The Rock Jockey

Nine hundred kilos up and down. Thirty reps in near silence, broken only by the leg press squeaking like a rusty hinge. Every face in the Olympic village gym watched, jaws slack, as yet another record shattered under the hands of that no-name newb from the Belts.


Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! The display above the machine chimed like a slot machine spitting out a jackpot. The high score blinked out, replaced by that same last name and initial: K, J. Jorah Kade. Half the boards in the room already bore his mark — he was working his way clockwise, a one-man wrecking crew, and he wasn’t even sweating.


The Earth athletes traded looks. Pathetic, really. Showing off like this in the village meant nothing. He’d still have to perform under the lights, with billions watching on holofeeds and God-knows-how-many more packed into the stands or jacked into VR. Wasting energy on these stunts? He’d crash and burn. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.


"Excuse me," he said, snapping me out of my thoughts. He tugged out earplugs I hadn’t noticed, his voice low and polite, like he was asking for directions.


"Can you tell me if these weights are labeled right? They feel awfully light for some reason."


I blinked. "Those are exact to within a billionth of a gram. Best scientific testing on Earth says so." Senior year social studies flashed back — I’d aced that unit.


"Earth!" he boomed, a grin splitting his face like a crack in a rock face. "That explains it." He popped the earplugs back in.


My stomach dropped as he ambled over to the stack and slapped on another four hundred and fifty kilos. He sat, grunted once, and pushed the whole damn thing up like it was a warm-up. The room went dead quiet.


"Forgot I wasn’t on a grav train back home," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Family runs a gym on one of the outer tracks — highest artificial gravity during the week-long accel phases. Builds you up proper."


I sank onto the bench I’d been hovering over, my betting app already open on my wrist holo. Illegal, sure, but everyone did it. Problem was, every pick I’d made was trash now. This Samson from the Belts was about to ruin me.


"Okay, everyone, let’s head out and show the world what we can do!" Coach Maris barked as the timer hit zero. We were herded toward the arena, toward our fates. I glanced at Jorah Kade, earplugs back in, humming to himself like he wasn’t about to break the Olympics in half.