Chapter 8 Academy Obstacle Course Rain pattered against the leaves as the boys thundered through the forest, their boots slipping on mud-slick roots. The incessant drizzle had turned the ground beneath them to a treacherous sludge that clung to their legs, weighing down every step with a cold, wet embrace. Ahead, a formidable barricade of timber loomed—a stack of logs haphazardly piled like giant pick-up sticks. Brock, with his Marine Cadet's build and innate physical prowess, approached the barrier with a predator's confidence. In two swift, powerful bounds, he was atop the obstacle, muscles flexing beneath the layer of grime that coated his skin. He turned, casting a glance back at his partner. Max lagged, breaths coming in ragged gasps, his Fleet Cadet uniform darkened by the damp and dirt. His eyes flickered across the logs, seeking an ingress, but confidence did not come as easily to him in this arena. While his mind could navigate starships through cosmic storms, his body faltered when faced with earthly terrain. "Max!" Brock's voice cut through the cacophony of nature and the distant shouts of their competitors—the other pairs of cadets navigating the course with more grace than they. Max's gaze shot up, finding Brock's extended arm reaching down for him. "Come on, grab my hand." There was no mockery in Brock's tone, only a firm thread of camaraderie. Max's fingers stretched upwards, slick with the sheen of the day's toil. He grasped Brock's forearm—his lifeline in a moment teetering between perseverance and defeat. With an almost effortless display of strength, Brock anchored his feet against the wood and pulled, hoisting Max's slighter form upward. The logs that had seemed insurmountable moments ago became just another passed marker as Max tumbled over the top, landing with a squelch beside Brock. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—an unspoken acknowledgment of their partnership—and then they were moving again, side by side, towards whatever challenge lay next. Max's chest heaved, his breath ragged as they emerged from the dense cluster of trees into a clearing that hosted their next trial. He longed for the cool, controlled environment of his simulator pod, where he was a maestro amidst chaos. But here in the muck and the open air, with Brock's impatient tug on his arm, Max felt every bit the novice he was. "Breathe later, we're in last place," Brock insisted, his voice laced with urgency but devoid of reproach. They surged forward together, feet slipping on the wet ground as they approached the yawning ravine. A single rope bridge, frayed and swinging, spanned the chasm. Brock crossed with the confidence of one born to conquer such terrains, each step deliberate and sure. Max followed, his hands white-knuckled around the rope, visions of plummeting down clouding his focus. Fear gnawed at him, but the fear of letting Brock down spurred him on more fiercely than the fear of falling. Once across, they were immediately met by the thunderous roar of a river. The water churned violently, swollen from recent rains, an unforgiving force that sought to claim them for its own. Max's boots, already heavy with mud, seemed to betray him further as he stumbled into the icy torrent. Brock, ever the rock, barely flinched against the current, offering a shoulder for Max to cling to as they waded through. "Keep moving!" Brock shouted over the din, his grip ironclad around Max's forearm, pulling him onward when his legs refused to obey. Their next challenge was a bog—a deceptive stretch of land that looked solid until you stepped onto it and it swallowed you whole. Max's foot sank, and panic clawed up his throat. Brock, a few steps ahead, turned back and extended a hand, hauling Max out with a grunt. "How do you keep sinking, my grandma weighs more than you do," Brock joked, trying to lighten the mood, but Max could only offer a grim smile in return. Then came the cliffs. Yet another vertical ascent looming before them, mocking Max's trembling limbs. They climbed, Brock scaling the rock face like it was nothing more than a ladder, while Max fumbled for holds, slipping more often than not. When they finally crested the top, the sky seemed to laugh at Max's relief; this was but a temporary reprieve. Max knew he was the albatross around Brock's neck, a dead weight threatening to drag them both down. His expertise lay in navigating starships through asteroid fields, not dragging his body through mud and over stone. Here, his intellect was no ally—his physical shortcomings stark against the backdrop of Brock's proficiency. "Sorry," he gasped, the word a hollow echo of his inadequacy. "Save it," Brock replied, breathing heavily but with a determination that seemed inexhaustible. "We finish together—that's what matters." As they pressed on, Max couldn't shake the humiliation that clung to him, as palpable as the mud caked on his skin. This course was Brock's domain, and Max was a trespasser—uncoordinated, slow, a cadet out of his element. But despite it all, Brock never wavered, never once considered leaving Max behind. And in that steadfast loyalty, Max found a glimmer of solace amidst the grueling ordeal. Max's gaze fixated on the final obstacle as he drew in ragged breaths. The hill, a treacherous slide masquerading as terrain to the valley below, loomed before them, its incline severe, unforgiving. Other cadets were