Herculanium (33 page)

“It’s often been said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Lessons learned, both profound and simple, are the foundation of experience and applied knowledge. What we learn from our past resonates well into the future, building a philiosophy, establishing roots, and ultimately becomes our center.”

Preston shook his head in disappointment, wanting the pomp and circumstance to continue. He looked around the room, marveling at how the hall had suddenly turned silent. Jayna sipped her wine, hiding her smile behind the glass.

“A wise man once told me,” the host continued, “that if you travel far enough, you will eventually meet yourself. If he were alive this evening, I am sure even he would marvel at the wisdom of his own words.”

Preston froze in his seat, sensing an epiphany slowly unfolding. In the excitement, he had lost track of time and schedule. They told him at rehearsals that he was going to be showcased at the very end of the evening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, about seven months ago, a fireball fell from the sky. It contained a lone man, and that man is here with us tonight. Not only was this man a survivor, but he was also an athlete in his time. Yes, that is correct:
in his time
. Two hundred years ago, he was the best basketball player in the world. Somehow, someway, he traveled forward and joined us here, his future. He and his colleagues paved the way to our very way of life, planting the seed that eventually blossomed into the era of Herculanium, the modern age of military sports.”

Preston listened intently to the eloquent speech, transfixed and trembling from fear and excitement. Finally, he didn’t have anything to prove anymore. He closed his eyes as tight as he could, grimacing while trying to fight back the tears that were about to flow.

“It’s not everyday that we get to shake hands with a living time capsule. Tonight, past, present and future will become as one, as Combattra has come full-circle.”

Nausea had all but engulfed him. Not all the alcohol in the world could numb Preston’s body enough to dull the anticipation. His anguish over the past few months had finally liberated him into what he knew he was from the very beginning.

“But before all that, let us first meet this man and the history he has brought to our table.”

The host gracefully turned around as images began to play on the stage’s main screen. Accompanied by a sentimental piano arrangement, still-photos of Preston Jones slowly dissolved from one image to the next; captured moments of his most spectacular dunks and plays, along with quiet moments with friends and family. The pictures themselves were faded and nearly devoid of color, creased and frayed around the edges as if aged and forgotten in sunlight.

“How the hell did they get those pictures?” Preston whispered to Jayna. “Even I don’t have copies of those.”

Jayna smiled and raised her hand as if caught red-handed. “It wasn’t bloody easy. Very few archival material survived from your period. We restored as much as we could.”

Preston firmly patted her on her shoulder. “Thank you for making this night memorable.”

“Preston Jones came from an era where basketball was still at its infancy,” continued the host in his narration. “Many of the rules were still being developed, and it was still a hundred years away from reaching the ultimate potential we know today.”

Preston looked at the host and raised his eyebrows in the darkness. “Say what?” He quickly turned to Jayna. “What did he mean infancy? Who wrote this speech?”

“The game emphasized finesse over strength and power, with smaller courts and lower baskets. Despite their version of non-contact play, the game flourished in popularity throughout the world, setting one of Combattra’s pillar foundations in stone.”

An audible flutter of laughter swept across the audience, causing Preston to quickly decipher their interpretation of his era and accomplishments. “He’s making it sound like we were a bunch of pussies playing touch football,” he said out loud, “and these guys are buying it. It wasn’t like that at all. Who the hell wrote this mother-fucking speech?”

“After months of intense research and restoration, we’ve managed to put together actual footage of our honoree in action. What you are about to watch has not been seen in nearly a hundred and fifty years, ladies and gentlemen. To all of us here, and those watching around the world, I give you…Preston Jones.”

Preston closed his eyes and clenched his hands into tight fists, bracing himself for what he was about to see.

The scrolling still images on the stage’s main screen quickly transitioned to moving film in a clean dissolve. Archival footage of dated basketball games came to glorious life, resurrecting ghosts from an archaic past and bathing the great hall in a flickering pastel glow. A spotty audio track accompanied the visuals, breathing life into the players and giving history a voice.

