePlanet is equipped with working models of ancient crossbows for use in training exercises.
Do not attempt to teach Crossbow Drill before your student has graduated from Hand-To-Hand Basics and Knife Training. Without these prerequisites firmly…
…Excerpted from the Combined Naval & Marine Manual of Arms, 145th Millenium Edition, Standard Stellar Year 145,700
ON THE FIRING RANGE
Tactics-Captain (Retired) Breta Studabeak of the Navy’s 15th Fleet barked out the commands for Crossbow Drill:
“Eyes ahead.
“Acquire your target.
“Confront.
“No blink.
“Back straight.
“Select rate of fire.
“Crossbow up.
“Elbow down 45 degrees.
“Lean.
“Hold.
“Breathe in.
“Perfect Mantra.”
In slow motion, May Trofim half-filled her lungs, emptied her mind with the Perfect Mantra:
No motion…No thought…Nothing…
and pulled the trigger. The whisper-soft recoil raced up and down the nerves of her right side as a burst of four Trillium bolts left the muzzle of the tiny automatic crossbow one after the other
HOOA! HOOA! HOOA! HOOA!
and impacted 100 yards away in the center of the straw target.
“Hurray!” she shouted.
“Silence on the firing range!” Breta’s instant rebuke cut across her pleasure.
May cringed to show respect, but inwardly she was unrepentant: Wow, four bolts dead center! Definitely Sharpshooter stuff. Auntie has to graduate me now.
Without pause, Studabeak’s stacatto continued:
“Muzzle down.
“Safety on.
“Snap out the clip.
“Bow on the ground facing forward.
“One step back
“Retrieve your clip.
“Retrieve your bow.”
May, white-blond curls soaked with sweat, knelt with precision, picked up the half-empty ammo clip and shoved it into the case strapped to her chest. She stood up and slid the weapon into the fast-draw that hung down her back between the shoulder blades. After brushing specks of dirt off her rainbow-striped jumpsuit, she turned towards Aunt Breta to receive the final steps of Crossbow Drill.
“Retrieve your bolts.
“Collapse your targets.”
Under Breta’s critical eye, May jogged forward to the line of three shaped targets: circle, HumanKind and OtherSoul (alien). One by one, she pulled the precious-metal bolts out of the canvas and laid them in a golden retrieval box, points forward.
When the box was closed and locked, she tugged at the stake supporting the first target. It was stuck. She moved her left foot back six inches to gain leverage, placed two small hands around the pole, shook it back and forth, then twisted it in a circle. She repeated this pattern three times. When the stake suddenly let go, May was unprepared and flew backwards, laughing triumphantly when she hit the ground hard with her butt.
“Ouch! Owee! Ouch!”
The child got up, giggled and banged her bottom, releasing a cloud of dust.
Smiling to herself, the retired fleet officer chose to ignore this second unforgivable breach of Crossbow Discipline.
The other stakes released with less effort. May laid the three black and white targets in a neat pile, placed the stakes on top, then stood at attention while Studabeak, erect and imposing in camouflage battledress with the ACT (NavalActionTeam) symbol on the left sleeve, approached from the firing line.
Was that good enough? May ground her front teeth in little circles — left, right, left, right.
In the past year, with her aunt’s mentoring, she had mastered the Navy’s Hand-To-Hand Basics, then Knife Training and was now close to qualifying on Crossbow Drill, the final prereq to Blaster School. True, a grade of “Bowman” would open the door, but “Sharpshooter” would be even better.
“Very Well Done, May,” Breta said formally.
Her teeth stopped moving. Ah! I did it! “Thank you, Auntie. I can put four bolts in the center: standing, running or riding. Is that good enough? Do I graduate?”
The veteran of numerous interstellar combat operations with the 15th Fleet of the Voluntari Federation looked down at her niece and said in a hoarse-but-kindly voice, “No, my dear, before you graduate you must actually use your crossbow skills, if not heroically then at least to some useful end. While essential, learning to hit what you aim at is only half the curriculum. The first half. The remainder teaches good judgment when faced with a situation serious enough to require a weapon. Master that and you’ll get your blaster lessons. This I promise.”
“But you said – “
“I know what I said: ‘When you graduate from Crossbow Drill, you’ll get your chance to master the blaster.’ I meant what I said. You can pout all you want and think bad thoughts about your Aunt Breta, but you aren’t getting near my blaster until I know you won’t fry your mother because she makes you do your chores. And please stop picking your nose.”
The girl squeezed her hands into angry rocks, pressed them against her chest and aimed her face at Breta. “But you said nothing about this…this… ’judgment’ training. Nothing! Why, Breta, why?”
Breta beheld May’s storm calmly. After all, she had faced worse while training thousands of recruits halfway across the White Cloud Galaxy at the Naval HandWeapons School. But how best to handle this current rebellion?
