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When I walked into the dining room Lars was seated next to Jovi, who was the ship’s everything. Her official title was combat medic, but she could actually fix anything. She and Lars had fine-tuned every system onboard during the almost two-year orbital build of the ship. They had coaxed forth performance conditions even the manufacturers couldn’t comprehend.
That had left three of those designers literally sobbing on the launch deck. The engineers had wanted answers it would have taken months to give. Lars and Jovianna were seen together at their mutual jobs so often they were just expected to be a couple, although both spent intimate time with a few other crewmembers.
Jovianna Marcon was French, Spanish, and Italian. Slight of build, she was fleet of movement and amazingly agile. Pitted against the brutish Beatrice in the holosphere, she could hold her own as long as she kept her distance. Lightning fast, she would flick in and score points before dancing out of reach.
She never grappled as that would have been her undoing. Finely boned hands would break easily. Slender arms and legs would do likewise. The svelte young mechanic was the image of the adage about not weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet. The crew often wondered how she managed to move pieces she needed to weld when they weighed ten times what she did.
Jovi was also a talented musician who enraptured most of the crew with violin, cello, and piano pieces. She would play on breaks during the protracted buildup of the Bontrager. The crew would often huddle in the cramped dining room after the evening meal.
There was also the rare occasion where parts were launch-delayed due to weather. It was during these down times that many of the crew would request traditional pieces from their native cultures. Jovi’s knowledge of classical string arrangements was exhausting. If she didn’t know a requested piece, she would by the time the next break came around. It was this talent which had won her the position on the crew, and my admiration.
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SPACE COMMAND HAD INSISTED the crew actually assemble the vessel at the floating space dock. Parts were lifted up daily on the magnetic shuttle. That way, they reasoned, the crew had intimate knowledge of every fastener, panel, and system’s circuit on board. Living conditions were rudimentary. One had to get used to that if they wanted to crew any of the first Near-Earth flights.
The applicants had numbered in the tens of thousands. It had taken me six months to distill the list down to sixteen crew and twelve alternates. That meant the entire program, with all twelve vessels, was comprised of just under 325 highly-skilled specialists. I had worried over the choice between Bea and a Samoan man as security officer for weeks. She had finally exploded over the comm link one day in frustration at my reluctance.
“Hell and damnation, man, make a decision. I have things to do with my life. I’ve turned down two jobs this week alone,” she had raged. That almost cinched it for the Samoan before she had tempered her angst with a more respectful request. “Is there another security specialist being considered? If they’re almost as good as me, let it be decided in a trial of arms. Doesn’t that seem about right?”
When I had explained my dilemma to the Samoan he had agreed with her. “If she’s better than me, which I doubt, she deserves the slot.”
They had matched each other point for point in every conceivable arms demonstration. There displays had included some primitive weapons of which apparently only the two of them had ever heard. Bea had explained that in a survival environment, one needed to be able to fabricate essential weapons from available local materials. The Samoan had simply nodded his agreement. Finally, it came down to a physical contest.
“I feel like that’s not exactly fair,” I had offered. Call me old-fashioned but he had her in both weight and height.
“I’m good,” Bea had offered first, soliciting a raised eyebrow from her opponent. Taking charge, she had turned to him and said one word. “Grapplers.”
He had looked startled for a moment and then simply replied, “Yes.”
Grapplers are magnetic/mechanical equipment and material handlers. They’re used in space and on Earth to move heavy objects. The motorized exoskeleton would allow a 200 pound man to manipulate over a ton.
“What do you do, see who can move the most?” I asked. I had never even heard of them being used in combat.
The Samoan had politely turned his head to smirk, but Bea McMasters had laughed aloud in my face. “Just watch and see,” she replied.
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BOTH COMBATANTS WALKED to a nearby staging area where seven such machines stood idle. They stalked around them, searching for I knew not what. I could only presume they were examining their condition. Those machines were sorely abused and routinely broke down. Selecting one, Bea climbed into the operator’s seat. The Samoan did likewise and in short time, they lumbered together in an ear-splitting screech of tortured metal.
As I watched the contest, I was initially reminded of a museum display on 20th century toys I had once seen as a child. There were two plastic robots, one red and one blue, in a square plastic boxing ring. Players used plungers to activate the robot’s arms to throw punches. I was fascinated by the concept.
I had immediately set about trying to build life-sized versions of the machines for entertainment purposes. It was one of my more lucrative inventions for testosterone-laden young men. The Fighting Frames allowed them to safely display their martial skills and show off for their female companions.
Needless to say, these two combatants weren’t using limited power entertainment units. There were four grappling arms. Two were on the sides like human arms and could be used in 360 degrees of manipulation. Two were in front and worked like forklift arms with three axes of movement. Even the four feet of the Grappler could be brought into play by a skilled operator.
Bea had removed her boots immediately upon strapping into the operator’s seat, a fact which startled and puzzled me. She lunged her machine forward until it met her opponent. Once engaged, she began using her feet to operate the two outer arms as battering rams. She used the two forward arms to grab and shove the other machine, maneuvering for advantage. It was obvious she had practiced this beforehand.
It took only 45 seconds for Bea to immobilize the Samoan’s Grappler. I had thought she would stop once his machine was disabled. I was shocked when she had continued to press her advantage. Within moments, his grappler had actually begun to buckle around him. Calling out for her to stop, I ran heedless into danger alongside her machine.
The look of animalistic ferocity and rage on her face startled me motionless. It was the screeching wails of tortured, twisting metal that snapped me out of my trance. Risking loss of limb, I reached into her seat area through a small opening and slapped her sharply in the face.
Recoiling, she snarled at me like an enraged beast. I thought for a moment she would actually bite me. I watched her eyes as they came back into our reality and she snapped out of whatever killing haze she been consumed by. I hastily retreated. She actually took the time to unmangle her opponent’s machine to the point he could extricate himself from the wreckage. He saluted her wordlessly before he turned to limp away.