already picking their way down carefully, hands gripping the rocks jutting out like nature's cruel joke of a staircase. Water streamed over these rocks, turning what might have been merely difficult into something downright perilous. "Sorry," Max panted, his chest heaving with more than physical exertion. "It's my fault we're going to be in last place." His voice was tinged with resignation, an audible footnote to the litany of shortcomings that dogged him outside the simulator cockpit. Brock spared him only a momentary glance, one devoid of reproach. A wry smile played across his mud-splattered face. "Hi, I'm Brock, have we met?" His tone was light, teasing, and it cut through the gravity of the situation like a knife through the dense fog of Max's despondency. "Really, Max, have you ever known me to give up?" Brock's question hung in the air, rhetorical yet imbued with an infectious resolve. He was the embodiment of tenacity, a living challenge to the very concept of surrender. Max could only muster a head shake, his eyes still locked on the slippery descent. "There is no way I can climb down that... that waterfall," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper, the admission of defeat sticking in his throat like a lump of raw dough. Brock chuckled, a deep sound that seemed to reverberate off the trees surrounding them. "It's hardly a waterfall," he quipped, casting a nonchalant look at the cascade. "But it does look fun. Oh well, some other time. Maybe I'll come back here after dinner for a bit of fun." Max had no doubt that Brock was being serious, he just hoped Brock wouldn’t want him to join him, once on this course was enough. "What do we do?" he asked, his voice almost lost in the din of trickling water and distant cheers from the other classes below watching and waiting their turn at this demon exercise meant to torment cadets like him. Brock's smirk was a silent dare to embrace the madness of what came next. "We win, of course." Confusion crept onto Max's features, mirroring the mud-splattered creases of uncertainty. The other teams were mere specks now, agilely descending the slippery rock face toward victory. How could they possibly catch up? But Brock's grin only broadened, a spark of mischief igniting within his gaze. Before Max could process the implications, a strong hand connected with his chest, propelling him sideways off the hill. The world tilted as Max collided with the muddy ground, the slick, treacherous slope claiming him instantly. His limbs were useless flails against the relentless pull of gravity, the hillside a chute of churned slurry, unforgiving in its embrace. Twisting his neck, Max caught sight of Brock—no longer the steadfast anchor but a careening juggernaut, launching himself into the fray. The sight was both absurd and exhilarating, Brock's frame morphing into something of myth as he joined the descent. Abandoning all pretense of control, Max surrendered to the chaos. A cacophony of splatters and squelches filled his ears as he barreled down the incline. There was no form, no finesse—just the raw scramble for speed, mud clogging his mouth each time he gasped for air. The only blessing to this ride down the hill was that Brock had chosen a path devoid of rocks. Perhaps the absence of rocks on this section was on purpose, meant for the clever and brave–a quick path to the bottom of the hill, if you dared. They were a spectacle of determination and desperation, two souls bound by the unspoken oath that surrender was not an option—not when the finish line beckoned with the sweet siren call of triumph. The world finally ceased its mad spin as Max skidded onto level terrain, his body a comet tail of mud and velocity. His breaths were ragged bursts, his heart thundering in his chest like a drum corps. Propelled by the sludge that had become his unwitting ally, Max hurtled past the finish line with an ungainly sprawl, arms flung wide as if to embrace victory—or simply brace for impact. Momentum carried him a few feet beyond, where he came to rest in a graceless heap, his racing pulse the only sound louder than the squelching mud that enveloped him. Brock's arrival was heralded by a similar squall of mud and a victorious whoop as he too slid across the finish line. The larger boy's momentum dwindled until he too lay spent and panting, just inches from Max. "Team Max and Brock, 1st Place!" An instructor’s voice cut through the din, authoritative and incredulous. Max turned his head, meeting Brock's gaze. A moment passed—a suspended slice of time in which the absurdity of their situation seemed to dawn upon them both. Then, the corners of Max's mouth twitched, and a chuckle bubbled up from deep within his muddied form. "We won!" "Yep," Brock replied with a nonchalant shrug, his eyes twinkling with the same daring that had sent them careening down the hillside. "Remember, never give up, never surrender." Somewhere in the darkness of space Brock flipped open the compact burner, its blue light casting a strange glow against the cave's jagged walls. He rifled through his long-range rations, the vacuum-sealed packages crinkling in his grasp. With the finesse of a makeshift chef on a desolate rock hurtling through space, he combined dehydrated vegetables with reconstituted protein, creating an aroma that defied the sterile environment. "Let's see what we have here," Brock mumbled to