Reversing her mental clock, she slid back in time to the Federation’s HomePlanet, stood once again behind the beat-up lectern in Weapons Demonstration Hall Number Four and began delivering the Standard Introductory Lecture for Crossbows vs. Blasters: Damage Potential Assessment — but this time to a six-year-old wonderkid.
“Missy May Trofim,” she began formally, “we will now consider the crossbow versus the blaster. By survey, the Navy’s younger sailors have zero interest in crossbows but are passionate about blasters. This prejudice is the inevitable result of watching too many romanticized space battles in the HoloFlix where the Voluntari’s warriors — with their machine blasters issuing forth unstoppable rays of purple death — inevitably defeat invading hordes of anti-social humans, aliens or monsters. And never a single crossbow is seen!
“However, most of what you see in the Holos is rubbish, designed only to create box office sensations without regard for truth.
“The truth is different and simple: over the past 13 months I have trained you to mastery of hand-to-hand combat and knife fighting. As a result, you have achieved near-perfect control of your body: its muscles, joints, reflexes and senses. Your ability to survive misfortune has risen many times over what it was. Is this not true?”
“Yes, of course, I’m in fantastic shape bu –“
“And in all our time together, did you aim and fire a blaster even once?”
“No, because you won’t let – “
The instructor finished her student’s sentence: “Because you don’t need a blaster. At least not yet. Now listen carefully. Though deadly enough, hand-to-hand and knives can inflict only modest damage on a small number of beings. But a Trillium Automatic Crossbow? Yours can fire fifty bolts in fifteen seconds, and each tiny bolt is a computer-guided missile that will hit its target if properly aimed by the –“
“Auntie Breta, please lis —“
Studabeak ignored the interruption. “ — well-trained warrior. Yet crossbows do not compare in breadth of destruction to cold-fusion SantiKory Blasters. Even my hand-held model can destroy a multitude of sentient beings and much property in a moment of reckless anger. Therefore, we entrust blasters only to those few responsible individuals who can demonstrate excellent judgment under the most trying conditions. An excellent example of —”
May pushed her fists towards Breta. “Oh, Auntie, I wish you had told me before!”
The instructor paused to think over her student’s reasonable complaint. “Hmm… Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should apologize. Alas, hindsight transforms each of us into tactical geniuses.”
“Anyway, you had a great morning. At six, you can shoot as well or better than any sailor I’ve ever graduated from HandWeapons School. You’re so close. Please, don’t blow it with a tantrum that tells me you’re just another child prodigy, because children do not handle blasters. Not ever.”
May turned away, fighting back tears of disappointment while running both hands though her sweaty towhead. She’s right. But how did she know? I do want to kill mom when she makes me stay indoors until the bathroom is clean. So do I scream and rant or…
Deciding in favor of sanity, the youngster composed her mind and looked straight at the older woman. “I’m OK now. By ‘judgment,’ do you mean making wise decisions?”
Breta’s mouth opened wide. “May, what you just did with your mind, I’ve seen you do it before. How do you change so fast?”
The child weighed her aunt’s question, then raised her hands, palms up, in front of her chest. “I wish I knew, but I don’t. I just do it. I’ve always been able to change my mind and make it stick. The old ideas and feelings? They go sorta smoky, then blow away, probably ‘cause I trust me to do the right thing. And if I trust me, it usually works out good for everyone. Not always, of course, just mostly.
“Like right now, Auntie. You taught Crossbow Drill to lots of young people, right? Well, you taught me and I’m real good. So I’ll try the Navy’s path to judgment. Deal?”
With that validation, Breta’s homely face brightened into a wide grin. “Why, thank you, my dear! Good sense is the essence of good judgment. You don’t race your unicorn until she drops just because racing is fun, do you? Or fail to eat breakfast before a Knife Training lesson? Or neglect clarifying words you don’t understand in your Algebra? And how about last year, when your brother smashed up the farm’s ornithopter and broke his shoulder — did you run away from the accident or pull him out of the wreck? Judgment is –“
Sadly, Breta was on another moralistic roll with no sign of stopping. “Thank you, Auntie! I really got it! Honest! Sure, I want to get my hands on your blaster, but I’m ready to learn judgment with my crossbow. When can we start? How ‘bout this afternoon? I’m free.”
“But I’m not. Saturday is your next scheduled lesson in HandWeapons School. Besides, don’t you know what today is? The fourth of Mintar is Professional Day. Every classroom in every public school on Windy Place and all the other 75,000 planets of the Voluntari Federation will have professionals pitching their favorite vocations to the school kids. Farmfolk, grav-car mechanics, firesoakers, medicos, politicos, entrepreneuria, even stardrive engineers, each will be promoting and recruiting.”
