If you found this by random chance, there are a few things you should know:

1. This is the (unedited) text of my National Novel Writing Month novel for 2006.
2. It was written entirely between the 1st of November and the 21st, but never edited.
3. There is no chapter 9 or chapter 13. If I'd edited, I might have caught that.
4. It is unedited.

51,000 words, 21 Days.

Chapter 1

Junior struggled to control the slide, but the fresh, rust-colored mud was painfully slick. His opponent took the opportunity to pull ahead on the narrow track, spraying mud and metallic smelling water in a great fan behind him.
The glow of the single unbroken tail light on the lead vehicle burned in Junior's eye and filled his mind with thoughts of defeat.
Resolved, he shifted to a lower gear and steered for the embankment that marked the left edge of the mud track. There was nothing in the rules about staying off the sides, and the dryer ground better suited his balding tires. He quickly began to close the distance.
The roar of his modified engine tipped off the lead driver, who began to shift in his padded vinyl seat and adjust his one-handed grip on the dented aluminum bat.
Junior took note of this, and tested the strength of the duct tape which fastened the foam-padded Honda fender to his right arm. It wouldn't be the first time Buck had tried to bash him for getting too close during one of their races, but it would be the first time it didn't work, Junior thought to himself.
As he took the inside and passed the other driver, Junior felt the bone-numbing blows against his arm. If he hadn't been so intent on smashing Junior, Buck's larger engine and thick, knobby tires would have possibly allowed him to maintain the lead through the left turn.
Instead, he was now treated to the view of Junior's LED tail lights as they winked past him.
Junior shook the circulation back into his battered arm and smiled.
He could better appreciate the simple beauty of the deep brown sky against the jagged landscape with his view unobstructed by another racer.
His long, light hair (cut short on top to not interfere with his vision) whipped behind him as he increased his lead.
Buck's curses faded behind him and were gradually lost to distance and the roar of his vehicle.
As Junior pulled past the twin mounds of junk that marked the finish line, his best friend Dank looked up from his monitor screen and gave the "thumbs up" signal.
Dank was shorter than Junior, with dark skin the color of fresh instant caf and perpetually curly black hair cut short, but still thick, against his head.
The modifications the two had spent the following night making had managed to squeeze a few more horsepower out of the aging engine without doing any lasting damage, so Dank was about as happy as he ever got.
As the small crowd began to disperse, Junior stepped down from his mower and began to look over it for damage. There were a few new dents but nothing disfiguring or, more importantly, speed reducing.
He was happy. The simple joy of taking a machine and making it better showed on his face as well as Dank's.
Buck, on the other hand, was not happy, and Buck was not a man who wasted a lot of energy trying to conceal his feelings.
He hopped off his mower and stormed over to look at Junior's ride.
"What is all this?" he demanded. "You got wires and cables all over this hunk. You cheated!"
"Now, calm down, Buck," Junior began to appease,"Dank 'n me just put some monitoring in place to watch the heat 's all."
"Yer a liar and a cheat and you know it!"
Dank stepped up and attempted to show Buck the monitor filled with readings and performance graphs but, like most of the settlers who dwelled in Impact, Buck had no interest in computers or, sadly, progress.
Instead, Buck punched Junior in the mouth, hard.
Junior fell, staining the seat of his overalls with the thick, rusty mud. He reached up and wiped a trickle of blood from under his busted lip.
"Buck, I ain't a cheat," Junior stood up slowly. "You beat me every week for the past six months. You're a sore loser."
"Boy, our people got a history of losing poorly. Ain't no reason to change our ways now."
Dank again tried to clarify, “Buck, we modified the fuel intake valves and rewired some of the electronics to improve the fuel efficiency is all. None of the changes violate league rules for mower racin'. The wires just let me watch the engine on this screen during the race to make sure Junior didn't blow up."
Buck seemed unconvinced but slightly intimidated by 'tech talk'. Dank had that effect on most of the locals.
"All I know is that rusty Dodge-Kyocera could never beat my Sony-John Deere without cheatin'," Buck persisted.
"I ain't a cheat, Buck. 'Sides . . . You can always try again next week," Junior attempted, unsuccessfully, to put on a friendly smile past his busted lip.
Buck glowered,"You might want to pick up a thicker fender shield for next week, boy." He ambled back to his mower and started it up, spraying mud as he tore off into the depths of the scrap yard.
Dank grinned under his dark crop of hair. "You were flying, man! Did you see the look on Buck's face when you passed him?"
"I was busy at the time trying to not get my skull caved in," Junior winced as he touched the spreading bruise on his face,"I should have kept my guard up longer."
"Don't take it personally. As we win more races, expect that kind of response." Dank turned back to his screen. As he reviewed the data, he slapped the side of the device to correct an occasional screen flicker.
"Thanks for your help. This heap never could've beat Buck without those mods you dreamed up."
"No problem, Junior," Dank didn't glance up,"Expect a better performance after I go over these figures again."
Junior climbed back on his mower, started the engine, and headed back toward the shed.

Chapter One Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta Eleven, Galactic History, Era: Modern -300, Index War of Succession, Aftermath

After the Benevolent States United joined together the various national and religious factions of Earth Prime to achieve the idyllic world order Faithful citizens have grown to embrace, there were some detractors. Faced with the necessary progress-oriented regulations on fuel consumption and resource management, the residents of the South Eastern region of the American mother continent grew discontent. Their feelings of distrust for the newly formed World Government festered and became hatred. They tried to dissolve themselves from the union.
Using salvaged or discontinued military equipment and archaic hunting rifles (see notation on "Hunting", "Dangerously Destructive Primitive Beliefs" and "Gun Ownership - The Description of Evil for the Faithful"), they briefly blockaded key ports and cut off communications to and from their region.
With the strategic (and merciful) nuclear strike on Atlanta, Georgia, the war was effectively ended with the press of a button in a Benevolent States United bunker.
Faced with hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war from all areas from ancient Arkansas to Florida, the new government, as always just and kind, felt the need to treat the prisoners (given mass life sentences for high treason) with as much kindness as possible. It should also be noted that housing these prisoners would have certainly bankrupted the fledgling but well-intentioned government -- long may They reign.
Towards that end, whole communities of prisoners were loaded into long-haul, one-way shuttles and auto piloted to a small planet (named EcoHope 11) which had been used as an extra-solar dumping ground for one hundred and fifty years -- ever since the last Earth Prime-based landfill reached capacity.
There, the survivors (granted most kindly with survival supplies by the Benevolent States United) established new communities and live rich and fulfilling lives.
The oldest of these communities is called "Impact." It sits just outside the target crater for the regular deposits of waste material from Earth Prime.
Though there has been little contact with the generations following the initial prisoner transport, it is a widely accepted Truth that the residents prefer a life among the debris to the enlightened existence of those of us who remain under the watchful and protective gaze of the Benevolent States United. It is theorized that there is, perhaps, some genetic anomaly which has manifested itself in their irrational beliefs.
The residents of EcoHope 11 are widely considered by the Faithful citizens of Earth Prime with pity. The official stance of the Benevolent States United is that their reintegration into society would be welcome with open arms . . . were it not for their obvious negative influence on the happiness of the Faithful.

"Get a load of this bullshit, Junior," Dank gestured at the Datanet feed on his screen."That ain't how it went down at all."
Junior glanced over the text. "You figgered out how to modify that file, yet?"
"Nope. We can read it from EcoHope 11 but we can't change it. They got our feed locked down to deny us any influence on the Datanet or contact with Earth Prime. Bastards."
"You dug up anything we can use? Some new drive train mod or anything?" Junior tried to change the subject.
"Anything regarding carbon fuels is locked down in the archive area. Earth Prime switched to all Fusion and Solar energy over a hundred years ago." He pulled up an image of a beautiful racetrack filled with soft-sided remote-controlled cars topped with aerodynamic solar collectors.
"The racing on Earth Prime is totally silent. No motor noise, no crowd noise, even the tire noise is gone since these cars only touch the track at the beginning and end of the race."
"That ain't right," Junior shook his head. "The noise is part of the fun!"
"I git the feelin' that fun is in shorter supply on Earth Prime than landfill space."
As if to punctuate his remark, the loud crash of a trash rocket echoed through the tiny shed the two had claimed to house and work on their racing mower. On a planet without grass, racing was about all the use anyone could find for the occasional busted mower that arrived in a space fill shipment.
"Sounds like it's time for us to get to work, Dank." Junior opened the door to the shed and a thick cloud of dust poured in. "Hopefully this time the 'chutes on the rocket fired or we'll be left digging through slag again."
"Ain't no use for slag, that's the truth."
While poor in most natural resources, EcoHope 11 was extremely rich in metals of all kinds after over a century of discarded items from Earth Prime being dumped on it.
Knowing they were at least 24 Earth-hours from the next drop, the two casually walked and crawled and skidded into the crater to begin digging through the most recent crash site.
The rocket had split open without exploding, as it was designed to do, and had spilled a mountain of discarded appliances, electronics, personal items and larger, more difficult to identify items still mostly hidden by the clouds of dust.
Junior and Dank had worked in the crater for almost six years, both having finished school at the age of sixteen.
Dank enjoyed the job for the thrill of finding "new" gadgets, especially electronic ones.
Junior couldn't abide a career that kept him inside all day.
They quickly located the beacon-enabled "Care" package from the BSU and tagged it for crane retrieval. The medicines and food inside would help meet the needs of the community until the next monthly shipment.
Then they set about the task of gathering the items on the checklists provided by the engineering group.
The school needed a new compressor for the air recycler. The hospital was looking for cloth for sheets, cleaning cloths and curtains. The command center needed an upgraded computer, an item Dank knew they could find pretty easily given the condition of the old computer.
As the dust slowly began to settle, Junior climbed a larger pile of debris to get a look at something that glinted in the sallow light of the EcoHope solar body.
Wiping the object "clean" with his grease stained work shirt (complete with the name tag of some unknown Earth Primer named "William") what he revealed struck him with a profound vision of amazing possibilities.
This vision, in turn, grabbed Junior by the heart and shook him like a pile rat shakes a wounded field monkey.
The large slightly curved sheet of metal was painted a glossy black. It seemed almost liquid with its rich clear-coated finish and gentle, impact-blunting curves. There were two less glossy, metal brackets near the top in the back, which would be useful for joining the device to other equipment he and Dank had been hoarding.
All these details were nice, but the part that triggered the vision was right in the center, staring him in the face.
In impossibly shiny gold-flecked paint in the middle of the black background was the image of a glorious bird made of flames.
It seemed to move when Junior moved, its single black eye following his gaze.
"Dank!" Junior yelled, "I just found what we been missin' on the Beater."