A deafening roar of jeers and laughter erupted from the audience in unison, causing Preston to jerk his eyes open and cringe in his seat. His mouth dropped as if he was about to swallow his old basketball whole.

Not only was the file footage damaged nearly beyond repair, but it was also being played at the wrong speed. What was supposed to be a dignified homage to original basketball and all its finesse glory became a sped-up slapstick comedy skit that seemed to date back to Buster Keaton and early 20th century filmmaking. Ironically, it resembled the black-and-white film of earlier athletes that Preston himself used to jeer at and make fun of. This time, however, he was the clown on the screen that was being seen by billions worldwide.

Jayna sat erect in her chair with her hands folded over the other, smug and pleased with her effort in the presentation. Captain Barrows kept one hand over his mouth as he leaned on the table, unsure of whether to laugh out loud or to keep it in.

Preston quickly shielded his eyes as the spotlight engulfed and blinded him from above. The light itself had a searing texture, almost palpable to the touch.

“And here tonight to present Preston Jones with the Lifetime Achievement Award,” said the host, with an almost-divine intonation, “is the most honorable Judge Silas Thorne.”

The crowd rose simultaneously in veneration, cheering and worshipping the Head Justice of Combattra with a deafening fervor. It was the loudest applause of the evening, making even the jeers against Preston seem insignificant by comparison. That was of little consolation for Preston, however, who now had to walk on stage before a heckling audience and accept the award. He had all but forgotten the rehearsals from the day before.

He was now fighting for his life.

Judge Thorne rose from his table in front of the stage and approached the podium. He looked quite different when not donning his signature gown and robe, wearing instead a hybrid military/civilian tuxedo. His menacing countenance and demeanor remained unchanged.

“Officers,” he said, speaking directly into the microphone, “esteemed colleagues, friends and family. As many of you know, I am a man of few words. My philosophy has always been that action is louder than any word that speaks of it. Tonight, we honor a man who represents two hundred years of the highest ideals of our very way of life. This year’s Lifetime Achievement Award goes to Mr. Preston Jones.”

Judge Thorne stared directly at Preston across the darkness, seemingly all-knowing of his whereabouts. “Come up here, son.”

“Go get them, tiger,” said Jayna, jabbing Preston by his arm. “Never mind the speech; just make me proud.”

A broken sizzle of applause crackled in the dark. Preston stood up and stared across the vast aisle, balcony and orchestra seatings, feeling the mocking glare from everyone in the hall. He took a deep swallow and closed his eyes, trying his best to block out the crowd and just focus on accepting the award so he can escape.

With short, measured steps, he left his table and quickly ascended the stage.

Preston made sure to keep his gaze pointed squarely on the floor until he reached the podium. Judge Thorne stood like a sentinel gargoyle at the top of the steps, coming to life only when Preston arrived and faced him directly. Preston awkwardly shook the Judge’s outstretched hand, but immediately loosened his grip upon making contact. The Judge’s handshake felt like gripping a loose bundle of roughly-pruned branches.

Preston strained to look up and face the audience, feeling a great weight above his brow. A blue crystal trophy sat in the middle of podium platform, embossed with his name and the Combattra insignia. He was thankful that the bright spotlights pointed directly at him had bleached his view of the audience, a small reward for his night of horror.

“Congratulations, son,” said Judge Thorne, smiling with a half-grimace. “We know you’ve come a long way; we now welcome you back to our fold.” The Judge lifted the trophy and shakingly handed it to Preston, making sure to pause just long enough for the photographers to capture their golden moment. Preston cupped the award between his hands and chest, then humbly bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” continued Judge Thorne, “this man has just finished an extensive six-month tour around the world, seeing modern sports played at its very best. Having existed now in two historic time periods, we in Combattra are very curious about his thoughts regarding the evolution of sports, from his time to ours. Mr. Jones, how would you compare the two? How have sportsmanship and the human physical ideal evolved in your eyes? Indeed, how different are the sports between our respective histories?”