Without thinking, she rubbed the ACT patch on her left sleeve. “I was asked to address the students of Doethiem County’s Middle School on the wisdom of a career in the Voluntari Navy, specifically pushing its ActionTeams. My workshop starts at three o’clock this afternoon, and three hundred plus kids are expected to attend. After 76 years with the 15th, I have enough anecdotes to keep the middle schoolers gripping their desks and begging for more.
“Oh, May, my mission is so important. Our boys and girls only have until the age of 14 to start the Navy’s application process or they’re automatically disqualified. And believe me, the Voluntari needs our help. There’s always a shortage of Emperor’s Own Guards to execute the multitude of Special Missions assigned to the fleets. So it’s up to the NavalActionTeams to carry out operations that would otherwise be neglected for lack of manpower.”
“Auntie Breta, please, it’s lunch time.”
“Am I lecturing again? Oopsie!” She blushed while raising both arms straight up. “I surrender. End of lecture.”
Studabeak pointed at the distant tree line where their unicorns were tethered and their food stored. “Come, dearie, let’s sit in the shade while we eat. After lunch, if we’re not rushed, we can take our time riding home on the Melodie Springs Trail, maybe even linger beside the heavenly waters of the Springs, pick wildflowers and make bouquets for your mother’s kitchen. That should win us some points, don’t you think? Now, help me wrap the targets and stakes in the tarp so we can be on our way.”
THE SHOOTERS: BLASTER VERSUS CROSSBOW
The two friends walked cautiously down the rough trail leading to the forest. A hundred yards to the east, paralleling their route, the River Doethi raced turbulently in its channel. Fed by spring rains, churning water overflowed the river’s banks, covering the roots of nearby tree trunks and, in a few places, even flooding the trail itself. Their boots were soon soaked.
Without warning, Breta laughed aloud and pointed her trigger finger at the child’s face. “Vaboom! What you need is a demonstration!”
May, accustomed to her aunt’s peculiar humor, stood her ground. “I do? What kind?”
Studabeak indicated a greenish-blue fruit tree. “See that bendi tree? Put a bolt in the center of its trunk five feet from the ground.”
May’s lips turned south. “Auntie, that’s not a bendi. They’re called hi-ho trees in Doetheim. See the spikey bark? The bendi is the same blue-green but with smooth bark.”
“Please, May, bendi or hi-ho, just do it.”
“How come? Besides, it’s only 150 yards away. That’s no contest.”
Refusing to be thrown off, the Tactics-Captain faced the youngster and folded her arms.
May retreated. “OK, OK, I’ll do it, but are you ready for some real speed?”
Her hands blurred. She reached behind her neck, drew the bow, flicked the selector switch to “single”, snapped in the half-empty clip, pressed the button that started the weapon’s computer, aimed and fired. A Trillium bolt struck the center of the trunk five feet from the ground and quivered. Three seconds had elapsed.
Hands on hips, Studabeak straightened to her full six foot ten and roared: “Great Soul, you sure know your stuff! You’re even faster than me — and I’m your Instructor!”
“Yes, you are my Instructor, but I’m the best.”
“Oh? Well, now it’s my turn. Watch that tree and don’t take your eyes off it.”
The lush tree, hung thickly with new leaves and moisture-laden from the recent rains, exploded. Burning splinters soared high, fell to the saturated ground, sputtered and died. A large branch, trailing orange fire, spun in the air before landing in the Doethi. Wisps of smoke rose from the two feet of blackened trunk nearest the earth — all that remained of the once lovely thing.
The child, eyes bulging, turned to Breta. “I… I…” The words dribbled from her mouth and stopped.
Studabeak holstered her blaster. “Dear girl, if that spot on the tree trunk had been the head of a person, would your bolt have killed him – or her?
“What a strange question!”
“Well, would it?”
“Of course.”
“And would that person be any deader from being blown apart by my blaster beam?”
“No, dead is dead is de… Oh, I see.”
“Then can we please lay to rest this talk of Blaster School until you’ve graduated from Crossbow Drill?”
May shook away the image of death and fire. “OK, I’ll stop pestering you.” At least for now, she added to herself.
Satisfied, Breta changed the subject. “When we get to the farm, I’ll borrow your dad’s grav-car. That’ll get me to Middle School by two forty-five with time to set up in the auditorium. When I leave, please wash and brush BigGuy and let him drink from the well of redberry water. As soon as he’s clean and happy, walk him to Sudfarmli Meadows where he can graze until I return. OK?”
The youngster bowed politely. “Of course. I’ll be honored to care for your unicorn.”
Instructor and student resumed their walk across the field toward the woods. The river was behind them now, and May — released from the strict discipline of Crossbow Drill and energized by the battery of infinite youth — bounced in a wide arc, then raced ahead. Reaching a sharp turn in the trail, she reversed course and jogged back to Breta’s side where she alternated hops with her own song-and- dance routine. Soon bored, she envisioned an entirely new drama and sped off in a different direction.