Chapter 2

"Yeah," Dank admired, "That will work real nice." He ran a hand along the top of the object, enjoying the smoothness.
Junior had already started unboxing equipment in the back of the shed. He pulled out a fuel tank, hoses (most completely intact), shocks and struts with enough life in them to make them useful, pulleys and flywheels and hubcaps, as well as less interesting bits of steel rods, PVC pipes and the seat from a vintage 1994 John Deere 425 Lawn Tractor. The foam core was as soft as the day it was made. He couldn't contain his grin.
"Let's build it right now!" Junior's enthusiasm bubbled over.
"We still need a few odds and ends." Dank stared at his reflexion in the black Pontiac artifact.
"Like what?"
"Like some capacitors fer one thing," Dank was building a mental laundry list,"And some assorted circuit boards, a fuel pump, and an energy source."
"Dank, those things fall out of the sky every day."
"I know," Dank sat down. "I just never thought we'd get this far."
"'Course we would!" Junior was still smiling, "It's been our plan all along."
As they started to modify and assemble the various parts laid out in front of them, they lapsed into the comfortable silence native to long-time friendships. Bodies working almost automatically, their minds wandered along a path forged as their design took life.
Junior dreamed of victory after victory, his fallen adversaries giving graceful post-match interviews proclaiming him the superior pilot.
Dank thought of the applications for the designs he had developed and being proclaimed an innovator. Just the power distribution system, blown up to a much larger scale, could handle the energy needs of any of the smaller out-lying communities.
After that, those communities are a simple radio wave connection away from access to the Datanet. Information would liberate and educate. Hopefully, he could break the encryption to allow everyone on EcoHope 11 to send as well as receive before too long. Bigger dreams.
The structure they assembled began to take on a vaguely humanoid form before they ran into an insurmountable need for more hardware.
Donning protective clothing to protect them from the chilly EcoHope 11 nights, the two slipped back into the crater with crank-powered flashlights.
After two hours and four trips back to the shed, they had the supplies to continue. What they didn't have was the energy to continue the project. Both needed a personal recharge, and badly.
They cleaned up as best they could and headed into Impact proper.
The town of Impact was entirely based around the acquisition and distribution of the supply drop offs. Some, like Junior and Dank, were employed in direct pick up. Other, more highly placed, workers handled shipping and distribution, needs assessment and decommissioning of equipment for the other regional communities.
Still others are employed as healers, local and regional political figures, service personnel, militia and even entertainers.
Impact had one full-time barkeep, complete with his own bar (The Rusty Tankard) which served as a town hall and general meeting place.
The building, like most structures in Impact, was constructed out of the hollowed-out hulk of a cargo container.
It was to The Rusty Tankard that Junior and Dank went, bypassing the closed store fronts and dark and shuttered dwelling places.
As one of the few businesses open after dark (as well as the only one open so close to midnight) the battered neon sign in front of The Rusty Tankard drew in local workers like a dead pile rat draws flies.
Junior and Dank wandered to a dark and quiet booth in a corner and began to quietly discuss their next steps.
It wasn't long before someone was by to take their drink orders.
A familiar face is almost always a comfort, and Lizzy's face was familiar to both of them. She had gone to school with them, same grade, and had been working the past year or so at The Rusty Tankard.
She smiled, looking directly at Junior,"What'll it be, y'all?"
Junior felt his face go red, "Two beers, Lizzy. Same as always."
She touched his arm, "Cooler's busted. Mind drinkin' 'em warm?" Her hand didn't move.
"Busted?" Dank perked up immediately. "Think Doc would mind me takin' a look?"
"I'm sure that'd be fine, sugar," Lizzy kept her eyes on Junior.
For his part, Junior made the mistake of looking back.
As Dank hustled off behind the bar, Junior was caught in Lizzy's gaze.
Lizzy always told people who asked that her eyes were her best feature. She secretly was more pleased with other, less publicly viewable features, but that was what she told people either way.
They were a warm and dark green, rimmed with long lashes that felt like they could physically capture the eyes of anyone else.
Her hair, if not naturally blond, probably cost her a year's worth of peroxide rations a week. Fortunately, she made a lot in tips.
She slid into the booth next to Junior, casually pressing her hip against his leg.
"How ya been, Junior?"
Junior felt his chest tighten,"Good, Lizzy. How 'bout you?"
"Oh, I'm real good, sugar," she laughed in a small, high-pitched titter as if she'd been remarkably clever. "I heard Buck knocked you down for beating him this morning, but your face is as handsome as ever."
Not sure how to respond, Junior tried,"You heard about the race?"
"Oh, yeah. It's been all the talk tonight. People say you are a cheater, but I know there is another explanation."
Not wanting to go into the details about fuel economy and electronic boosts (and not totally understanding them himself) Junior defaulted to a slightly defensive,"I ain't no cheat."
"Buck's been talking to Big Roy about it all night."
Junior glanced over at the table. Big Roy was holding court for a score of admirers.
A local legend, Big Roy had moved from debris jockey up through the ranks of Beater pilots to three global championships about ten years past. He had retired and moved back to Impact after that, but to hear him tell it, he had left the big leagues to give the others a chance.
How kind of him, thought Junior.

Chapter Two Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta Thirty-Seven, Galactic Sociology, Era: Modern -75, Index Foreign Culture, EcoHope 11, Entertainment, As reported by anthropological research drone



A curious sidebar to the cultural state of the prison planet EcoHope 11 revolves around the phenomenon of arena based combat. Throughout humanity's long and sometimes barbaric history, primitive cultures have turned to stylized arena combat as a form of religious practice, as part of the justice system and for the simple entertainment value.
The primitive culture which has emerged on EcoHope 11 is no different.
Through salvage and rudimentary ingenuity, the transplanted ex-patriots living on EcoHope 11 have seemingly developed robotic exo-skeletons which are used in games which seem to revolve around pounding each other into smoking piles of scarred metal.
Unlike our robotic technology in the Benevolent States United which are used to complete menial tasks, dispose of the elderly before they become a burden to us all, and act as Protectors and guardians to the Faithful, "Beaters", as they are called on EcoHope 11 are really only used for sporting events which revolve around violence and destruction.
While our more refined robotic guardians are assembled by other robots, "Beaters" are built by individual human workers.
Our robotic guardians are powered by cold fusion and solar power, run silently and are programmed to think independently, while "Beaters" are fueled by various instable blends of carbon-based liquids, roar with eardrum bursting intensity and need to be crewed by a human pilot (usually the builder himself).
Standardized robotic guardians watch over us on behalf of the Benevolent States United from almost ever corner, while "Beaters", due to scarcity of resources most likely, are exceedingly rare.
Those few "Beater" pilots who emerge from the competitive ladder-structured combat season are revered in the various communities of EcoHope 11.

Doc leaned over Dank's shoulder and tried to read the tiny text.
"That don't look like no cooler schematic, Dank."
Dank, caught in mid-read sitting next to the cooler in the back, explained his Datanet drift away, "Sorry, Doc. Got a random link and it looked interesting enough. Looks like the cooler needs the fluids flushed."
"Sounds like half my clients." Doc laughed, partially at his attempt at humor and mostly because a fluid flush didn't sound expensive or time-consuming.
"I can flush it for you in the mornin' before the shipment lands," Dank offered, "It's gettin' a bit late for me right now."
"I'm about to close up anyway. Lizzy's been spendin' most of her time with Junior and I think the other customers are gettin' a little riled up over it." The smile never left Doc's eyes.
As Dank eased back into the main room, he saw Junior choking down another warm beer. Lizzy leaned in close, whispered something to him, and he seemed to melt into the booth seat.
Big Roy, obviously having held his empty mug aloft for too long, stood up.
"Girl! My boys and I are runnin' dry over here! Stop playing with the cheat an' fetch us more drink!" He took two surprisingly quick steps for such a large man and punctuated his demand with a swap to Lizzy's backside.
Dank watched as Junior's complexion shifted from an embarrassed pink, through a sickly green, and into an angry and determined red.
On shaky legs, Junior stood.
"Maybe if you wasn't such an ass yed git yer drinks quicker!" Junior slurred.
"Git back to the crater, boy. This bar's fer real men, not stinkin' cheats!"
"I ain't no cheat!"
Buck looked over from his recently refilled mug, "Y'are, too a stinkin' cheat. Racin' on a illegal mower. That race don't count, boy."
Junior bristled, "Shut up, Buck. My ride can beat yours since we fixed it, s'all."
"Mower racin' is for children, Buck," Big Roy pushed Junior in the chest.
The bench and the backs of Junior's knees (as well as Lizzy knows how many beers) conspired against him. He sat down.
Stupidly, he got back up.
"Roy, Me and Dank are buildin' a Beater that can kick the holy crap outta your old hunk any day, so it don't matter if we race mowers or fight Beaters, I can take you down a notch any time you like." Junior grinned. His eyes looked positively fur-coated.
Dank gasped. A person doesn't just challenge a Beater World Champion. That just isn't done. Dank held out hope that Big Roy would laugh or ignore the ravings of an obviously drunk young man.
Dank's hopes were dashed as Roy uttered, "How 'bout Beater combat then? Saturday night good fer you, boy? Me an' Bessy been hankerin' fer a fight."
"Fine!" Junior seemed to have forgotten that his robot still lay in untested pieces on the floor of a shed.