himself, selecting spices from his limited stock, a personal luxury he'd indulged himself. The sizzle of his concoction was a comforting sound in the silence of the asteroid. "A dash of paprika might not be regulation, but it sure beats monotony." As his meal simmered, Brock pulled out his hand-held tablet device and propped it against a protruding rock. The screen flickered to life, illuminating his determined face. His fingers danced across the surface, tapping into the log entries, each keystroke a testament to his diligence. A historian of his own isolation, he documented routines and observations, the mundane and the magnificent. "Day four: Successfully combined ration packs ‘C’ and ‘E’ for a surprisingly palatable result. Note to self—propose recipe adjustments to Fleet Command’s culinary division." He chuckled, imagining the raised eyebrows of the stern officers back on the Destiny. Finished with his digital chronicle, Brock stood up, stretching his legs. He eyed the open space of the cave, a natural gymnasium sculpted by cosmic forces. He dropped down, feeling the oddity of the low gravity as he began his push-up routine. Each rep was easier here than on the artificial gravity of Destiny, his body light, almost buoyant, muscles contracting with minimal resistance. He counted under his breath, pushing past his previous record with a grin. As he finished his set, Brock wiped his brow and glanced at the meal waiting for him. It was a simple existence, blending survival with moments of culinary creativity—an unexpected vacation on a speck of rock in the vastness of space. Stepping out onto the uneven surface, his boots crunched softly against the asteroid's regolith. With each stride towards the edge, he felt the solitude of space wrap around him like a cold, infinite blanket. These walks had become his ritual—a meditation in motion that connected him to the silence beyond. Reaching the precipice, he pulled out the tablet, its screen glowing a faint blue in the shadow of the asteroid. His thumb grazed the camera icon, activating the zoom function as the familiar outline of the colony ship crept into view. It was distant and serene, a silent monolith against the backdrop of stars. The days flowed together until at last he could see the colony ship in better clarity. "Day 8," he murmured, steadying his arm to scan the vessel, "the enemy colony ship has come into detailed view, but no signs of life or activity." Brock's voice was a whisper lost in the vacuum, his words for no one but himself and the log that would remember them. As the lens focused, the ship's colossal form became clearer. The O'Neil cylinder, usually a beacon of human ingenuity, lay dormant. Its outer rotational ring, meant to spin in a delicate dance of counterbalance, moved sluggishly—dim and desolate. "Something's off," Brock noted, squinting at the screen. He panned across the darkened bio-domes, their once lush greenery now shrouded in mystery. Forty acres each, they were miniature worlds of essential crops, vital to the colony's survival. But why abandoned? "Bio-domes inactive," he recorded with a frown. The tropical domes should have been vibrant with life, a mosaic of colors from exotic fruits hanging on the branches, rice paddies waving gently, coffee beans ripe for harvest. Instead, there was nothing but darkness. The medicinal domes too showed no sign of the fluorescent glow typically emitted by the bio-luminescent plants. "Without the counter rotation..." His voice trailed off as he pieced together the grim puzzle. The ship, a masterpiece of engineering, was succumbing to a slow descent towards the gas giant below—a catastrophic end to a journey that began with hope. Brock pocketed the device and stood in contemplation, a lone figure etched against the cosmos. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily upon him, though not enough to counter the feather-light pull of the asteroid beneath his feet. There was much to ponder, and little time to act. Brock's breath fogged the visor of his helmet as he anchored himself at the precipice of the cave, staring into the void. The desolate colony ship loomed larger each second, a ghostly behemoth adrift in the ink-black sea of space, its silent presence belying the chaos that Brock was about to witness. He steadied his racing heart with deep, methodical breaths, recalling the initial plan—camouflage in the shadowy recess of this very cave and await the asteroid recovery ships. He had meticulously calculated his arrival, aligning his trajectory with the vessel's orbit, banking on the precision of routine operations to guide him safely aboard. But reality splintered his expectations. Brock's grip tightened on the rocky ledge as his eyes picked out the irregular movements ahead. Not a single recovery ship in sight—only the spasmodic dance of the catch nets, their purpose defeated by damage and disarray. The cables, meant to cradle incoming celestial wanderers like his own minuscule world, snapped and flailed wildly, an erratic performance choreographed by some unseen disaster. "Impossible," he muttered, tracing the trajectory of another rogue asteroid skirting past the frayed nets at unimaginable speeds—an ominous harbinger of what awaited his own approach. The support arms, once precise and unwavering, were now but fractured skeletons reaching emptily into space. These nets, which should have been