Alright,
so I'm supposed to be writing a space opera...
But I got distracted by a conversation with a fellow author on twitter and this is the result of my distractions. Let me know if this is something you wish to see continued, or I'll just throw random chapters at it here and there. Speaking of chapters, I'll probably be revisiting Kevin's Kitty Rescue and Beauty and the Beast in the near future. I'm pretty much sold on I'm Home being retired, I can't see myself continuing that story without some inspiration turning up, and it's just not happening. Part of learning to write, is learning to only hit publish on stories you can actually finish and I'm Home is just so far out of sight I have no idea what to do with it. Sorry about that...
Otherwise, don't forget to rate, comment and check my Bio for my details!
Enjoy!
Chapter One
This was bad. Very, very bad. In a long list of things that could have gone wrong, this was probably one of the worst. But nine-year-old Akira couldn't help but grin at the look on her Papa's face. He was a firm man on television. But in real life, he was a doting father. Reaching for the bowl of popcorn, Akira took yet another mouthful, ignoring her mother's sigh.
"Akira, it's getting late."
The small girl pouted, "But mama! Papa's still playing!"
The older woman sighed, "Father's daughter."
Akira giggled, before turning back to the television. Papa had gotten the turret repaired and the driver reversed back around the corner of the old house. As they pulled out of view, the enemy advanced. A British Cromwell rolled over the hill ahead. Papa saw it coming and started bringing the turret around. The Cromwell had seen them as well and was trying to get over the peak of the hill. Making a final adjustment, Papa checked the sight, right as the Cromwell lumbered to a stop.
BANG!
The old T-34, affectionately known as 'Henry' barked. The tank rocked back on it's suspension as the seventy-six millimeter cannon, spat it's payload at the Cromwell. The shell carried a trail of smoke part way as it arced across the battlefield. The round slammed into the Cromwell, sending out a shower of sparks.
"It's a direct hit!" The commentator yelled. "Ol Bruce is in trouble. That was a direct strike on the gunner. He's been disabled for thirty seconds!"
Akira cheered, knocking over her bowl of popcorn. Her mother sighed, grabbing the rest of the bowl. "Really daughter? This is not how a lady should behave!"
"Sorry Mama," Akira pouted cutely until her mother turned away.
She watched as Papa's team member reloaded the cannon with a second shot. As he did so, Papa readjusted his aim. Akira was already getting good. The camera changed to the aiming reticle, to see exactly where her Papa was aiming.
"Right side, lower ammo rack," Akira guessed.
BANG!
The second round went off with a cloud of smoke, slamming into the Cromwell. This time, as the shower of sparks went off, a second lit up, blowing red and green sparks high into the sky.
"HE'S DONE IT!" The commentator cried.
Akira jumped up and did a quick dance. Her mother watched on with a small scowl. Her mother really did love her father. But she didn't approve of their daughter taking after his hobbies. In the age of advancement, someone came up with a great idea. Convert old World War Two era tanks, into a sport. The aim was simple. They were fitted with sensors to determine impacts, with account of both direction and penetration. This was calculated by a computer installed in the free space where the old gas engine used to be. The tanks were all converted to electric and ran on batteries. With all the free space inside, they could have things like air-conditioning and proper food storage for longer games and proper seats with safety-harnesses. Sometimes they did marathons, where dozens or even hundreds of tanks would do battle and the comforts made it easier.
This is where Akira's father had gotten into the sport. He was a historian at the local university. As such, he had contacts and found himself an old blown out shell of a 1942 T-34. With his friend and now tank driver, they towed the shell back to the university. With the help of the engineering department, they did a special course on mechanical components for the students. Twelve months later, Akira's Papa entered his first competition. Akira's mother was unsure about the sport at first, fearing injuries or death. But the rounds they fired were mostly a rubber block with a graphite tip. The rounds were lighter than real shells, but the charge was modified to ensure they fired at the same approximate speed of the regular shells. The benefit being, perfect safety for the crew inside the tank, and a bright flash of sparks if a shell hit.
On impact, the computer's sensors would determine if the round had enough mass and velocity at the angle of impact to pierce the armour. It would quickly calculate the damage it would do to the internals of the tank and determine if components would have been damaged or entirely destroyed. To make things more interesting, each crewmember wore special suits that would cause their joints to lock up if they were 'hit.' Altogether, Akira's mother was placated she wasn't about to lose her husband and she watched with no small level of discomfort as their tank was peppered with dozens of shells in their abysmal first attempt.