Chapter 3

To hear Junior tell it, the sun over EcoHope 11 had never risen so early or so brightly as it did the following morning.
He woke to discover that Dank had gotten up early and gone to finish fixing the cooler at The Rusty Tankard. The mere thought of the bar make Junior's stomach flip and attempt to turn itself inside out.
He looked at the pile of parts on the floor. That pile needed to be a combat ready Beater in two days.
Junior knew he was screwed.
Dank returned to find Junior trying to piece together a leg joint. The frustration on Junior's face suggested he'd been trying for quite a while.
"Take a break, Junior," Dank suggested, "We'll get it pieced together in time."
"Don't need no break, Dank."
"Sure you do." Dank's tone was conversational, "Shipment's landin' any minute, I got a note to you from Lizzy and, most importantly, yer tryin' to put the left lower leg on the right lower leg assembly. It'll just git tore up if you keep pickin' at it."
"A note?" Junior looked up for the first time.
"Here," Dank handed him a wax-sealed envelope, "She said it was important."
As Dank went to work on the leg assembly, Junior sat down and opened the letter.

Dear Junior,

Thank you for defending me from those assholes in the bar last night. I fear you will be hurt and/or killed Saturday night on my behalf and it just warms my heart.
My shift ends tonight at 10. How about you meet me for a swim?

XOXOXO

Lizzy

She had left a bright red lipstick kiss imprint under her name.

"She wants to go swimmin' tonight." Junior announced.
Dank's non-committal grunt was his only acknowledgment. He didn't pause in his work until the crash from outside announced the latest arrival.
"Let's see if today is the day fer yer cylinder heads, Junior," he remarked as he threw open the door.
The two started off down the bowl of the crater without another word.

Junior spent his day in the crater wrestling with distraction. Thoughts of fighting Beater to Beater with a three-time world champion vied with thoughts of swimming with Lizzy for the title of top psychological stress trigger.
He and Dank found the requested parts but no appropriate cylinder heads.
They retired to the shed to continue the assembly until it was time for Junior to head into town to meet Lizzy at the bar.
Lizzy stepped into the neon glow at precisely two after ten. The sound of boisterous and drunken laughter followed her into the night.
As the door swung shut behind her, she smiled in a way that made Junior's knees feel spongy like the seat of a John Deere riding mower.
She wasn't dressed at all for the traditionally chilly EcoHope 11 nights. Wearing a short skirt and sheer top over a small halter, she shivered her way over to him.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Where can we swim in Impact?" Junior replied. The only swimming areas he knew of were private pools made from converted fuel tankers half buried in the perpetual mud and dust.
"C'mon," she gestured, "I'll show you."
He dutifully followed her down the main street and left towards the spring. He knew they couldn't be going there. The water was always near freezing and stank of minerals.
Nonetheless, that was where she led him.
They walked along the bank and Lizzy huddled against Junior. She didn't feel any warmer, but she also didn't seem to mind the cold too much.
"Lizzy?"
"Yes?"
"This water is awful cold."
"Trust me."
A loud mechanical sound began to hum in Junior's head, and they walked towards a more brightly lit area where the spring formed a little pool.
As they neared the edge, the large, loud object eclipsed the light source. In darkness, Lizzy stepped from Junior's side and, with a high-pitched titter and the quick rustle of cloth, she dove into the spring.
Junior stripped to his shorts and followed her, pleased to discover that the water was pleasantly warm - warm enough to carry a thin layer of mist across the surface.
"See?" Lizzy surfaced behind him, "This here runs all the time and heats the water up real nice."
She tapped the dark object with one hand to demonstrate.
He tried again to make out what it was but the back lit darkness and fog confused his vision. The motor noise was another distraction this close. "What is it?"
"It's Big Roy's Beater, Bessy. He sets it here at night to keep the moving parts cool."
"What?" Junior was stunned to be so close to an actual title-winning Beater, even though a tiny part of his brain reminded him he'd probably b a lot closer -- too close -- on Saturday.
"Hey!" Lizzy sounded offended, "You kept your shorts on!"
To his credit, he kept them on. They swam and splashed and laughed, but Junior found himself stealing more glances at the Bessy than at Lizzy.

When he returned to the shed, Junior found Dank still working on the Beater, which was now standing upright.
The steel skeleton was joined together with pulleys and wires and covered in various forms of armor plates.
The feet were comprised of large truck wheels (minus the tires) turned on their sides.
Corrugated sheet metal made up the shin plates and the thighs were covered in empty oil drums packed tight with foam.
The knee caps (which covered the now correctly assembled leg articulators) were hubcaps.
Junior's gaze swept upward, past the seat and control panel to the chest guard (open for access at the moment) with its proud phoenix emblem.
Directly behind the seat was the engine, or at the least the parts they had managed to gather so far.
The upper arms were covered in more corrugated sheet metal and hubcap elbow guards (to protect the articulation point most likely to take damage in combat) gently led the eye to the forearms, which were each made up of three steel pipes ending in large heavy mitts of cooled slag, each weighing in at over two hundred pounds.
Dank had suggested that the three-pipe forearm could catch the weapon of a "piercer" Beater and, with a quick twist, break or remove that weapon.
Perched on top of the shoulder mounts was a small, mostly decorative head crafted out of a metal trash can. This was where Dank planned to mount the monitoring equipment.
If the Beater were capable of sitting down, it would most certainly crush the fuel tank.

Chapter Three Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta Twenty, Galactic Science, Era: Modern -105, Index Alternative Energy Sources, EcoHope 11, Combustibles, As reported by satellite and atmospheric monitoring stations

Having neither the technology nor enlightened ecological insight of the Faithful of the Benevolent States United, the denizens of EcoHope 11 still rely primarily on explosive carbon-based fuels to meet their power requirements.
One of the first things the political prisoners did upon arriving, freed by the kind Benevolent States United (long may they mercifully reign), was begin harvesting the native grains. These were not ground to make breads, as regular shipments of food were already arriving thanks to the extremely efficient World Waste Removal Initiative the Faithful enjoy on Earth Prime. Instead, these grains were distilled using salvaged tubing, copper wire and unsanitary liquid receptacles into a poisonous liquid form of alcohol.
In primitive rituals and social settings, the residents took to drinking this liquid intentionally.
They later realized that it tended to burn at a set temperature and could be used as a reliable (if ecologically disastrous) fuel source. Or perhaps they just got lucky.
Ethanol has since become both the fuel and beverage of choice on EcoHope 11. The long term effects on the environment and gene pool both have studies pending.
As an interesting side note, as the distilling process has been refined, several different varieties of fuel have been developed. The lowest quality, termed "beer" by the locals, is used most often as a drink.

Dank glanced up from his screen and announced, "Beer'll work, but we need a lot of it."
"Where we gonna get that much beer?" Junior's gut still churned at the thought of that much beer, or any beer at all really.
"Doc owes me a favor for fixin' his cooler, but it'll still cost us a month's worth of extra rations," Dank replied, already missing the non-food rations that he'd planned to spend on electronic upgrades to his Datanet terminal. In annoyance, he bumped the side of his flickering screen.
"We gonna be ready by Saturday night?" Junior tried to keep the stress out of his voice.
"No problem, man."

Chapter 4

By Friday afternoon, still having not found the needed engine parts, Dank and Junior began the only course of action left to them. They gutted the racing mower and modified the connections to link into the Beater body.
These modifications to the initial design vexed Dank and took much more time than Junior would have liked.
It was Saturday afternoon before they were able to wheel the Beater down into the crater for a practice run.
Since fuel was in short supply, the session would need to be short. Junior had limited time to familiarize himself with the controls as well as to acclimate himself to the unique sensation of moving his body by proxy through a twenty foot high articulated robot composed of scrap. He would also need to learn to fight in it, and fast.
With the flick of a switch, the engine roared to life, charging the capacitors and sending a light blue LED glow through the joints as the limbs powered up.
Junior took a step. By association, so did the Beater. A pile of aluminum siding seemed to crush in complete silence under the foot of the Beater, masked by the shrieking noise of the engine and rubbing joints.
Dank gestured to a partially buried and rusted out tour bus.
Junior nodded and slowly turned the ponderous bi-pedal machine they had built. In three ear-tearing steps, he was close enough to try out his slag mitts.
Junior raised his arm over his head and the Beater mimicked his motion. In a swift, simultaneous movement, the slag block came down hard on the front of the tour bus, tearing a hole the size of a human head through the hood and pushing the engine block into the soft ground beneath.
With a sparkle of shattering glass, Junior used the Beater to push the tour bus onto its side and then over. He beat against the muddy exposed engine and axle until they tumbled free.
The Beater gave a whine and a shudder and then lapsed into deafening silence. Fuel spent and test run over, they began to wheel the machine back up the incline.
Junior could hear the tinkle of dropping glass fragments from the detroyed tour bus. He could not recall more beautiful music.