taut with the tension of anticipation, lay limp and ineffective. Any asteroid caught by those treacherous tendrils would be nothing more than a plaything for momentum, trapped in a deadly game of cosmic pinball. Brock's jaw set in determination. There was no turning back; the path to salvation—or destruction—lay ahead. With the ship's silhouette growing steadily in his vision, the asteroid beneath him seemed to hasten its journey, as if eager to meet its fate. Brock knew it was time to act, to rethink his strategy amidst the turmoil that unfurled before him. "Adapt or perish," he whispered to himself, a mantra to steel his resolve in the face of the unforeseen. Brock retreated into the cave, away from the vista of broken promises and shattered procedures, ready to forge a new plan from the remnants of the old. The realization struck Brock like a meteorite's kiss—his asteroid would not be gently cradled by the ship's nets but would instead barrel through them, continuing its eternal voyage around the sun. It was a fate he couldn't share; several hundred years of solitude in space was no man's aspiration. His pulse quickened as the weight of urgency settled over him like the dust on the cave floor. "Think, Brock, think!" he chastised himself aloud, his voice echoing off the stark walls—a reminder that time and options were luxuries he could no longer afford. His hands moved with swift precision, breaking down the makeshift camp that had been his refuge and laboratory for these past days. He folded the electric burner, now cold and redundant, setting it aside with a clatter that seemed too loud in the desolate cavern. The calculations playing out in his mind demanded minimal mass; every gram counted toward survival or spelled disaster. With methodical resolve, he left behind the remnants of his stay—the small generator that had hummed faithfully at his side, the hydrogen collector, even his array of weapons. He would keep only the three pistols in holsters against his body. They were all part of a life he was forced to abandon. He packed only the essentials: spare oxygen tanks, a necessity in the unforgiving vacuum, and food and water packs shoved into his suit pockets. The sled, now stripped to its barest form, looked almost skeletal against the rough ground of the cave. He gave it a final inspection, ensuring that nothing unnecessary remained to hinder his audacious endeavor. "Alright, old friend," he murmured to the sled, patting its cold metal frame. "It's just you and me against physics." With a deep breath that did little to calm his racing heart, Brock nudged the sled towards the mouth of the cave. It glided forward, betraying none of the desperation that fueled its master's actions. He followed it out, stepping into the harsh light of the asteroid's surface, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Titan-class colony ship. Determination set his jaw in a rigid line, the marine within him awakened by the challenge, ready to face the void with nothing but wits and willpower. Brock knew that his next moves would either write an improbable tale of survival or consign him to a silent forgotten death. Brock's fingers danced across the sled's control panel, his focus laser-like as he initiated the launch sequence. The ship loomed in the distance—a monolithic target against the star-studded void. With a silent prayer to whatever cosmic deities might be listening, he punched in the coordinates and felt the sled lurch beneath him. "Come on, baby, hold together," he murmured, willing the machine to withstand the demands of his desperate plan. The electric whine of the thrusters filled his ears as they engaged, propelling him towards his salvation—or doom. He squinted at the display, watching the numbers climb: speed, trajectory, fuel consumption—all spiraling towards critical thresholds. The breaking burn was a brutal assault on the sled's capabilities. Brock could almost hear the vehicle's frame groaning in protest as he rotated it, directing the force against their momentum. His suit vibrated with the energy of their deceleration, a constant reminder that this was uncharted territory. The fuel gauge needle plummeted, each passing second eating away at his lifeline. "Two days," he whispered to himself, marking the time until the sled would become nothing more than dead weight. The stark reality set in; on day 13, he'd have to abandon his mechanical steed and trust his fate to the frailty of his suit’s jet-pack–a device that was never intended to do what he was going to attempt. And so, when the thirteenth day dawned—a day that might be his last—Brock detached from the sled with a resolute click. The speed indicator was unforgiving: he had bled off 25,000 mph to 5,000. Still too fast for comfort, too fast for safety. He expelled a breath that fogged the inside of his helmet and flipped his body to face the immense blackness behind him. "Alright, suit," he said, patting the chest of his armored cocoon, "it's all on you now." The thrusters of his jet-pack flared to life, jolts of controlled explosions that stood between him and obliteration. The speed indicator's decline was torturously slow, the numbers mocking him with their gradual descent. Hours passed—an eternity stretched across the void. Brock monitored his dwindling air supply, the last tank now feeding precious oxygen into his lungs. At four hours out, he couldn't