Breta observed these random flurries and knew them for what they were: outward expressions of the child’s personal universe. For even as she ran, twirled and leapt upon the surface of the Doethiem field, within her own mind May was starring in a series of lethal adventures out and amongst the hundred-billion stars of the White Cloud Galaxy.
At the top of one leap, May looked up and saw the exhaust trails of Navy shuttles thrusting skyward from Port Windy Place. She knew their destination: Voluntari Harborage, one thousand miles above the planet. From there, crews, passengers and starships, impelled by the impossible energy of faster-than-light drives, vanished into the immensity of the White Cloud — exactly where she wished to be. The youngster sighed as the columns of fire rose higher and higher into the blue, finally vanishing from sight.
Her aunt, ignoring this mundane shuttle traffic, kept marching down the trail. But since no one survived 76 years in the Voluntari Navy without a healthy dose of aesthetics, she, too, looked into the noonday sky and found a fleet of pinky-grey cumulus filling the space above the horizon. And though her boots were treading a well-known path, her mind was free — not unbounded like May’s but bold enough to imagine the outlandish bodies of alien races she had met on her travels, appearing and disappearing upon the fickle shapes of rolling clouds.
The illusions faded when May snuck up from behind and tugged her sleeve.
“Auntie, yesterday when I told you I was going to sign up with the Emperor’s Own Guards, not the Navy, that didn’t upset you, did it?”
Breta smiled through closed teeth. “No,” she lied and looked back at the cumulus.
The child was persistent. “You sure?”
“Well, maybe just a little. Oh, Dark Soul,” she admitted to the clouds, “that’s not true.”
Breta faced her niece. “May, we’re friends. I can’t lie to you. Yes, it upset me. I felt betrayed. No, betrayal is too strong a word. More like I’d failed and lost the game. Look, I’ve been training you week after week for over a year, giving you all my knowledge and skill to prepare you for the Naval Academy. And now you’re really going to join the Emperor’s Own Guards?”
The child was direct. “When I ‘m seven, I’m signing on with the Guards. That’s the earliest I can take the entrance exams.”
“Would you re-consider? The ActionTeams are such a special group.”
May took a deep breath and ditched her manners. “Auntie Breta, I’m not joining the Navy. I’m me. The Navy’s your life, the ActionTeams your first choice, not mine. Remember what you told me yesterday?”
Studabeak thought back. “You mean about the Voluntari’s soldiers?”
“Yeah. You said, ‘The Emperor’s Own Guards, the Navy and Marines, all our warriors serve the Voluntari Federation with great competence and honor.’ Those were your words, right? And it’s true. But only the bestest of the best, the Emperor’s Own Guards are trained both as warriors and artists: drawing, painting, music, theatre and lots more. You know how much I like weapons and math, but firstly I’m an artist.”
“Missy May Trofim, I know that. Didn’t I read all eighty pages of your first poetry book? And what did I tell you when I finished reading it?”
“Hmm…Maybe you said it was OK?”
“Great Soul! No, that is not what I told you. Your writing is elegant and powerful — a remarkable achievement for anyone. That’s what I told you.”
“Oh! So you know I’m an artist, but do mom and dad? They want a farmer’s child, but I’m not one and never have been. Auntie, except for you, no one — and I mean no one — in my family is ever happy with me.
“Listen, last evening was beyond scary. Both sisters screamed at me ‘cause I wouldn’t watch HoloFlix romances with them. Why should I waste my time? I wanted to play the grand harmonium. Then, after the Flix, things got even worse. My brother told me I was crazy ‘cause I stayed up way late. But I was having such fun writing songs, singing and recording them and —”
“Ralli said that to you?”
“Well, not exactly. He said I was a ‘freaky kid’. But does it matter? Crazy…freaky… a put down’s a put down, isn’t it?”
The child’s soprano jumped to a higher octave, her blue eyes glowed purple and she gripped the handle of the fighting knife strapped to her waist.
“To them I’m just another farm kid. That means a big load of farm duties. Sure, I’ll do some chores but I won’t do them all. And that leads to arguments. And more arguments. You’ve seen my landscapes and portraits — aren’t they more important than mucking out pens hour after hour?
“Auntie Breta, I can’t live here much longer. When I go shopping with mom and dad in Doethiem Square, you should see the looks I get when I open my mouth. My own parents are embarrassed to be with me. Most kids won’t talk to me. Even some grownups get scared. They shrink away from me. I’m pegged as a freak and I won’t stand for that.
“I’m safe when I’m with you but where else can I go? Can you see me in grade school — or even high school? What would I do there? Most evenings, I teach myself RealWorld Algebra, the same stuff high school juniors or seniors learn. Except they’re 14 or 15 and I’m only 6. Who would I talk to at school? Do I sound like a six-year-old kid? Do I act like one? Do I?”