Chapter Four Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta One Hundred and Forty Seven, Galactic Technology, Era: Modern -75, Index Foreign Culture, EcoHope 11, Native Tech, As reported by anthropological research drone


A few months into the survival process on EcoHope 11, the residents seem to have discovered a rudimentary alpha version of the Benevolent States United's now-famous RCM (Robotic Control Mechanism), which, as all school children are taught, the most highly regarded members of the Earth Prime Protection Force use to control their own state of the art mechanized defense suits.
It was eventually reverse-engineered but, being an alpha version, lacks the refinement of our modern and efficient military hardware.
These control systems have been retrofitted into the primitive melee combat devices the natives of EcoHope 11 refer to as "Beaters".
Instead of the laser communication drive technology, these control units rely on simple electrical signals from the pilot's own muscle system.
Movements are matched (as well as possible given the limited and primitive articulation methods employed) in real time from pilot to "Beater".
Thus, while our modern suits could be driven by quadriplegic operators (were not all physical handicaps eliminated at birth by the Benevolent States United, long may they reign, for the good of the Faithful), the archaic "Beaters" of EcoHope 11 could be completely incapacitated by a simple injury to the pilot.

Dank glanced up. "We gotta find you a helmet, Junior."

Unable to tow the Beater into town behind the now engineless mower, Dank and Junior left for town early. They pushed and dragged the machine on a large, metal sled to conserve fuel and having busted three sets of casters already.
After maneuvering the Beater into place opposite Big Roy's robot on the street in front of The Rusty Tankard, Junior entered the bar and left Dank to complete a few last minute adjustments.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the tavern, Junior was shocked to see Big Roy holding court again with a throng of supporters -- and Lizzy perched playfully on his lap.
Her eyes, normally so warm and inviting, appraised him coolly.
"What's goin' on?" Junior asked.
As Lizzy stood, Big Roy's hand emerged from under her skirt. She walked over to Junior and leaned in conspiratorially.
"Sorry, sugar. Big Roy offered me the chance to be his girl. He's loaded!" She winked at him.
Junior was at a loss for words.
"Good luck, sugar," she smiled over her shoulder and returned to her place on Roy's ample lap.
Junior walked over to the bar and ordered a drink from Doc, who supplied him with one and waved off his attempt to pay with a beer voucher.
"It's on the house, Junior. Just knock Big Roy on his ass for me, won't ye?"
Junior made a show of casually drinking half of his beer, which tasted as bitter to him as chalky coolant, before exiting the bar and pouring the rest in his Beater as a top off.
"Dank," Junior asked, looking from his Beater to the slick and polished Beater Bessy covered in World Championship stickers and glowing magma red through her joints across the street, "What are our chances?"
"50/50, Junior," Dank tightened a bolt with a rusty ratchet, "We will win or we will lose."
Junior was not heartened by this.
Dank added, "'tween you an me, I'll consider it a win if you survive."

Half an hour later, Junior stared out from behind the closed hatch on his beater, his gaze narrowed slightly courtesy of the tortoise shell shaped helmet Dank had procured for him.
He flexed his arms and watched as the Beater followed his movements.
Black smoke and a dull and uniform thrumming emanated from the Beater across the street. Junior could see Big Roy's smile through the vents in the sticker-coated Beater.
Half way between them, Lizzy carried a small flag and a dizzying smile. She walked to Roy's Beater and left a lipstick imprint on the left fist.
She sauntered back to the middle of the street, tittered and spun, then dropped the flag and dashed into the growing crowd surrounding the improvised battle ground.
Roy moved Bessy forward immediately, smoothly closing the distance between the two combatants.
Junior stepped to the side and raised the left arm of his Beater defensively.
By moving forward and to the right, Junior managed to blunt the impact of Roy's first looping swing. It connected with the shoulder cover on on Junior's Beater's left side and left a stinging dent but no lasting damage.
Junior swung the connected arm and left a nasty scrape on the finish of the back of Big Roy's Beater before Roy could return to facing him.
Thrilled at the successful attack, Junior moved in to follow up. His intended upper cut caught nothing but air as Big Roy leaned Bessy back out of the way.
Roy lurched forward suddenly, smashing the forehead of his Beater into the chest of Junior's. The metal covering Junior crumpled under the assault, but Junior himself escaped injury.
Reflexively, Junior pushed against Roy's Beater, less attempting to topple it than just get some space between them. He felt panic close in on him, but identifying the feeling was not the same as overcoming it.
Big Roy slammed his Beater's fists together on the right arm of Junior's Beater and held tight.
He leaned his head forward into the vent and said, "Stick to racin' mowers, boy," before harnessing Junior's momentum into an over the hip joint throw.
In the loudest noise Junior had ever heard, his Beater landed, back down, on the unforgiving surface of the street.
Just before he blacked out, he heard a high-pitched tittering laugh over the sound of Big Roy's Beater moving methodically away.

Chapter 5

Junior looked up into the back lit head surrounded by a halo of long hair. Someone was trying to loosen his safety harness.
"Are you an angel?" he asked, still quite dazed from his brief flight and harsh landing.
"Are you a dumb ass?" came the feminine sounding response.
"Prolly," Junior admitted. As the figure helped him sit up, he felt certain that part of his skull (the part that didn't hurt like all get out) must have remained stuck to the seat of his still-smoking Beater.
Junior noted that Dank crouched near the fallen machine, monitor plugged in and chirping data at him. Dank glanced up and nodded at him.
Junior's gaze traveled along the Beater, noting the numerous dents and scrapes, leaking coolant and sparking electronics. It looked like a total loss.
Then he took note of the person who had helped pry him out.
The stranger was short and pale skinned. Her hair was long and dark in stark contrast. She wore grease-stained coveralls that did very little to conceal her obvious femininity.
She looked up at Junior after she had finished clamping off a coolant leak.
Her eyes were sharp and intelligent.
One side of her mouth turned up in a sardonic smile as she said, "What the hell were you thinkin' fighting Big Roy and Bessy in this hunk?"
Dank took offense, "She ain't no hunk. Her electronics alone'r the finest on the planet."
"There is yer problem," she nodded brusquely, "Y'all spent too much time installin' monitorin' devices and too little time makin' this Beater ready to really fight!"
"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," Junior tried his best to be polite, "But who the hell are you?"
"I'm Trixie May," she stood up straight, chest to chest with Junior, "Doc's my dad. I been away at school."
"School?" Dank asked. Everyone in Impact got the same education. There was no need for anything else in most circumstances.
"I'm a Healer," she clarified, "and I'm pretty good with a wrench if you'd like a hand with this. Whether you'd like a hand or not it looks like you need it."
Junior and Dank exchanged glances. Obviously, their design was lacking in a few key areas . . . Like actual ability to fight, for instance.
"Sounds nice, Trixie May," Junior extended a hand.
She looked at it appraisingly, then took it and gave it an enthusiastic shake.

Chapter Five Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta ninety-nine, Galactic Geology, Era: Modern -5, Index Distribution of Resources, Data Compiled by Computer Simulation and Verified Through Remote Core Samples

Currently, the Benevolent States United enjoys an unheralded era of universal distribution of energy resources. Thanks to the unending research into energy management, the Faithful have access to an unlimited supply of fusion-based and solar collected energy at an extremely reasonable price.
The Benevolent States United (long may they reign) generously acts as the universal power supplier. The insignificant profit made from the average Faithful consumer is, as all things, redistributed into social services and the upkeep of hardware for the Earth Prime Protection Force.
Recently, a new element has been discovered by the Benevolent States United Science Corp which is referred to as Be-esunium. This unique element seems able to store vast quantities of energy in its crystalline structure. Statistical analysis tells us that Earth Prime is home to less than an ounce of this material.
The greatest source of Be-esunium (which could have extremely beneficial impact on the Benevolent States United's continued ability to provide the Faithful with inexpensive and reliable energy) is the tiny garbage planet of EcoHope 11, which has recently been certified as uninhabited.

"Dang Datanet must be busted," in frustration Dank shook his screen and set it down.
A loud crash echoed from the crater as another shipment arrived. The shed was amazingly empty with the Beater "resting comfortably" in the workshop behind The Rusty Tankard.
"Let's go," Junior suggested, opening the door into the cloud of fresh dust.
The rocket seemed to have spilled twice as much material as any other day. The shipment must have been a heavy one, too, because the nose cone was wedged more deeply than normal into the pulverized dirt.
Checking their lists against the monstrous piles of metal, plastic, glass and foam, they began to gather the items requested by the other settlers.
Motor bushings for a tiller? Check.
Tires that are less bald for a grocery delivery cart? Check.
"Fresher than current" water purification filters? Check.
Master Control Board for a PS11G Data Entry Terminal? Oddly, check.
"What the hell is this?" Dank brushed some dirt out of a small hole kicked up by violently distributed garbage to pick up a small shard of stone. He placed it in his front pocket for study later.
The two also managed to find some parts to repair the Beater, which they carried to the back entrance of The Rusty Tankard.
They found Trixie May up to her elbows in Beater guts. She was busily re-routing the wiring inside the steel frame of the machine.
Doc's workshop was huge compared to the cramped shed on the side of the crater.
It was built slowly, obviously, out of cinder blocks as an addition to the back of The Rusty Tankard. Glossy white paint coated the walls so thickly it contained eternally frozen drips of the stuff. An array of tools was laid out on a pristine work bench. Doc must have been making a fortune off beer.
Trixie May looked up, wiped a sweat soaked lock of hair away from her face and said, "Good timing. I was just about done without those replacement parts."
Dank looked over her modifications with admiration. In addition to re-routing the cables, she had added aluminum heat sinks to the moving parts for added cooling, re-sealed the fuel tank and hard wired the LEDs into the master circuit board.
"Looks sweet!" Dank announced.
"Yeah, it does," Junior agreed, though he hadn't yet managed to look past Trixie May.
"Dank, pull up an article about advanced water cooling. We may be able to increase fuel capacity and cooling at the same time by adding a few pumps and redistributing some fluids," Trixie May mopped at her forehead with a shop towel.
Inspired, Dank sat down and placed his screen on his lap. As he began to type, the screen went dark. Out of habit, Dank slapped the side of the screen.
With a great bang and an arc of electricity, Dank's lap seemed to catch fire.
He screamed and jumped but managed to carefully secure his precious data access terminal before slapping at his smoking pocket.
"What was that?" Junior asked, choking on the crisp smell of ozone.
"This!" Dank produced the stone he had found earlier.
"Hey!" Trixie May examined it, "I read about this stuff. It's called 'Be-esunium'. They say it stores and releases energy."
"Well, it sucked my terminal dry and then fried my pants," Dank continued to rub his leg, "There seems to be a bunch of 'em in the crater and you're welcome to 'em."
Trixie May wondered aloud, "Do you think it might be useful in power distribution for the Beater? I mean, we could let it charge up overnight before a match and then supercharge the attacks."
At the word "supercharge" Junior perked up.
"If it'll let me kick Big Roy's ass I'll load the Beater down with a ton of rocks."

