Go for Gold

by Pil Lee

The mess had been cleared of tables and hutches and the floor winched back nearly all the way. Tomley stood with the rest of the off-duty crew on the narrow rim that was left. He shuffled to keep his balance in the noisy crush as they all stared down into the massive cargo bay below.

He could tell from the excited babble around him that some of them knew what to expect, but he hadn’t a clue. He snagged Stephenson’s arm as she tried to shoulder past and pulled her close enough to hear him.

“What is it? What’s going to happen?” he yelled in her ear.

She gave him an incredulous stare. “What, have you been dead for the last week, Meat?”

He shook his head. “I know it’s the Olympics, whatever that means. And the Sarge and the Lieutenant are posted for duty. What the hell for? How come we’re not ALL operational?”

“It’s not duty, you grunt,” she yelled back. “It’s a competition. An Old Earth competition.” She yanked her arm away and pushed to a better position along the edge.

Tomley looked down into the bay twelve metres below and made out a white freshly painted square gleaming wetly in the middle of all the crates. At that moment Sergeant Gossett walked up to the edge of the square and a huge cheer went up from the crowd above.

Still reeling from the idea of cheering the most feared man aboard, Tomley pulled Stephenson back beside him.

“What kind of competition? Why’s it called the Olympics?”

She gave him a disgusted look. “Where have you been, in cryovac with the cats? Don’t you remember the Millennial Tribute four years ago?”

Tomley thought back four years and felt his mind go cold. “I was at Nam-6 four years ago.”

“Oh,” said Stephenson. Her gaze dropped and her hand tightened on his arm for a moment. “It’s this physical competition they used to have on Old Earth every four years for about 3000 years.”

“What, every four years!”

Stephenson nodded. “Apparently they never missed it, no matter what was happening. So the Big Boys decided to celebrate it on the Millennium changeover and it was such a big success they’re going to do it every four years from now on.”

“But what happens?” he said. “Don’t tell me… don’t tell me the Sarge and the Lieutenant FIGHT.”

Stephenson laughed, pulling Tomley to the very edge where they could see the Lieutenant now standing on the other side of the painted square from the monolithic figure of the Sarge.

“It’s a game of skill,” Stephenson said in his ear, her voice almost drowned out now by the roar of the crowd. “I think there used to be lots of different types of competition but now we only know about one, the greatest one, and that’s what they’re going to compete in.”

The noise around him had grown to almost painful proportions and it seemed to Tomley that everyone on the ship was screaming like a madman except him.

He turned to ask Stephenson for the rules for what they were going to see but the crowd had finally swept them apart. He was amazed that he found himself breathless with anticipation. He watched as the protagonists stepped to opposite sides of the makeshift arena below. The duty officer lifted his laser into the air and a small blinding sun exploded in a moment of hushed silence.

A thousand eyes were glued to the Sergeant as he stepped into the square, sent his cap spinning into the shadows of the Cargo Bay and finally flourished his satin ribbon.