May drew her killknife and snapped it at a nearby tree. WUNK! It struck the center of the trunk five feet from the ground and shivered. She ran to the tree, reached up and wrenched the knife out of the wood. An oily stain blossomed across the rainbow stripes when she wiped the blade on the leg of her jumpsuit.
“Oh, Auntie, I know I can pass the entrance exam for the Emperor’s Own Guards. And if I do well in my training on the HomePlanet, I’ll be cruising toward a lifetime of art, lots of it, plus starship travel and adventures like… well, like the ones you tell me about during Storytime.
“And, yes, when I graduate as a Lady Guard, I’m gonna fight for the Voluntari! Ya understand? Fight!
She stood there breathing heavily. “Goodness, I’m yelling, aren’t I!”
Studabeak stared at her niece with unabashed admiration. “Great Soul, I sure asked for that! Of course you’re yelling at me, and it’s a good thing because you finally made me listen. Even a sermonizing old soldier like me can recognize truth when it bites my nose: the Emperor’s Own Guard it shall be.
“Of course, you don’t need my blessing but now you have it. Squad-Captain Talle Fran, the Chief Recruiter for all branches of the Federation’s military on Windy Place, is a friend of mine from our days in the 15th. Would you like me to speak to him? It might smooth the way when you visit the Military Recruitment Center in the capitol next year.”
May banged her hands together. “Oh, really? Wow!”
“I’ll be reporting to him after I’ve delivered my workshop. He’ll hear about everything we’ve been doing in our own ‘HandWeapons School.’ He can’t help but be impressed.”
Gently, Breta took May’s hand and resumed walking towards the stand of shade trees they used for meals and naps. The youngster held on firmly.
DEEP SPACE COMBAT WITH AUNTIE BRETA AND THE NavalActionTeam
By the time they reached the trees, May’s stomach was making music. “Let’s see what mom packed for lunch.”
The two friends picnicked quietly on a variety of fresh fruits, homemade bread, nut butters and cookies, all produced on the Trofim farm. When they finished eating and were leaning back against the smooth bark of the trees, it was Storytime.
Breta burped politely, sighed, folded her long arms around both knees, cleared her throat and began in her customary manner: “Have I told you about the time I was trapped in a gunrunner’s starship in the Troubled Zone? We were patrolling…”
May leaned in close, listening attentively to discover the moral lesson, tactical principle or vital technical procedure sure to be imbedded in the current tale. For Tactics-Captain (Retired) Breta Studabeak was a genuine heroine of the Voluntari: a tough, star-hopping warrior who retired from the Navy to her home planet of Windy Place after 35 successful combat missions and hundreds of humanitarian campaigns out and amongst the myriad stars of the White Cloud. When the veteran told true-life tales of danger, honor and comradeship, most civilians shut their mouths and opened their ears. And May’s ears were open.
“…some three light-years from Illantra when NIC (Naval Intelligence Central) was tipped off that the hold of the gunrunner was heavy with contraband semi-portable machine blasters and her sleepdecks crammed with mercenaries trained to use them.
“Our squadron received the intel by NullWave Transmitter and moved in fast lest they escape into faster-than-light space. Their vessel was posing as a freighter. Oh, its electronic signature appeared genuine and would have fooled any of the Fleet’s patrols, but as soon as we got it on visual, it was obviously a midsize tactical warship, about 450 feet end to end, smaller than our SpaceDevils but powerful enough to wipe us out if we got overconfident and made any gross mistakes.
“Now, what was that ship’s name. MightyMa… MightyMaxy? Yes, that’s it. MightyMaxy. What a stupid name! Truth is I never found out who Maxy was.
“Anyway, we caught up with the black hats just inside the PioneerStarsSouth Sector. After a messy forty-minute firefight, the three SpaceDevils of our squadron managed to vaporize all three of Maxy’s engines. First her PlusLight Thermonuclear StarDrive, then the Manff Sublight and finally her maneuvering jets — what we call the Jockey Thrusters.”
“But what if the gunrunner vaporized the engines of your SpaceDevils first?” asked May. “And, anyway, what are Jockey Thrusters?”
Studabeak was slightly miffed. “Why May, they couldn’t do that!”
“Why not? You mean your story’s not true?”
“That’s not what I said. Of course it’s true! I was there. But, think, why would a pack of criminals bother to take out our drives? Wouldn’t they just try to wipe us out with thermonuclear torpedoes? Believe me, they tried. You can be certain that our shields held because here I am talking to you.
“Now, consider the awesome level of skill required to pick off individual drives while travelling at .93 lights. The crews of Voluntari warships train relentlessly to maintain that level of god-like competence.