Chapter 6

A few hours of digging through gravel, mud, slag and metal in a search for sharp rocks in the dark is enough to meet anyone's share of exhaustion. In this case, it also satisfied their planned demand for Be-esunium.
While being very careful to keep it away from anything electronic, Dank carefully tapped at the stuff with a mallet and chisel. It needed to fit the brackets formerly used for the capacitors precisely.
Dank was relieved that, after a quick charge, his terminal was back to its flickery old self.
While Trixie May fitted the tiny stones into the electrical system, Junior pounded the crumples out of the hood. He hoped the phoenix wasn't a total loss, but things didn't look so good from a paint job stand point.
Before frustration set in, Trixie May suggested that they head up front for a drink. Junior accepted the suggestion by instantly dropping his rubber mallet.
Dank declined, not looking up from his engrossing and delicate work.
As Trixie May and Junior walked into the bar area, the scent of the smoke of synthetic cigarettes washed over them. As usual, Big Roy and his gang sat at the center table, Lizzie obediently perched on his lap.
"Well, lookee here! If it ain't the mowin' racin' champeen!" Big Roy laughed boisterously.
Junior bristled, but Trixie May calmed him with a hand on his shoulder, "Let it go, Junior. You know he ain't worth it."
They sat at the bar, Doc greeting the two of them warmly and pouring cold beer into twin mugs.
"Trixie May, I thought you had a project out back?" He asked.
"Jus' takin' a break, Daddy," she smiled over the rim of her mug.
"Junior here's been the talk of the bar all night. I'm afraid the talk ain't been kind." He smiled apologetically.
"Don't you worry about it, Doc. The new Beater will whip the pants off 'em," Junior tried to inject more confidence into his statement than he felt.
"I know it, son. Just wait 'til you are ready this time, ya hear?" Doc made a show of polishing an invisible stain off the surface of the bar.
Trixie May and Junior sat in relative silence. When the seemingly spontaneous bursts of laughter behind them seemed to take on a more directional nature, Junior slowly spun his stool around.
He stared daggers at Big Roy until the laughter lapsed into uncomfortable silence.
"You got a problem, Roy?" Junior took another courage drink to steel his nerves from his quickly emptying mug.
"I wuz jus' tellin' th' boys that I should git back in the game, Junior. If your Beater drivin' is the best you kids can do these days I'll jus' keep m' title forever", Roy grinned broadly.
"You do that, Roy," Junior agreed, "I'd just as soon whip your ass in a real arena next time instead of some dusty old street."
Trixie May seemed to melt behind her mug.
"I wuz a hopin' you'd say that, Junior," Big Roy's grin became impossibly wide, "Jus so happens my agent called an' wanted me to find an exhibition fight. You know, get me back in the game, show the crowds I still got what it takes. Sounds like you jus' volunteered." His voice dropped, "Unless yer chicken."
Junior knew he'd been tricked. He also knew he wasn't a chicken.
"When, Roy?"
"One week, Junior. My agent is settin' up camera crews an' a regulation size ring'll be set up at the bottom of the crater."
So he couldn't even back out over fuel costs. Damn, thought Junior.
"One week it is, Roy."
Without another word, Junior and Trixie May went through the back door and into the workshop to share the new deadline with Dank.

Chapter Six Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Alpha Epsilon sixty-three, Galactic History, Era: Modern -500, Index Religious Rituals, Extinct Civilization, Data Compiled by [message reducted]

Often, the number of participants in a single-elimination tournament is fixed as a power of two; for example, the Benevolent States United Faithful Wimbledon singles championships are tournaments of 128 players. This ensures all competitors will face opponents who have previously played the same number of matches. The full schedule of pairings across all rounds (the bracket) may be allocated before the start of the tournament; or each round may be allocated at the end of the preceding round. Each successive round halves the number of competitors remaining (assuming there are no byes — see entry titled "Unfair Advantage for the Non-Faithful Eliminated" and "Ancient Organized Crime and Evil"). The round in which only eight remain at the start is generally called the quarter-final round; this is followed by the semi-final round in which only four are left, the two winners of which then meet in the final, or championship round.
In cases where the number of competitive entities at the start of the tournament is not a power of two, some competitors may receive a bye in the first round, which entitles these competitors to advance to the second round automatically without playing. Often, these byes will be awarded to the highest-rated competitors in the event as a reward for some previous accomplishment; indeed, in some Benevolent States United team sports - most notably Galactic Hockey - the number of teams qualifying for the post season tournament will be intentionally set at a number which is not a power of two, in order to provide such an advantage to a high-achieving team in the just-completed regular season.
However, in the case of the all-but-forgotten hangers-on who at one time may or may not have lived on EcoHope 11, a very simplistic "King of the Hill" format may or may not have developed.
The essence of single-elimination, "Beater" combatants are removed from competition after a single defeat. The matches are supposedly chosen through random drawing or, less often, through intoxicated personal challenge.

Junior greeted Dank with a simple, "One week, Dank."
"The rematch is in one week?"
"Yep."
"She'll be ready," Dank assured him.
Junior wondered if the same could be said of himself.
The first test run of the new and improved Beater began in the cold, grey light of dawn a few hours before the scheduled shipment for the day would "touch" down in the crater.
Junior climbed in the recently fueled machine and fastened his safety harness.
There was some debate among Beater match spectators as to whether or not the safety harness assured any true measure of safety, but any pilot would tell a person that not being knocked out of Beater onto the ground beneath another was a good thing. Also, remaining connected to the control systems was important for victory as well as simple survival.
Junior powered up the Beater and waited as the new crystalline capacitors charged. The now familiar blue glow seemed twice as bright as normal.
As Junior'd thoughts turned to facing Big Roy's Beater in a few days, Dank stared at the read outs on his terminal, conferring in relative silence with Trixie May over the ability of the stones to handle the generated electricity. For her part, she looked confident if concerned.
With a "thumbs up" signal from Dank, Junior took his first steps forward.
He was relieved and more than a little surprised that his leg articulators didn't explode. In general, the Beater was more responsive. His controls were as close to real time as he could detect.
Tentatively, he raised his arms inside the cockpit. The joints on the top half of the Beater glowed brightly as the arms were raised.
Junior brought his hands together and was treated to a loud cracking sound as his oversized slag mitts slammed together.
Trixie May pointed to the hulk of an old refrigeration unit. Junior had been eyeing it since they wheeled the Beater down in darkness.
The large, dark box was twenty feet on a side, coated in rust except for the dented corner where, presumably, the rust had been scraped off as the unit was flung from the delivery rocket. One side was still covered in carbon strengthened metal tubing.
Junior, on a whim, raised both feet at once and took a long hop in the direction of the target. The ability to hop at all was new, and a credit to the enhanced limb strength.
However, Junior did not anticipate the distance. He landed off-center, one foot teetering on a small metal dome shaped object. He managed to put his other foot down again to stop his fall, but not without his small audience seeing his Beater mimic his involuntary wild, circular arm movements.
Junior re-oriented himself on the target and tried not to feel embarrassed about his near fall. With perhaps more care than was needed, he stepped forward and raised his left arm.
With a shower of sparks, the slag mitt came down on the already dented corner of the box.
Foam insulation and bits of shattered plastic flew from a new hole the size of a car door. Junior was impressed.
To test the strength, he jammed both mitts into the opening and spread his arms wide, tearing the metal into a long and jagged gash.
He stepped to the side and back a bit before leaning into a kick against the side of the box, sending it flying several yards to land, top down, upon what was left of a pile of picked over electronics. The carbon strengthened metal tubing faced him in an unspoken challenge that spoke to the tiny part of all men that demands proof that all things can be broken into smaller things.
Junior hunched down and prepared an uppercut that would catch the tubing in the center and, hopefully, at least knock a section loose.
Elbow and shoulder joints glowing blue, Junior brought the Beater's mitt forward and connected with the tangle of tubing with a blinding flash and a thick smell of ozone.
As his vision cleared, Junior saw that he had, indeed punched a hole through the carbon reinforced pipes, as well as the steel wall behind it.
Dank crawled on top of the box and stared into the newest hole.
Reaching in, he pulled out a smoking plastic box which trailed wires and dripped fluid.
"Looks like you hit a battery," Dank announced.
"The Be-esunium must have drained it, powered your capacitors and destroy the source," Trixie May seemed quite impressed.
"Just like that?" Junior asked, climbing down from the Beater.
"Yep," Dank smiled, "Just like that."