Preston’s mind instantly went blank. The expanse of the stage, coupled with the blinding lights above him, froze him in place. Though he could only hear the audience from beyond the lights, he could still feel their obtuse skepticism. There was no fight-or-flight response coursing through his body, nor hidden emotions that he could muster courage from.

Preston gently bit his lip and just waited for something—anything—that would prompt him to move. His speech scrolled merrily across the teleprompter on the closest camera, as uninspired and as blank as his face expression before the world.

“He’s completely speechless, ladies and gentlemen,” yelled the Judge in triumph, laughing and raising his hands in the air. “The great Preston Jones is speechless before his peers!”

Judge Thorne motioned for an attendant from offstage to come forward with another present. A beautiful woman gracefully walked across the stage from the opposite side, holding the hand of a little boy in a tuxedo. Applause crackled once again from the audience.

“Not only are you this year’s recipient of the Lifetime Achievement award, but you have also been chosen to join the exclusive Clonebattra program. We are in the process of building teams populated with the cloned DNA of the world’s greatest athletes. You now have the honor and distinction of having a clone in a future basketball team to play for your country.”

Judge Thorne lifted the boy off the ground and rested him on the podium. “Mr. Jones, I present to you…young Preston Jones.”

Preston glared at the child, carefully analyzing its facial features and imperfections. From the eye expressions and dimpled smile, to the attached ear lobes and high hairline, he was looking at a mirror image of himself twenty-plus years his junior. A strange chill welled up inside him, causing the hair on his neck, arms and shoulders to stand in full attention. The most grotesque feeling of nausea took control of his body, constricting his throat and anus to their smallest diameter. He could neither fight nor run, stunned and disgusted at the invasive acts performed against him.

Judge Thorne gently returned the child to the attendant’s arms and motioned for them to return backstage. “One honor after another, Mr. Jones,” he said with a ghoulish grin. “Now I think that deserves a speech. I repeat, how would you compare your world of sports to ours?”

Preston slowly turned his gaze to the departing small boy, then looked over his shoulder at the mocking footage still playing behind and above him. His pre-written script continued to scroll across the teleprompter, repeating itself over and over. The Judge stared him down with a contempt and malice he had never felt before, appearing almost as the embodiment of all his fears and insecurities.

An eerie calmness began to numb his body, removing all sensation and concern. What had been a rollercoaster of fright and despair had suddenly become catharsis for his very soul. In a literal blink of an eye, the very humiliation and death he had dreaded just moments before became his ultimate salvation. He now embraced it with open arms, for a dead man, he realized, should fear nothing.

Preston turned to Jayna and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, moving only his lips. Jayna closed her eyes and bowed her head, knowing only too well what was about to happen.

Much to the Judge’s surprise, Preston smiled as he finally addressed the crowd. This time, it was Preston who appeared ghoulish.

“I, too, am a man of few words. My father, God rest his soul, always told me to speak only when spoken to; to listen to my elders; and to always give respect to those who deserve it. If he were here this evening, and if he had seen what I had seen, he would understand what I am about to say.”

Preston unknowingly clenched his fists as he was improvising his speech. He could hear cameras both big and small whirring and walking around the hall, scrambling to capture his speech in all its glory.

“I’d like to thank, first of all, Combattra for allowing me to see the sports of the future. I also thank them for recognizing me as a fellow athlete, and for honoring me for my past accomplishments. It’s definitely opened my eyes in words I couldn’t possibly explain to you. But for tonight, and especially for all of you here, I will do my best.”

Jayna clamped her eyes shut and cupped her ears with both hands. She knew Preston was far from a man with few words. Captain Barrows stared at her as if she was insane, shrugging his shoulders to his wife. General Cube sat unmoving in his chair, unsure and preparing for what was to happen next.

“I’ve been requested to give a comparison to the sports of both worlds,” continued Preston. “I can only do that by comparing the crowds that watch and support these games, because in a certain sense, sports is a metaphor for war, for leisure, for life. It’s been said that the fans are actually the players on the field and vice-versa, that we are what we celebrate.”