“Remember what my little hand blaster did to that lovely tree? Well, those villains had a few thousand semi-portable machine blasters destined for an army of revolutionaries in the Troubled Zone. Millions of innocent beings would have been murdered had those weapons reached their customers. That’s a wicked crime. It carries the death penalty. Knowing that, the crims had only one intention: to destroy us.”
May’s mental image of the devastated hi-ho tree was shoved aside by a whole planet burning. “Oh, gosh! Now I understand. But what’s a ‘jockey’?”
“Oh, that? Well, long ago, practically in prehistory, unicorns didn’t have wings or horns. Otherwise they looked much the same as our canters, the most common breed of today’s unicorns. In those days, they were called ’horses.’
“Horses? Unicorns with no wings? How awful! And no horns? How did they fight without a horn?”
“I guess they used their hooves and teeth. But the point is that people raced them for money. Big money. And the riders were called jockeys. They maneuvered the horses down a — ”
“I get it: a starships’s Jockey Thrusters move the vessel around, like in take-offs and landings on a planet’s surface, right?”
“Correct.”
“Makes sense.” May moved closer. “What happened next, Auntie?”
“We had the bad guys dead in space but still they wouldn’t yield.
“One option remained and ShipCaptain MaFaerlin gave her order: ‘Boarders Away!’
“My ActionTeam was ready to launch and did so.”
The Tactics-Captain’s wrinkled face sagged with remembered death. As if disclosing a crime, she looked around, leaned closer to her niece’s right ear and whispered loudly, “Oh, May, I hated boarding more than any other operation. It was frightening! Gosh, the adrenaline! We always lost warriors and all of them my friends. After the battle, we got the lucky ones to the Regen tanks and battle docs. But the others? Gone.”
Breta yanked herself out of shattered ships and dismembered comrades and got Storytime back on track. “So there I was, leading my lads and lassies through Maxy’s main pressure lock for a friendly bash ‘n kill when, surprise, surprise, the door closed behind me and jammed shut. I was trapped inside with just three of my mates who…”
LET’S HAVE AN ADVENTURE
May opened her eyes slightly and turned her head. Breta was lying on her back snoring.
At 104 (well into middle age) she liked a midday nap, but, at six, the youngster craved action.
I’ll just go for a short ride to BlackPondDeeps and be back before she wakes. And maybe have an adventure — a judgment adventure — while I’m there.
May stood up, watching her aunt to see if she stirred, but Breta was out. She tip-toed to where Mathee, her four-year-old (and therefore half-grown) unicorn was tethered, petted the beast’s silky red muzzle, scratched the base of the rough horn and stroked her vestigial wings. Mathee’s green eyes locked on the child, watching as her mistress put a finger to her lips. The unicorn bobbed her head a few times and thought to May:
NO SOUND NO SOUND NO SOUND
In silence, child and adolescent unicorn walked out from under the shade into the hot sun and down the path leading to the Deeps.
When the sleeping woman was out of sight, May stopped, drew her crossbow, flicked the rate selector from slowfire to rapidfire, removed a full clip of 50 bolts from its case and snapped it into the weapon’s receiver. After checking to ensure the safety was on, she returned it to the backholster and mounted Mathee in one practiced motion.
Firmly in the saddle, she aimed a thought directly into the unicorn’s head:
LET’S HAVE AN ADVENTURE AND COME BACK ALIVE, thought May to Mathee.
YES YES YES HOLD ON HOLD ON HOLD ON, thought Mathee to May.
The child knew what was coming and gripped the reins. Mathee reared, waved her horn, kicked the air with good humor and trotted towards the Deeps.
THE BATTLE AT BLACKPOND DEEPS
A series of faint ripping sounds, like a logger’s saw tearing through a trunk, woke the groggy woman from a heavy sleep. Eyes still closed, she listened carefully. “Ripcats,” she thought, recognizing the snarl of the giant, snow-white hunting cats that roamed freely throughout the northernmost forests of Windy Place. Farmers, loggers, miners and trappers, especially those who worked the northern climes, were not happy about the cats wandering through the wilderness. Legally, however, they were a protected species and good business besides, drawing flocks of tourists, trekkers and naturalists into their subarctic habitat, all hoping to catch sight of the magnificent predators. The white-furred beasts usually steered clear of people and HumanKind dwellings and rarely ventured this far south, but once in a great while…
She opened her eyes and glanced over at May.
Gone!
She turned her head and looked at the tree they used to tether their unicorns. Mathee is gone, too! They’re at BlackPond Deeps!
She grabbed her backpack, removed the blaster from its holster and fastchecked the charge. Shoving it deep inside the thigh pocket of her cammies, she raced for BigGuy and set off up the trail at a gallop.
