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NOTE: Another of my myriad plotted-out-but-only-half-written story idea files I figured deserves a chance to grow. So, here it is, STORY #62. Please let me know what you think!

A DIFFERENT KIND OF ACE

By Rowena Zahnrei

Multiverse 101: A Prologue

Ace Rimmer flicked back a stray lock of his perfect hair and turned his cool gaze to the Sultan.

"I'm afraid the Plutonian Cybernauts aren't going to back down, your Eminence," he said, his smooth voice managing to convey warning and encouragement at the same time. "At least four thousand have gathered outside that wall, and you can bet they'll have at least twice as many more hanging over us in orbit. They want the Princess Angela, and they'll reduce this moon to rubble if they don't get her, pronto."

"But what can we do?" The little man twisted the hem of his golden robes between his pudgy fingers. "My wife was right—I never should have tried for this job. 'Play the numbers, win four years of luxury as Sultan of Io.' What was I thinking?"

"Now's not the time for second guesses, old chum. You've got to keep those spirits up. For your daughter's sake, and for the sake of your people."

"But how can I?" the Sultan cried. "There are thousands of those creatures out there, Ace, thousands! And there's only one of you."

Ace regarded the quaking little man. "That's as may be," the hero said, "But if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that you don't need numbers to win the day. In fact, in this case, the sheer size of that Cybernautic army out there is its own Achilles heel."

"What do you mean?" the Sultan asked, a tentative, hopeful light beginning to brighten his eyes. "Are you saying you've cooked up one of those lovely planney things of yours?"

"Trust me, Sultan," Ace said, and slipped on his shades. "I'll have this problem sorted before you can say, 'Smoke me a ki—'"

"—mer! Arnold Rimmer, are you listening to me?"

Arnold Rimmer, aged thirteen and a quarter, stumbled back to reality through a haze of disorientation. He'd been so deep into his daydream, he felt as if he'd actually been standing in his imaginary Sultan's palace, ready to save the beautiful Princess Angela from a fate worse than reality TV. Now, he looked around to find himself back in boarding school surrounded by his smirking peers and fixed in the sights of his mathematics teacher's double-barreled glare.

"He's not, Mr. Nesbit," Lawrence "Stinky" Bateman piped up from the desk across from him. "He's been doodling in his notepad again."

It was true. The lined paper that should have been filled with neat lines of algebra notes instead sported a series of shaded pencil drawings depicting his imaginary hero Ace Rimmer's sleek, dimension-jumping ship, the Wildfire, speeding across the stars to meet the deadly Cybernaut space fleet. He looked up at his teacher with a wince. "Uh…"

"Right," the teacher said, his thin face taut. "I warned you. I told you the next time I caught you slacking off in class I'd send you to the Headmaster."

Arnold blinked. "Sir? But I—"

"And don't even start with the excuses." Mr. Nesbit pursed his lips, his posture radiating disappointment. Arnold lowered his eyes to his desk.

"I have given you every chance, Mr. Rimmer," the teacher said. "When your mother called to warn me about you at the beginning of the year—during my supper hour, I might add—I figured she was drunk, or exaggerating. I promised myself to give you the benefit of the doubt and judge you by your own merit. But what am I to judge? You don't do your work, you don't pay attention, you constantly drift off into these daydreams of yours. And come evaluations, you invariably have a nervous fit and get yourself sent to the nurse. How do you expect to graduate if all you ever do is slack off and make excuses?"

Arnold folded his hands and squeezed his fingers together until they hurt. "I don't mean to, sir," he said. "I try to pay attention, honest I do. It's just…" He trailed off, his face flushed with embarrassment, completely unable to admit the truth: that he found algebra incomprehensible and seeing the other boys copy down and compute the problems that the teacher set left him so bitterly angry over his own boneheaded stupidity that the only safe escape for his ego and pride was in the depths of his imagination. In fact, it had gotten to the point where, most days, Arnold slipped into a daydream the moment he sank into his chair. He told himself that he needed those daydreams, relied on them. They were the only thing in his pathetic, lonely life that gave him any sense of satisfaction or achievement.

"Good grief, Rimmer!" his teacher exclaimed.

Arnold jumped, startled out of his thoughts. "Sir!" The class snickered.

"You're doing it again! By Jupiter's spot, boy, can't you keep your mind in this reality for more than two minutes at a stretch?"

Arnold looked around uncomfortably, unsure what to say. Mr. Nesbit closed his eyes and rubbed the place where his glasses sat on his nose.

"Right. Out. Get out, Rimmer, out of my sight," he said with a tired sigh. "You've wasted enough of this class's time. And when you come back, please, try to have your homework done, for once. I'll ring the Headmaster and tell him you're on your way."

Arnold hung his curly-haired head and stood, slinging his book bag over his shoulder. The aisle through the desks became a walk of shame, lined on all sides by cruel, jeering smiles. Closing the classroom door behind him, he stared out into the empty, green corridor and just stood there, nostrils flaring as his anger and humiliation blended into a quiet, tentative defiance.

"What do I care," he said, his high, adolescent voice echoing against the cold, polished tiles. "It's not my fault I don't learn anything if my teachers keep sending me out of the room. Besides, what's a Space Corps Test Pilot need algebra for anyway? I want to fly the ships, not build them!"

Casting a glare over his shoulder at the classroom door, Arnold strode toward the lift that would take him to where the Headmaster waited at the top floor of the boarding school's dome.

Io House was reputed to be the best boys' school in the Outer System. It was the training ground of the crème de la crème of the colony worlds, an elitist institution that demanded the highest performance of all its students. Many boys cracked under the pressure and transferred out to government-funded schools before their third year. A school like that, that prided itself on its competitive spirit and ruthless standards of achievement, had no resources to waste on remedial education or psychological counseling. It was sink or swim, and Arnold felt like he had been holding his breath for years.

"They'll see," he muttered as the lift doors closed. "They'll all see. When I'm an officer, those pompous goits will tear each other to pieces just for the chance to shake my hand. They'll line up for miles to cheer Commander Ace Rimmer, Space Adventurer!"

To Be Continued...

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