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Supernova, Prologue: Stupid Planet
Posted By: Triad<m.eelkema@student.tudelft.nl>
Date: 21 June 2006, 11:56 am
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Supernova
An ever changing world
Ever changing me
Reveals new pathways
For my soul to see
A light so bright
In your eyes
Casting off shadows
That darken your mind
Shining brighter than the sun
Blinding every eye at once
Fire's burning inside me
Burning light for all to see
A storm will rage
Fade to end before the dawn
A star blazes bright
Before the end is come
A light so bright
In your life
Casting off shadows
Enshrouding your eyes
Shining brighter than the sun
Blinding every eye at once
Fire's burning inside me
Burning light for all to see
Shining,
Blinding,
Everlasting
Prologue: Stupid planet
"Come on, Maynard! Give it all you've got!"
"Yeah, yeah," Maynard sighed, slightly irritated by the relentless barrage of give-them-hell's and go-get-them-Tiger's from his coach on the sideline. The aluminium bat felt heavy and slippery in his sweating palms, poised to swing out of the grasp of his hands and hit the guy on third base in the head if he would do so much as think about not gripping the thing with every inch of his strength.
"Remember to keep those elbows up! Don't bend your knees too much!" Coach Mullen shouted as if the fate of the universe depended on it.
"Sure, coach Windbag," Maynard murmured. He had had about enough of his trainer's cliché run-of-the-mill incentives. To him it was no wonder his team had been bringing up the rear of the school-league five years running. Not that it was a big league: The planet of Kappa Aquila had one relatively small colonized area with only four major cities, and the league for scholars below eighteen years actually encapsulated the entire adolescent populace of the planet.
But in spite of his coach and his team's track record, Maynard loved to play, and he was one of the most dreaded batsmen in the league. With professional concentration he positioned his feet next to the plate, slowly swinging the bat across it to make sure the tip of it went right through his strike zone.
After he was content with the location and alignment of his feet, he bent his knees and lifted his elbows to that one and only ideal stance, which would ensure him of the biggest transmission of power from his arms, his back, even his toes to the bat, meanwhile trying not to take heed of all the nonsense coming from the man in the dugout.
His hands squeezed even tighter around the grip, turning his knuckles unhealthily white. The pitcher cast his first ball with a tremendous speed and an even more astonishing curve, making Maynard wonder how the pitcher could possibly 'aim' the ball, which was in fact a perfect strike. Maynard hadn't moved an inch as the ball whizzed by.
The shouting from the sideline intensified even more as the pitcher received the ball again and readied himself for another devastating throw. The second pitch was even faster and more curved than the first. Maynard could have sworn it would have gone wide, was it not for this inconceivable curve it possessed, turning into his strike zone just before it reached the plate. Strike two. And Maynard still hadn't lifted an eyebrow.
The players on the opposing team were already smiling at the face of another batsman slinking off with three strikes and no hits. The pitcher was one of them, standing in the middle of the game that would probably grant him access to a hefty scholarship. Maynard had seemed totally helpless to his throws, and he saw no reason to change his tactic. He was grinning wide from ear to ear as he put all his power, all his malice in his third and final pitch.
But at this point the time at the field seemed to pause for Maynard. What the pitcher didn't know was that this was exactly where Maynard wanted him. He wanted him to think he was weak, humble and helpless, just another cipher, another willing piece of slaughter cattle on his way to the big league. What he also was oblivious about, was Maynard's ability to see dead-on where the third and final pitch would go to, if he could only see two preceding throws from the same pitcher. I've got you now, chump.
In an explosion of swinging metal Maynard unlocked the broiling energy in his body, itching to leave through his legs, his back, his shoulders, and finally his arms. The bat swung forwards over the plate, hitting the ball dead on its head. Maynard felt the collision of aluminium and leather reverberating through his limbs, and heard it as a dry but utterly satisfying "plunk". He clocked the ball, sending it on its way towards the outfield, meanwhile shattering the image of the perplexed pitcher.