When she reached the crest of Lookdown Heights, she pinched the cartilage between her eyes to activate the military lens implants. Pressing twice more, her vision became telescopic. Again and again she pinched, each time increasing the magnification until the nightmare-in-progress three miles away at the edge of BlackPond was brilliantly clear in every frightening detail. Three “rippers” – two twenty-foot adults (tailtip to nosetip) and their eight-foot kitt – were stalking May and Mathee.
The sailor knew she’d never arrive in time but had to try. Pressing both heels into BigGuy’s flanks, she eased him onto the steep, rocky path leading down from the Heights to the Deeps.
Far below Breta, in BlackPond Valley, the rippers were maneuvering for an attack. Little May faced them, straight and proud in the saddle, skillfully dancing her half-grown unicorn backwards towards the shoreline of the Deeps. Controlling Mathee by thought alone, never losing sight of all three predators, she scanned through a full 180 degree arc, both hands aiming the crossbow first at one beast and then another.
In a flash, the white kitt homed in on May and Mathee, raced forward and went airborne. Ten feet out, May’s rapidfire volley of six Trillium bolts slammed into its skull and eyes — whamwhamwhamwhamwhamwham. The young ripper was dead before she smashed to earth.
May bowed to honor her dead enemy.
“Hurray! One for the good guys!” cheered Breta, coming downhill fast but still two miles distant.
Momma and poppa rip were smarter and faster than their kitt, criss-crossing hypnotically in front of May, occasionally stopping to rise on hind legs and pound the air with terrible roars.
May was ready when the beasts came at her simultaneously from left and right but couldn’t get them both. The female went down with six bolts in her head, not yet dead but mortally wounded, while the poppa sailed straight in upon the tiny human and her brave unicorn.
Though not fully grown, Mathee was bred and trained for war. At the last moment, she dropped her head to the ground and, with perfect timing, drove her horn up —up and deep into the chest of poppa. The horn snapped off at the root as twelve hundred pounds of death sailed past with the unicorn’s three-foot shaft still inside its body. Mathee, face half torn off by the rip’s lethal left paw, collapsed, blood pouring out in rhythmic spurts.
The impact tossed May high into the air. Thoroughly drilled in hand-to-hand, she relaxed in mid-flight before hitting the ground, rolled to the water’s edge, quickly tried to regain her feet but staggered and fell face first into the shallows. She got to her knees, crawled ashore, and, still crawling, found her crossbow. Again she tried to stand, failed and went down on one knee.
Up came her weapon, aimed at the wounded cat.
BigGuy was flying down the final incline with Breta hanging on while chanting to herself: Eyes ahead. Find your target. Confront. No blink. Back straight. Select rate of —
The bow must have broken during the fight because no bolts issued from its muzzle. May dropped the useless weapon, drew the fighting knife and turned to face the snarling beast. Once again, she lost her balance and fell sideways.
Leaving a wide smear of blood on the grass, the enormous male, though terribly wounded, slowly crawled in for the kill.
Studabeak was desperate. The eye, May, the eye! The ripper’s brain is right behind the eyes. Throw the knife into an eye!
Face twisted with pain, May rose up on her good knee and assumed the knifethrower’s stance: perfectly balanced blade cocked behind the right ear. She let the mantra fill her mind
No motion…No thought…Nothing…
and snapped the five-inch killblade at the bloody white monster. Not ten feet away, It tore through poppa rip’s right eye into the brain behind. The cat reared in agony one last time, screamed, collapsed to the ground and died.
Again, May lowered her head at the death of an honorable opponent, but this time continued falling forward onto the deep grass and didn’t move.
DEATH OF A UNICORN
Studabeak raced in, jumped off BigGuy and, pulling out her blaster, ran to the scene of the struggle. Nothing moved, just blood and gore and wrecked bodies. Ten feet from May, the Poppa was lying outstretched on its side with Mathee’s horn still protruding from its chest. The veteran knew her duty, moved the selector to “needle beam” and burned a hole straight through the poppa’s head. She quickly repeated this action with the momma and kitt and then turned her attention to Mathee, whose head was lying in a pool of her own blood. Despite the damage done by the half-ton male cat, the unicorn’s green eyes were wide and watching, following her every movement.
Great Soul, May’s unicorn is still alive!
BigGuy sneaked up behind Breta, nudged her aside, walked over to Mathee and began licking her facial wounds.
With the battleground cleared of potential menaces, she ran to where May lay face down. Praying to herself, she knelt beside her niece: Please, please, let her be alive! She gently turned the small body on its back and, bending down, placed an ear over the child’s brave heart. The pumping was strong.
Studabeak had her HandComp out to call for an evac ’thopter when May’s eyes opened. “Please don’t. Put it away. I was just resting and repairing my body. The knee still hurts a lot but the rest of me is OK. I’ll ride out with you.”
Breta hesitated, reluctant to violate standard after-combat procedure.