Chapter 7

"You got a fair amount of carbon scoring on the right mitt from that last hit, but slag is tough to bust up," Trixie May scraped at the limb with a rasp she had gotten from the workbench.
"What'll that do to another Beater?" Junior asked, again at work on the area around the phoenix emblem, using coarse sandpaper to scratch away at the chipped paint.
"Who knows?" Dank was going over performance graphs and verifying heat signatures, "I do know runnin' this Beater on beer is doin' long term damage to the internals."
"What does that mean?" Junior stopped sanding.
"It means we need a higher octane of booze, Junior." Trixie May set down the rasp, "The alcohol needs to burn cleaner. Don't you worry. Daddy has good connections." She winked.
Dank looked up, "Junior, I think what this old girl needs is a name," he said, patting the sheet metal shin guard.
"That's the truth, Junior," Trixie May added, "You can't expect to beat Bessy in some no name Beater."
Junior thought for a moment. He'd always planned to choose a name later, like just before his first tournament match. However, even given the exhibition standing of his upcoming confrontation with Big Roy, he stood a chance, however slight, of bumping Bessy out of the running for the season. That would automatically grant him the right to compete officially.
He drew a blank.
"How about 'The Steel Magnolia'," Dank suggested.
Junior and Trixie May stared at him until he grew uncomfortable.
"I love that data file," He defended, "Sometimes a feller just needs a good cry, you know?"
Junior, for the good of their friendship, had decided that he'd never heard Dank say that.
"Smasher" seemed boring. "De-constructor" was taken. While naming the Beater "Trixie May" could be seen as a compliment, he'd hate even more to have Bessy smash the crap out of a Beater named for such a nice and, in fact, downright amazing girl.

Chapter Seven Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Theta Delta Delta Three Hundred and Sixty-nine, Galactic Current Events, Era: Modern -0, Index Earth Prime Protection Force, Energy Management, Data Compiled by Press Release

A glorious new era begins for the Faithful citizens of the Benevolent States United, and it is an era of energy availability previously unknown in the history of humankind.

With thanks to the dedicated men and women of the Benevolent States United Science Corp, a small task force composed of highly decorated members of the Earth Prime Protection Force has left Earth Prime orbit in order to gather quantities of Be-esunium ore from uninhabited deep space. This ore will be used to store and release clean, pure and silent energy to residences across the face of Earth Prime.

Devices using Be-esunium will ensure that the Faithful will enjoy uninterrupted power at all times at a fraction of the cost to the Benevolent States United.
When asked why the Earth Prime Protection Force had sent a number of mechanized defense suits along with the single freighter into well-documented uninhabited space, EPPF sources replied with a gracious and benevolent, "No comment."

Junior completed sanding the tiny area and stood up straight as though stunned.
"Firebird." He pronounced.
"What?" asked Dank.
"This Beater is 'Firebird,'" Junior clarified.
"That's nice, but you better work on rubbin' the dents outta that emblem," Trixie May grinned.
Junior set to work on that while Dank fine-tuned the electrical system and Trixie May adjusted the coolant lines.
Gradually, the lines of the bird began to clarify. Lacking gold-flecked paint, Junior did the touch ups with safety red.
The thick smell of paint already filling the workshop prompted Trixie May and Dank to join in, laying thick lay coats of matte black on every part of the Beater except the hood, which got five layers of clear glossy paint to protect the bird in the center, which even Junior admitted stood out like a target right over the pilot's chair.
"We may want to weld a steel bar right behind the bird," he offered, and Dank replied by eyeballing and cutting a two inch thick length of rebar.
Under the blue acetylene glow of the arc welder, Firebird seemed to finally take life.
As the paint dried, the three walked into the bar for a drink and a break. Fortunately, for some reason the bar was mostly deserted.
Away from the low drone of the shipping workers in a corner, Dank, Trixie May and Junior stole away to a booth in the back, having filled mugs already from the tap on the way in.
Over the low foamy heads of beer, they discussed strategy.
"You need to keep her away from Bessy as much as possible," Dank offered, "Get in quick, hit her, and get outta the way."
"Use the enhanced strength," Trixie May suggested, "When you get in close, put the squeeze on her joints and disable them as soon as possible."
"I jus' hope I don't get killed," Junior drained his mug in one extended gulp.
Dank scoffed, "You won't get killed, Junior. Ain't no one actually died in a sanctioned fight since before we was born."
"Well, if Big Roy beats us again I don't see how we can even keep livin' here in Impact."
"What are you talkin' about?" Dank grinned, "I'll be just fine!"
"If you beat him, you'll have to pack up and ship out for Pleasant Station anyway," Trixie May reminded them, "That's where all the tournaments are anyway."
Cold anxiety suddenly gripped Junior. Win or lose, he'd be leaving Impact soon, maybe forever.
He'd never been more than a dozen clicks from the perimeter wall in his life. Neither had Dank.
They'd get eaten alive in the more refined Pleasant Station.
"I don't know nothin' about city life, Trixie May," Junior was beginning to sweat in spite of the cool EcoHope 11 evening.
"Don't you worry about it," she tussled his hair, "I'll be there to take care of you." Her glance turned to Dank, "You, too, Dank." Her smile seemed genuine.
"I thought you'd come home to stay?" Junior asked.
"Hell, no Junior! I'm just here visitin' Daddy before I set up shop in the city."
Junior was not too surprised to discover just how happy this news made him.

Chapter 8

As silently as a scaly owl gliding after a field monkey, the carrier sailed through the inky blackness of space.
Shaped like nothing so much as a large cylinder gently flared out in the front, the ship was half a kilometer long.
Across the front, ship-to-ship lasers and planetary bombardment missile launchers stuck out like whiskers on a tom cat.
Within, uniformed crew members moved from station to station, adjusting speed and vector, verifying the atmospheric recyclers, and staying the hell out of the way of the warrior class members of the Earth Prime Protection Force.
In the levels below the bridge, spotlessly clean training rooms were filled with warriors. They were engaged in small arms practice, hand-to-hand combat exercises, and computer simulated mechanized defense suit training.
Apart from the others, High Captain Martin Stevens moved gracefully in virtual reality combat against multiple heavily armed opponents.
His dancer's appearance belied the view provided by the computer projected into his mind's eye. On the inside, Martin Stevens fought for his life.
Coming up just behind the rocket blast from a computer generated Un-Faithful Combat Droid, Martin twitched the muscles in his left forearm, sending a spray of incendiary darts into the shooter.
Without pausing to watch the darts dissolve the circuitry, he spun on one foot and triggered the launch of his shoulder mounted anti-personnel rocket. The projectile detonated spectacularly in the face of another sim Un-Faithful but, again, Martin's attention had already moved to his next target.
Within a simulated bunker inside the exercise, and outside the exercise on a stainless steel bench, Specialist Trevor McComb typed frantically on his projected keyboard. He sent combatant after combatant after Captain Stevens, and all were almost instantly scrapped and deleted. He had even tried multiple attackers at once, but Captain Stevens seemed to take almost sick pleasure in tricking the human-smart virtual reality constructs into destroying each other.
As Martin fired a close range laser at the arm joints and power core of yet another failed attacker, an idea started to form in Trevor's mind. A new strategy, any strategy, had to be better than this exercise in futility.
Hastily, Trevor programmed and tossed in half a dozen attackers at once. Not having time to fully code them, he trusted their melee ability to buy him the time he needed.
While Trevor frantically typed, High Captain Stevens immediately took note of the fact that the newest arrivals carried no ranged weapons. As a result, he powered his own down. It would be a disgrace to destroy even a simulated opponent without at least trying to maintain a sense of fairness.
A grim smile on his face, he waded swinging into the throng.

Chapter Eight Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Alpha ninety six, Galactic Technologies, Era: Modern -0, Index Earth Prime Protection Force, Computing, Data Supplied by Datanet Tech Feed

The Faithful of the Benevolent States United have access to the full computing power of over a million databases worth of publicly available information. This carefully chosen and unrestricted information is provided courtesy of a central hub known as the Datanet.

The Datanet is primarily responsible for ensuring our robotic protector drones make their appointed rounds to sanitize the environment and remove chemical and human impurities. Fully harnessed by the trained Specialist Computing Corps on the Earth Prime Protection Force, the Datanet can be used to not only deny services to the Un-Faithful, but to launch powerful information attacks against any enemies who would be foolish enough to try their pitiful strength against the brave officers of the Benevolent States United.

Constantly logged in via implanted personal terminals, these brave coders use projected holographic keyboards which register precisely finger location by state-of-the-art motion detection sensors. The Specialist Computing Corps members are trained from birth to think creatively while maintaining the high ethical standards of the Benevolent States United while supporting our infrastructure and maintaining the highest level of performance in our Earth Prime Protection Force mechanized defense suits.

High Captain Martin Stevens whirled past the last construct not already reduced to a smoking heap and leaped, coming down knee joint first on the neck assembly of the immediately immobilized droid.
Expecting another assault, Martin swiveled in place and saw a tiny floater drone hovering near his chest plate.
Seemingly faster that thought, it clanked into the area above his High Captain insignia and clung magnetically.
Before he could even begin to pry it off, it had jacked into his on board system and deleted the core, instantly killing the suit and ending the simulation.
A brief look of shock stole across his face in real space before he turned to the bench and yelled, "What the fuck was that, Specialist?"
"Creative thinking, sir." With a wave of his hand across his chest, Trevor dismissed the keyboard and turned to face his commanding officer.
"I've been throwing virtual hostiles against you for over an hour, sir. Just to stand a chance I needed to add my own skills into the mix. Sir." The Specialist was more than a little frightened by the look on High Captain Martin Steven's face, but he tried not to show it.
"Without your little techno stunt I'd still be in the game, and since no one in the galaxy has access to the computing power you so casually toss around, you've just invalidated the whole exercise. You think this is a joke? You know the BSU is facing a global crisis in energy management." He was barely able to contain the anger in his voice. Apparently, he'd planned to go on killing targets all afternoon.
It crossed Trevor's mind that High Captain Martin Stevens's use of the word "game" had nothing to do with it having been a simulation. To him, any combat was a game.
In fact, Trevor had started hearing the rumors in mess halls and training rooms long before he'd even joined up with the company under High Captain Martin Stevens. The Stevens family had a long and glorious military and political heritage. However, the youngest son, Martin Stevens, had entered the service long after the last of the Un-Faithful had been re-educated or eliminated. He had, of course, been granted ancestral rank and honors, but he seemed obsessed with proving that his abilities were genuine.
"Sir, with all due respect, we are trained to use every possible advantage to ensure the continued survival of our team mates and the Benevolent States United. I was merely attempting to do my Faithful best." Specialist McComb chose his words carefully. By invoking the Faith, he hoped to avoid a formal reprimand at best or, at the worst, a severe beating.
"If you ever try to hack your way out of another of my simulations again, you won't see the outside of human waste recycling programming until you retire, Specialist," High Captain Stevens seemed a bit mollified, "Without the aid of those dishonorable technological tricks, you wouldn't stand a chance against me."
He re-engaged the simulation from the beginning.
"Throw some more melee sims against me, Specialist. That was the most fun I've had in a month."
Specialist Travis McComb complied.

