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."