But May persisted, politely but firmly giving her aunt orders: “Broken or not, it’s my body. Please put the HandComp away, pick me up and carry me to Mathee.”
The hardened veteran, victorious survivor of nearly three dozen battles in interstellar space, was in over her head and knew it. She nodded to May and pocketed the HandComp.
“OK, but first I’ll examine your knee.”
Using her knife, she cut the right pant leg off the jumpsuit. “The flesh is bruised and puffy but no bones are sticking out,” she said while lightly palpating the tissue.
“Yeow!” May cried out reflexively, then, with her emotions under control, watched while Breta continued her exam.
“Probably a sprained or torn ligament. But there might be a fracture. At your age, let’s say eight weeks to heal if broken, four if torn.” She smiled at her young friend. “Does four days of Regen therapy at Doethiem General sound better? My treat? ”
May forced a smile. “Much better. Now please pick me up and take me to Mathee.”
The woman didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, I won’t yelp again.”
Breta nodded, lifted the child off the ground and carried her to where her beloved comrade lay dying.
“Put me down and give me the blaster,” she ordered.
Her aunt wavered.
“Please, give me the blaster. I know what to do.”
Blinking wildly, hands trembling, the rough ’n ready Tactics-Captain did the unthinkable and relinquished control of a standard-issue, cold-fusion-powered, SantiKory hand blaster into the tiny hands of an untrained six-year-old child.
May held the heavy weapon with both hands. As if she had practiced every day of her short life, she moved the selector – click, click, click, click — to “Full Power, Wide Beam, Vaporize,“ turned to Breta and pronounced with dignity: “Some people say the spirit lives in or around the head. Myself, I’m not so sure. But wherever the being is, it makes sense to burn the whole body and let the spirit go free. And I don’t care what body Mathee returns in — unicorn, Humankind, OtherSoul, I just want her back. Now move away, Auntie.”
Breta led BigGuy out of the line of fire.
May reached over and kissed her ally’s bloody forehead. It was only then she noticed the skull: where the horn had snapped off, pink folds of the unicorn’s brain were drying in the sun.
No! Too much! I’m only six! I’m only a little girl! I’ll run away! I’ll hide far, far—
Then Mathee was in her mind:
COURAGE COURAGE COURAGE MATHEE LOVE MAY MATHEE LOVE MAY MATHEE LOVE MAY WITH YOU SOON WITH YOU SOON WITH YOU SOON NOW BYE NOW BYE NOW BYE
C-C-COURAGE, the child thought back. AND MAY LOVE MATHEE WITH YOU SOON NOW B-B-BYE…
May Trofim reached out to her dying companion with two fingers, closed the unicorn’s eyes, shuffled back fifteen feet on her backside, aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger. A wide, pale-purple beam washed out and over the crippled body. The girl kept the pressure on the trigger. In 50 seconds it was over: the blaster was emptied of charge but Mathee was gone.
She gave her aunt the blaster. “Thank you for trusting me.”
The veteran walked around the battle site, picked up the broken crossbow, pulled the Trillium bolts out of momma and kitt, withdrew the killknife from the dead poppa’s eye and stowed these weapons in her saddlebags.
BigGuy turned sideways and waited for his friends to mount up. Breta placed the girl on the unicorn’s back, just in front of the saddle. May wiggled her small bottom to get comfortable and grabbed hold of the speckled grey and white hair of the unicorn’s mane.
Studabeak surveyed the scene with a practiced eye and saw that all was in order. “Ready?” she asked her niece.
“Yes, let’s go home.”
Breta mounted up behind May and grabbed the reins.
“Auntie, I just realized that you’ll have to explain all this to mom and dad because you’re the grownup and I’m just a kid.”
Her body began shaking. “I’m cold. Can I have a blanket?”
Studabeak reached into a saddlebag and found her quilted parka in its compression sack. The big coat came out easily and expanded to full size. She wrapped it around the little girl’s shoulders.
May snuggled into the warmth. Without turning her head, she asked, “Breta, how was my judgment? Was I good enough?”
The woman was close to tears. “Oh, May, you weren’t just good enough; you were the best — the best ever of all my students!”
The child smiled to herself. ”Of course, it was Mathee who saved my life. So now I owe it to her to be your best-ever blaster student. I will make her proud. I promise I will make her… Auntie Breta, are ya there? Auntie, am I… am I falling? Oh, I’m so tired. So awful tir…”
Breta caught the little body before it tumbled off BigGuy. May was asleep.
Crying softly to herself, she put an arm around the waist of the young goddess, hugged her tenderly while guiding the big unicorn onto the trail that led to the farm. As they began the long ride home, she leaned over, smoothed May’s unruly blond locks and whispered into her ear: “Welcome, May Trofim, welcome to Blaster School.”
the end
Copyright © 2012, 2017 Bruce Silton