Chapter 10

"This is stupid, Dank," Junior yelled over the roar of Firebird's engine.
"You can't learn nothin' beatin' on coolin' units, Junior," Dank asserted, "Hit me!"
Dank stood in an improvised false Beater made from an old chest freezer perched atop two battered food storage modules. He waved "arms" made of simple steel rods in semi-random circles.
"Alright, Dank," Junior stepped forward, "But you hollar real loud if you think you might get hurt."
With Trixie May staring at the read-out on the data terminal, Junior moved in to attack.
There was a loud clang as the first metal rod connected with the shoulder armor on Junior's Beater. Surprised, he glanced towards it to hear a second clang as the other arm slammed into the black-painted head of Firebird.
As Junior stepped back, Dank smiled. The improvised arms continued to trace lazy circles in the late afternoon air.
"Watch your coolant levels, Junior," Trixie may called, seemingly (and thankfully) ignoring the embarrassing first pass.
Obligingly, Junior cranked up the liters per second on the coolant pumps, "Anything for you, Trixie May!" He tried to flash her his most winning smile.
More carefully the second time, Junior stepped in again, arms raised defensively at his sides.
As one of the steel rods bounced off the Beater's left forearm, Junior brought the right arm forward in a shove, attempting to topple Dank.
His move was interrupted when Firebird's arm caught on the tip of the steel rod.
Distracted, he completely missed the next hit to the head from the steel bar on Dank's left.
Unable to hear the sound over the rumbling motor, Junior could still see Dank's laughter.
He leaned and kicked out with his left foot, leaving a crescent-shaped dent on the right storage module.
Dank leaned right a bit, but kept his seat. He also managed to bounce a steel rod off the right shoulder of Junior's Beater.
Firebird stumbled backwards as Junior considered his next move. Dank's reach was far better than Junior's, but his position was static.
Junior began to circle Firebird to the left, watching the arms swing in those maddening lazy circles. Just before he came into range, he jumped right and brought his left slag mitt down hard on the top of the chest freezer.
Hopping out of the way, he saw that Dank was uninjured, if a bit more cramped. Only then did he notice that the swinging arms had missed him completely.
"Again?" Junior asked.
Dank did his best to nod from under the large u-shaped dent.
Knowing the same feint wouldn't work twice, Junior decided to avoid the painful wade in completely by jumping to cover the distance. The knee, hip and ankle joints flashed bright blue and he propelled Firebird into the air directly towards Dank.
Quickly he brought the slag mitts together on either side of the chest freezer in an attempt to cave it in further and limit the mobility of those damn steel rods.
Hindered by the center dent, the walls didn't collapse as much as he'd hoped. Trying desperately to avoid the sound of another hit, Junior threw himself backwards.
He came down poorly, one foot teetering on a large stone. Before he could plant the other foot somewhere solid, his center of gravity pulled him crashing to the ground.

Chapter Ten Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Alpha Kappa Twenty-One, Galactic Current Events, Era: Modern -0, Headlines, Data source Benevolent States United Sanctioned News Feed

Scattered reports from across the globe reporting mass power outages have been completely disproved by Benevolent States United Information Corps officials.

High Commandant Theo Phillips of the High Intelligence Bureau is quoted as having stated, "Our dedicated agents have been working non-stop for the good of the Faithful, as always, and they have managed to uncover an attempt by radical fringe groups of the Un-Faithful to discredit the extremely fine job of providing reasonably priced and constantly available power the Benevolent States United is doing for us all. Long may They Reign."

The Faithful are further advised to report any citizens who still may suffer from the lies of the Un-Faithful that they may attend refresher courses in Truth provided at no charge at the nearest Command Center. In most cases, the nearest Command Center is very near indeed.

Dank set down the terminal and handed Junior a fresh buffing wheel, "Told you, Junior, git in quick and bounce back out."
"But watch where you land," Trixie May added, pounding the dents out of a shoulder plate.
"I get it," Junior was applying a fresh coat of matte black to the arms to cover the deep gouges left by the steel rods, "I'm also gettin' a lot faster at repaintin' Beaters."
"Well stop lettin' folk knock the paint off 'em," Dank had brought the steel rods from the crater in with him. He brandished them in a mock intimidation attempt.
"Ain't no Beater moves like that, you swingin' them bars around," Junior shook his head, "Beater moves'r more . . . mechanical."
"Junior, you ain't fought but one Beater in your entire life," Dank reminded him, "How do you know they all move the same way?"
"They just do," Junior began to feel doubt begin to blossom into worry. He'd seen plenty of Beater fights on terminals since he started watching them before he could walk. No Beater ever swayed around like those simple, damned annoying steel bars.
"What do you recommend then, Dank?" Junior knew that if he could learn to dodge the swinging metal rods, actual Beater arms would seem slower than a two-legged pile rat.
Trixie May had the first suggestion, "We can re-distribute the power from the Be-esunium capacitors out of the combat motors and into the propulsion system. Her limbs'd be faster, but they prolly wouldn't hit as hard."
"That's worth tryin'," Junior admitted.
"You should keep your eyes on anything Big Roy can hit you with," Dank tried to help, "He slammed you good with Bessy's head last time. I figger he'll do it again."
"Great," Junior noted, "Fix the Beater and don't get hit. Y'all are priceless, you know that?"
"Don't take it like that, Junior," Trixie May placed a soothing hand on his arm, "We are just tryin' to help, is all."
"I know, Trixie May," Junior smiled, "Y'all are the best friends a pilot could hope for." And he meant it.
The three set about making the modifications and repairs needed to help even the odds.
They worked long into the night without stopping. The dents and creases eventually smoothed away to nothing as Dank and Trixie May worked in tandem, moving coolant lines and re-directing the electrical subsystems.

When Trixie May and Dank had declared the procedure a success, they all discovered a powerful and sudden thirst. They walked towards the front of the bar to better fully investigate the exact depth of this thirst.

Chapter 11

The bar was crowded and loud and smoke-filled, but they managed to squeeze into a smaller booth along the crater-facing wall.
Junior was so intent on trying to make out the details of the store Big Roy was relating to his hangers on that he was completely surprised by Dank's kick under the table.
"I said, sugar," Lizzy was obviously repeating, "What do you want? To drink?"
"Beer, Lizzy," Junior felt extremely uncomfortable for some reason, "I always have beer."
Lizzy glared at Trixie May, "You always have somethin', Junior."
As she stamped off, Dank asked, "What the hell was that about? I thought she dumped you? Did I miss somethin'?"
"The important thing is we've both moved on, you know?" Junior tried to address Dank as plainly and directly as possible while communicating with Trixie May as transparently and indirectly as possible.
"I suspect she and Big Roy have hit a rough patch, Junior," Trixie May, for the first time acknowledging the conversation at all, pointed at the measured distance Lizzy was keeping from Big Roy's side of the table.
If anything, Big Roy seemed almost oblivious.
"Daddy says Big Roy ain't paid for his own drink since he got back from his last championship," Trixie May confided, "His fans there buy him beer in exchange for stories."
Junior thought about the implications of this.
"I expect Big Roy ain't as 'loaded' as Lizzy thought," Trixie May sounded almost sympathetic, though Junior and Dank would have had a hard time guessing who it was she actually felt sorry for.
As Lizzy carried a loaded tray of mugs to Big Roy's table, Junior saw her steal glances at the table where he sat with Dank and Trixie May.

Chapter Eleven Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Delta Epsilon forty-two, Galactic Religion, Era: Modern -0, Index All That is Known, General, Data Supplied by The One True Text

With the end of the last Earth Prime based war, there was a period of peace filled with the search for new Truth. The founders of the Benevolent States United had, after all, scientifically disproved every religion the ancient Earth Prime citizens had ever heard of and united the people under a common belief -- even if that belief was a misguided lack of Truth.
After a long and diligent search by some of the finest minds on Earth Prime, the Benevolent States United issued an edict:
Whoever can show us the Truth, shall be named the head of the new Faith.
Challenge issued, the Benevolent States United spent forty days and forty nights reviewing submissions from those who had been seeking Truth. Then, certain they had chosen correctly, They told us the Truth.
The Benevolent States United (long may They reign) had solved the eternal mystery for us. And we, the Faithful, have heard the Truth from Them, automatically declared the head of the Faith, ever since.
No religion in the history of human kind (though there are no records of any other religion having existed) has enjoyed such a time of peace, enlightenment and harmony.
Aid the Benevolent States United in Faith, dear reader. To think about the alternative is to deny Truth. To deny Truth is to deny life.

