sport

Extreme Sport

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2016_E(Alternate words: Espresso, Effect, Ecumenopolis, Eldritch, Evidence, and Ending. Added to the list.)

The shuttle hangs barely a hundred yards away to my retrograde, cargo airlock still agape; the pilot’s nerves must surely be worn to shreds with the delay in this atmosphere-scraping orbit, even more than mine.

Time for another check-out. I punch for another round of diagnostics on suit, shield, and thrusters, reciting the mnemonics. Suit integrity, blue. Cerametal oversuit integrity, blue. Oxygen, blue. Regenerator-scrubber, blue. Liquid cooling systems, blue. Heat sink, blue. Communications circuits, blue. Cold-gas thrusters, blue on diagnostics, blue on pressure. Drogue chute, blue. Main chute, blue. Shield integrity and strain, blue…

I resist the urge to unlock the foot couples and do another visual inspection of the shield. I’ve already checked it over the regulation thrice and once more for good fortune. I bounce some terahertz rays off it instead, and no weak spots show up. Any more than they did last time.

Count breaths. Nice and regular. I have this, dammit. Twelve simulations, no fatalities. I’m prepared. I glance up and down at the copper foil loosely wrapped over my suit. If I’m not, at least I’ll make a spectacular green fireball…

A voice breaks in. “Meteor One, this is Sialhaith Orbital. Acknowledge.”

“Sialhaith Orbital, Meteor One. Go.”

“Meteor One, net-zeps are in position and your window begins now. Commence entry at your discretion. Window closes in four point six minutes. Over.”

“Orbital, Meteor One. Commencing entry now. Clear.”

This is it. My navigation HUD lights up with trajectory plots, burn times, entry ptojections. I trigger the cold-gas thrusters with a thought and nitrogen hisses, shoving at my back as I drop lower in orbit. The shuttle’s ACS flickers overhead and lemon-yellow Sialhaith wheels below me as I reorient, getting the shield in position to feel the first touch of air and swift, sudden, roaring plasma shock.

Time to kiss the sky.

 

(We Can Rebuild Him) Swifter, Higher, Stronger

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“So.  What did the tests show?  Metabolics.”

“His vitality monitors are showing some lactic acidosis.  Oxygen saturation’s in spec, but it’s still not enough for that latest round of muscle ops at full capacity.  I say we push another unit of breather hemocules.”

“We’re already close to topped out on blood viscosity – by the book.”

“Cardiac parameters and tissue perfusion are both clean and low.  We can afford this.”

“Right.  Do it. Ergonomics?”

“Stride length’s off, and that’s taking us out of the sweet spot for pace shape.  Probably costing us at least a sixtieth per; again, it’s the new muscle grafts that’re doing it.  We ought to strip and replate the tendons to match, but there’s no time for that, or for retraining.  I can hack around that with some nerve-impulse shaping, but it’s not going to be comfortable…?”

“Do that, too, and have the nanocytes damp the algetic response, too.  We’ll be going after those tendons later, so we can clean up any trouble then.  Okay.  Good.  Anything else?”

“One more thing.  Adrenal response was a little fuzzy going into the final lap; we never got all the way to sprint-optimal.”

“Ideas?”

“I could set up a timed artificial stimulus, but there’s no guarantee it’d trigger when we needed it.   I’d say it’s up to you, an old-fashioned pep talk, and the right pair of shoes, boss.”

“Okay.  Great work, people.  Let’s go win a race!”

– overheard at the 89th Cluster Games