ignore the knot of dread coiling in his stomach. Three hundred mph. Not nearly slow enough. "Damn it," he cursed, glancing at the indicator. It showed no mercy, confirming the grim calculus that haunted him. He would still be traveling at 180 mph upon impact with the landing bay. The thought alone sent a shiver through his spine, despite the lack of cold in space. "Can you take it?" he addressed the armored mining suit, though he expected no answer. The question was for him as much as for the suit—could he brace for a collision that might spell his end? With every mile that slipped by, Brock prepared for the inevitable. His mind raced with contingencies, memories, regrets—all the mental noise one faces when confronted with their mortality. Yet, amid the chaos, there remained a single thread of hope, woven into the fabric of his being. "Survive," he urged himself, the word a mantra that carried him through the final stretch, toward the unforgiving metal deck that awaited his arrival. Brock's helmet display was a mosaic of red warnings and dwindling figures, each a stark reminder of the thin line he trod between ingenuity and oblivion. The ship loomed before him, its gargantuan size dwarfing his suited form against the vast expanse of space. With a practiced twist of his body, he reoriented himself to face the behemoth, eyes scouring for any sliver of salvation. That's when he saw them—arresting cables, meant to catch fighter ships at breakneck speeds, but not lone fools trying to land like a human jet in a battered suit. Brock couldn't help but let out a laugh, the sound echoing inside his helmet, a touch of madness tinged with adrenaline. "Insanity or genius?" he muttered to himself, knowing full well there wasn't time to debate the two. His gaze fell upon the anchor bolts strapped to his suit, their presence suddenly as crucial as the oxygen flowing into his lungs. They were designed for stability, to root him to an asteroid in the chaotic dance of mining operations. But now, they were his unlikely lifelines. "Let's rewrite some rules," he said, a steely resolve hardening within him. Brock checked the anchor bolts' integrity one last time, their hooks glinting like predatory talons. He'd have to time it perfectly. His fingers danced across the controls, arming the mechanisms that would either save him or seal his fate. "Here goes nothing," he breathed out, a silent countdown ticking away in his mind. This was all he had—a desperate gamble in the vacuum of space, a mining suit repurposed for a stunt so outrageous, he was certain even the stars were laughing at him. Brock's hands were steady on the thruster controls as he calculated his final approach. The jet-pack sputtered, coughing out their last breath of propulsion. He angled his body towards the gaping maw of the landing bay. Face forward, belly down—his suit a makeshift glider slicing through the thin atmosphere that clung to a ship that rivaled the size of a small moon. The landing bay loomed, a vast cavern of metal and shadow. He was a flickering comet hurtling toward destiny at a breakneck speed. His eyes fixed on the arresting cable stretched across his path, its presence both a threat and a lifeline. At 160 mph, he shot past it, the world outside his visor blurring into streaks of color. "Come on," Brock whispered, fingers twitching over the trigger. He fired the anchoring cables in a desperate bid for survival. The hooks shot out, twin harpoons seeking salvation in steel. A metallic clang echoed in his ears—the sound of hope—as they found their mark and latched onto the arresting cable. A jolt racked his body, threatening to tear him apart. His armored suit groaned under the strain, the force of deceleration a beast wrestling him into submission. Brock gritted his teeth, muscles straining against the sudden onslaught. But he was slowing; the unforgiving momentum that had been his enemy now faltered, reined in by his audacious gambit. He dared to glance upward, only to spot another obstacle—a shuttle parked carelessly in his path. Panic flared, and he braced for impact, but his trajectory was already determined, a skidding bounce sending him scraping along the deck. Sparks erupted beneath him, a fiery trail marking his passage. Closer, ever closer, the shuttle filled his vision, its hull an unyielding wall racing to meet him. Brock winced, every nerve ending bracing for the collision. Yet, in a miraculous defiance of circumstance, his battered body ground to a halt—a mere six inches from disaster. Breath hitched in his throat, Brock gave himself a silent moment. He listened for the hiss of a suit breach—but not a whisper of air escaping came to him. The suit had held; the armor had absorbed the brutality of his unconventional landing. He allowed himself a small exhale, relief flooding through him, mingled with the lingering rush of adrenaline. With shaking hands, he released the anchor cables, their job done, their place in history secured alongside his. Brock pushed himself up to a stand, legs unsteady but defiant. And then, laughter bubbled up from deep within—a joyful noise tinged with the hysteria of the impossible made possible. He wiped a smear of dust from the front of his helmet, revealing the shuttle’s serial number etched into the metal. As recognition dawned, the laughter grew louder, echoing off the walls of the landing bay. It was Max's shuttle.