Big Roy laughed explosively and Dank set his terminal down in disgust.
"Gets so a feller can't even read in peace in The Rusty Tankard no more," Dank waved to Doc for another round. If he couldn't read he may as well blur his vision a bit.
Trixie May and Junior had taken to the dance pad for a while. Watching them, Dank had no idea how Junior managed to walk straight at all, much less keep a Beater upright.
At least the music was good. Ain't nothin' wrong with Skynyrd.
Lizzy brought his beer and slid into the booth next to him.
"Dank, if I tell you somethin' you have to promise not to let it get back to Big Roy," She kept her voice low and refused to meet Dank's eyes.
"I wouldn't tell that asshat to jump in the spring if his face was on fire, Lizzy," Dank tried to make her more at ease as her tension was contagious. It didn't work.
"Big Roy is plannin' to do something at the match -- somethin' to make sure he wins," Lizzy glanced up in the direction of Big Roy's table.
"I suppose you mean somethin' besides just knockin' the crap outta Junior, don't you?"
"I do, Dank," Lizzy looked actually frightened, "I don't care who wins a damn Beater match, but Junior could get hurt and he don't deserve that."
"No, Lizzy," Dank had changed the subject, "He sure don't."
As Lizzy slid out to shuttle more mugs back and forth between the bar and the patrons, Dank watched the dance pad.
Shit, he thought, that boy don't need no help gettin' hurt. With grace like that it was a miracle he hadn't killed hisself on a late night trip to the refreshers.

Chapter 12

Junior stood strapped into his Beater on the floor of the crater. He'd had the motor running for an hour, adjusting coolant pump speed and letting the capacitors charge. It didn't seem to matter how much energy he dumped into the Be-esunium nuggets, they always seemed to have a hunger for more.
He was anxious, two days before the match, to go ahead and discharge them as often as possible to grow accustomed to the flash of light and blast of sound accompanied an impact from his slag mitts. He hoped he'd be suffering through a lot of them on Saturday while he pounded Big Roy's Beater over and over and over.
This time out, Dank had constructed an elaborate obstacle course in the bottom of the crater. The goal, as Dank had explained, was to let Junior learn the full range of movement possible in Firebird. How far can she jump? How much could she lift? Is there any point to not going over or through a hurdle?
Junior thought it was probably a big waste of time and fuel, but he looked forward to smashing things at least.
Dank emerged from the entrance to the course and waved to Junior. After verifying that Trixie May had an eye on the latest thermal readings, he gestured Junior into the opening.
Junior slowly edged the Beater into an opening formed between two large stacks of (what was that?) scrap iron and paint cans.
Just inside, he began to descent a shallow slope formed from the wall of the crater that had naturally developed. In fact, this was the same slope he and Dank had taken almost every day for the past six years. He was just thinking of how familiar the hike was when one of the Beater's feet slipped. Junior rapidly caught himself and stopped, but as he looked down he noticed that dank had placed greased sheet metal on the path covered by a thin layer of fresh dirt. Conveniently, or not so conveniently depending on one's point of view, the slope began to grow more steep at this exact spot, and Junior knew that just marching down it would land Firebird right on her fuel tank.
He began to look around for another way, but the scrap iron was piled up precariously high on either side of the path. Old appliances loomed over the left side and moldy aluminum siding looked ready to slide down from the right at any moment.
With a flash of inspiration, Junior pushed against the bottom of the right side pile, dropping a cascade of debris over his path. A grease free and infinitely crushable cascade of debris.
Still moving carefully, as the thin sheets of metal were likely to slide about even without a layer of grease, Junior piloted Firebird into the bottom of the crater.
Here, a large open area sprawled in front of him. The rocket from the previous morning's delivery had been cleared away, probably by Dank, and a large pit, easily twenty five feet across and twice as deep yawned directly in front of Junior across the whole width of the path.
The siding was to thin to support his weight if used as a bridge, and anyway it wasn't long enough to reach.
Junior knew he'd have to jump. Twenty five feet would be impossible as a standing jump, so Junior turned and trudged part way back up the slope. The siding seemed even more treacherous to navigate uphill, but Firebird was able to negotiate about twenty feet before he was forced to turn her around.
Taking a deep breath, Junior took off at a run. He reached the rim of the pit, shunted power into the ankle and knee joints and threw Firebird into the air.
As he sailed through the space over the pit, all sound, even the dull roar of the engine, seemed to fall away from Junior. Maybe, he thought, it just got pulled into the pit.
At the top of his arc, Junior realized he hadn't gone far enough uphill to make this work cleanly, if at all.
Arms spinning wildly, the chest of Firebird slammed into the side of the pit.
Junior hung there. For a long moment, he was unsure how to proceed.
With some quick adjustments, he re-routed power from his lower extremities into the arms and then slowly started to drag himself out of the hole.
By swinging his hips, he was eventually able to get the right leg over the lip of the pit. From there, it was just a matter of gradually working himself out and back upright.
The enhanced maneuverability seemed to make a difference.
Finally, standing at the edge of the pit, he was able to find his next obstacle.
A long climb up a pile of jagged scrap faced Junior. It looked precarious, hastily stacked together, and downright structurally . . . impossible.
Junior really wished that Firebird were fitted with graspers instead of the solid slag mitts just now.

Resolved, he approached the mound and looked for a starting point. The rusted out hulk of what looked like an old fishing boat seemed as likely a place as any. Swaying, he teetered his way up onto the hull, grateful it didn’t cave in or roll over.
He saw a narrow gap between two hunks of metal. After working his right mitt inside, he routed power to the arm and pulled himself up to the next level, where he needed to sweep a small pile of discarded pipe over the edge to step without fear of rolling off.
It was slow progress, but it was progress. After what seemed like an eternity, Junior could finally see over the top of the pile and down the slope to the next safe spot.
He levered Firebird over the summit and entered what he hoped appeared to be a controlled tumble down hill. He landed, back down, amid a pile of clattering metal, plastics and assorted garbage.
Junior allowed himself to catch his breath before standing the Beater upright and continuing forward.

Chapter Twelve Interlude

File: Datanet Core Server Epsilon Theta Twenty Four, Galactic Services, Era: Modern -0, Index Waste Management, Recycling, Quality of life, Data Supplied by Benevolent States United Press Corps

The Faithful, in accordance with Benevolent States United policy and the Truth, are dedicated to the ideal of harmony with the environment of Earth Prime. In the unenlightened past, Earthers regularly discarded items for no good reason at all, and these items filled great gaping holes in the surface of Earth Prime. As part of Initiative 547.1b, which ensured the uninterrupted services enjoyed by the Faithful to this very day, all non-recyclable waste is sent off-planet to no longer trouble Earth Prime. Initiative 547.1b also brought forth the policy to eliminate the old and infirm, as well, though that waste is generally returned to the family and kept on-planet until the proper disposal fees are obtained. The cast-off detritus of the Faithful is sent to the surface of a number of planets outside the solar system which are given the designation “EcoHope” followed by the number in which they entered production, where it can never trouble the Faithful again.

Junior slid to a stuttering stop at the base of the far crater wall, the gradual ascent to ground level on the side of the spring before him.
He reached the top to discover that Dank had taken the terminal and gone somewhere to review the data.
Trixie May sat on what appeared to be part of a discarded aircraft wing, cross legged, watching the sun set over the crater. She waved at him as he cut off the power and climbed down, "She'll need another paint touch up when we get her back to the shed."
"I'll get her onto the sled so we can head that way," Junior started unpack the buckles and straps that would keep Firebird from tipping off the transport sled.
"No hurry, Junior," Trixie May patted the sheet metal wing, "You said yourself it get faster paintin' her every time."Junior climbed a small stack of PVC crates to join Trixie May. He sat down next to her and watched the sun gradually burn down from yellow, through deep orange and then red, before it dissolved into a star scattered night.
"Here over the hill from Impact, a person can see more stars," Trixie May eased her had towards Junior's.
He took it."You think one of them stars is Earth Prime?" Junior leaned back, entranced by the tiny sparkling lights above.
"Don't make no difference, Junior. Ain't no one born here ever gonna see more than a picture of Earth Prime." Trixie May was not saddened by this thought. Everyone she had ever known had grown up with the fact that everything sent to EcoHope 11 was strictly one-way. No one and nothing ever left, especially not to visit Earth Prime.
"I still like to think about it. Dank says the Beaters on Earth Prime are faster and stronger than our Beaters, and that they don't run on beer at all," Junior seemed light years away, staring into the black.
"Junior, I suspect you'd run on beer no matter what planet you was on," Trixie laughed.
"Yep," He agreed, "But look at that."
She looked to the pile of scrap that had captured Junior's attention.
A group of grubby children had formed a circle around an old drill press and some plastic crates. The smallest, a girl no more than five or six years old, ran up to the press with a rock, banged the side a few times and dashed back to the circle of children, who crouched, waiting, in the dark.
There was a rustle from somewhere within the stack, then silence.
After a few moments, the girl again approached the press. She banged a different section a few times and dashed back. This time, a dark shape chased after her.
Before the two-foot long, needle-clawed pile rat could latch on to her and drag her back to his lair, the other children closed in and began to pelt it with stones. The largest child, probably seven or eight, wedged himself between the pile rat and the opening to the junk pile and began to push back the rat's attempts to retreat.
Before long, the pile rat was no longer trying. The children scooped up the carcass and hauled him back towards town, presumably to have one (or more) of the mothers convert the animal into stew or jerky. While the supplies that were regularly delivered technically kept the residents of EcoHope 11 fed, fresh meat was always at a premium.
Junior remembered his own time as a child outside a very similar pile. Dank would dash in, smack the junk with a stick, and run. Junior, always a good bit taller than the other children, would keep the pile rat from running back into the nest.
He looked at the scars on his arms, faded after all the years since he'd last been hunting, but still visible as tiny white lines.
"What the hell kind of life is this, Trixie May?"
"Could be worse, Junior."