Ten years later, Akira was her Papa's number one fan, as they pushed through the finals. With the Cromwell down, it was one less threat. But Papa's team members weren't in position. Their digital map showed the two team members that followed him into that section of the town were both down. To make matters worse, he was surrounded on both sides.
"Come on Papa," Akira chanted.
Her Papa seemed to have the same awful realisation that everyone else knew. He was in trouble. Giving a few quick orders, the T-34 lurched forward, pressing onward alone. Akira bit her lip, knowing that any advance was fraught with danger. There was simply no way to know what was around the nearest corner, unless an enemy had been tagged by a friendly. Of course, Akira could see from the television that if he continued to follow that road, he was going to come face to face with an M5A1. The lighter M5A1 was moving at top speed, closing in on where it had seen the Cromwell take a hit. But it wasn't expecting to round the bend, face to face with a T-34. The M5A1 slammed the breaks, skidding sideways as it desperately tried to keep the turret pointed at the T-34. Papa grinned as he fired the main gun.
BANG!
The shell sparked as it slammed into the broadside of the enemy tank. The shower of sparks was a good indicator for the solid hit. Akira could see that the shell had taken out the driver and co-driver, while severely damaging the transmission. Or, at least that's what the computer calculated. Reality, the driver and co-driver were both locked and unable to move for thirty seconds. The transmission needed a reset switch to be hit manually by one of the drivers, to initiate a 'repair' that would take a further thirty seconds. Until then, the tank was stuck stationery and sideways in the middle of the road.
BANG!
The M5A1 fired it's main gun at the T-34. Akira gasped in horror as the round hurtled towards her Papa's tank. But she cheered as it deflected off the sharp angled armour of the Russian tank. It was a good thing about the low weight of those rubber rounds. They lost momentum shortly after exceeding their maximum recommended range and started to tumble. It was a design feature to prevent accidents. A tumbling round would quickly fall and hit the ground, without travelling well out of the battleground and possibly through someone's window at home. But Papa didn't flinch. He lined up the second shot with the ammo racks conveniently exposed on the sides. As the loader pushed in a second shell...
BANG!
Akira cheered as the second set of green and red sparks went up. The pyrotechnics were used to ensure that when a tank had been 'destroyed' it was clearly seen. Secondarily to that, it now appeared on the electronic map in front of the tank commander. In this case, with a T-34, the commander WAS the gunner, and not a third position, like some larger tanks.
The television shut off at that point, making Akira jump up. Whirling around, there was her mother, holding the remote.
"Mama!"
"Enough," She sighed. "It's time for bed, go brush your teeth."
Akira pouted, "Please Mama?"
But it was useless and she was sent to the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, Akira imagined herself behind the controls of a T-34 Turret. She imagined herself in place of her Papa, lining up the killshot on a Panzer III. Rinsing her mouth, Akira got into her pyjamas and gave her mother a kiss goodnight, after being told in no uncertain terms she could see her father in the morning. So with a pout, Akira crawled into her bed, tucking her favourite teddy beside her.
***
The funeral was a week later. Kim Yu, aka, Akira's Papa, upon winning the finals, suffered a sudden heart attack. There was little anyone could do. It seemed he had a genetic defect that had gone unknown and untreated until it presented itself during the competition. Akira's mother forbade her from watching the recording of what had happened.
As the most famous family in their small town, the local council gave special permission to lead the hearse through town with a tank escort. When they put out the call for tank crews to attend, they expected two or three to respond. Akira was too sad to admire the eighty strong tank parade, led by a wreath covered T-34. Her eyes were on the hearse. Her Papa's friend, the driver came and said a few words she never properly heard. The rest of their team invited Akira and her mother to a celebration, but neither of them wanted to go. And at the end of the day, the T-34, still with its wreaths, was reversed into Akira's Papa's work shed, and the doors were closed, signalling the end of something wonderful.
***
Ten Years Later
"What do you mean you quit?!" Ceejay yelled into her phone, earning several reproachful looks from the other hopeful competitors. "We don't even have a tank!"
"I told you not to get your hopes up," Bellinda sighed, before giving a few of the creepier looking guys glares.
"You suck!" Ceejay snapped, hanging up and stuffing her phone in her pocket. "Apparently the tank she offered wasn't even her tank. When she went to ask her brother for it today, he laughed at her."
"All that training," Mel groaned.
"Ah!" Ceejay stamped her foot. "Not only do we need a new tank, but we'd need a new gunner as well!"
"And a commander," Mel nodded along. "Unless it's a smaller tank."
"A Stuart might work," Bellinda said softly. "It only takes four, but I'm not the best shot."