As soon as his swing had come to its end, Maynard released his grip on the bat, threw off his helmet in one fluid motion and started his sprint towards first base. He had never been much of a sprinter, so it took him relatively long to come up to speed. When he had almost reached first, he took a fraction of a moment to assess his situation. He noticed the ball was still on the ground somewhere in the outfield, granting him the opportunity to venture beyond. By the time his foot touched second base, the ball had been picked up and thrown into the infield, making further running uncalled for.
Still panting from the exertion, Maynard took a moment to look around. His coach and fellow team-mates had jumped out of the dugout the moment his bat had made contact with the ball, and were still cheering from the sideline. He could only see the debased pitcher on his back, but even from behind he could still see the disappointment oozing from his stance.
Maynard then turned his keen eyes to the bleachers, hoping to see the familiar visage of that one special girl, Linda Kassel. While he was trying to make out the faces, a little voice inside of him urged him to avert his attention, for he might as well see her sitting in the crowd making out with that dumb-ass boyfriend of her.
Ignoring his fears and jealousy, he kept on searching, finally finding a shape in the back of the thin crowd, which might be her. To Maynard's comfort she wasn't kissing anybody, but she wasn't alone either.
"Maynard Finney, what the hell are you staring at?" Coach Mullen shouted. "Keep your eye on the game, numbnuts, before I come out there and teach you how!"
Maynard quickly turned his attention to the game, slightly embarrassed when he thought about how he had appeared to the spectators, especially Linda. Not that the game exactly needed his attention: the next two batsmen after him had been chanceless against the pitcher, who had shrugged off Maynard's strike, and had thrown six consecutive strikes in a row, all of them equally unhittable.
But then Roland stepped up to the plate. Roland, 'Rule' to the insiders, had been Maynard's best friend for God knows how long, and now it was up to him to get his buddy off second base. Maynard was confident he could do it: Roland was, next to Maynard, by far the best player on their crap-ass team.
The first two throws were strikes again, but Roland wasn't as chanceless as his two predecessors. The second pitch had actually been a foul-ball, spinning off over the sideline and almost decapitating coach Mullen in the dugout, who for once fell silent after this brush with certain death.
The pitcher was turning the ball in his right hand, looking for the seams to give it his trademark lethal curve. Just as he lifted his left leg and charged his body for the throw, the sirens next to the field started to wail, along with the ones in the nearby village, the ones in the city, and every other siren on Kappa Aquila for that matter. The pitcher's arm froze in mid-throw, then released the ball which fell to the ground like an apple.
"Solar flare! Everyone clear the field!"
"No! Shit! This always happens to me," Maynard cursed, kicking against the base in frustration. This was the second time in a month a league-game had to be interrupted for a solar mass-ejection coming from Kappa Aquila's whimsical sun. The danger wasn't as acute as the sirens or the coaches meant to believe. The flare would take another five hours to reach the planet, and even then it wouldn't be instantly fatal. But anyone who didn't want to die of skin cancer by the age of thirty was smart to find a sheltered place.
Roland calmly strolled up to Maynard, who was still standing on second watching with squinted eyes how the bleachers emptied themselves. "Too bad. I really think I could have hit it if that stupid flare wouldn't have spoiled it," Roland said.
Maynard gave his friend a glance, then shifted his attention to the stands again.
"Still looking for Linda?" Roland asked. "I thought I saw her up there."
"Me too. Do you think she saw that strike I made?"
Roland shrugged: "Probably. I don't know. Come, Maynard. Let's go home."
Maynard winced, and followed Roland, who was walking towards the dugout. "Damn it, Rule. Now she didn't even get to see me make a point."
"Yeah, well, even if you did, I think she wouldn't have noticed anyway. I think what's-his-name was up there with her."
"What? He was there? Peter was there? Ah, crap! I didn't want to know that."
"Sorry, pal. But I've tried to break it to you a dozen times; she isn't interested in you in that kind of way. So don't go beat yourself up over her all the time thinking that she actually came here just to watch you play."
Maynard wasn't listening. "Stupid boyfriend, stupid flare, stupid team, stupid planet!"
"Come on, May, let's go to my place. I've got that new game on my holo-console I've been telling you about."
Maynard was still lost in thought. It was just his rotten luck the flare would hit on that particular moment. Stupid boyfriend, stupid flare, stupid team, stupid planet.
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