After enduring a long day of testing, DeAndre returned to his room. Of the innumerable solutions the aliens had concocted, none had improved his jumpshot or his ball-handling in any appreciable way. Moreover, they left his muscles sore and his head cloudy.
It was so difficult to focus on the plans he had been making with Galorian. It was much easier to watch retransmitted television shows from his own planet, then retire to bed for another dreamless bout of sleep, than it was to carry out any sort of rebellion.
This night, however, he feigned sleep until he was sure that all activity on the ship had ceased. Quietly exiting his room, he snuck through the unused corridors of the oversized craft, towards the cell of his fellow captive.
—-
“The easiest way to sabotage the ship lies in its power source,” Galorian whispered. “My sensors detect the emissions from the nuclear propulsion system, and they certainly use the same technology here that my own planet uses.”
DeAndre felt a little sheepish. This being clearly possessed a higher intelligence than DeAndre’s own. “So, what does that mean? Do you know how to stop it?”
“I know that the nuclear fission reaction that generates thrust for the ship is extremely vulnerable to flame.”
Jolted by a sudden burst of recognition, DeAndre rummaged the pocket of his shorts. The aliens had clearly not bothered to confiscate the items which had been on his person at the time of his abduction, because he soon pulled out a cigarette lighter.
“Flame, you say?”
—-
More weeks passed, filled with testing. DeAndre sometimes caught a glimpse of Galorian in the experimentation chamber next to his own, body quivering with exertion. Both of them tried hard to succeed at the tasks that had been asked of them, knowing that the more they appeased their captors, the less suspicion was likely to be aroused. DeAndre was sure that he had shot more free throws aboard this ship than through the entirety of his life on Earth.
In the nights, they planned. The nuclear core of the ship was not guarded in any way, but access to the chamber required submitting to a biometric scan that neither him nor Galorian had any hope of passing. However, Galorian had noted that the top rim of the chamber could be reached by a skilled leaper. That was where DeAndre came in.
Galorian repeatedly reminded him that, were their plan to come to fruition, the result would be a catastrophic and certainly deadly explosion. DeAndre understood this, and he and Galorian shared one feeling: that the integrity of their respective sports was of far greater importance than their own individual lives.
—-
“Go, DeAndre! I’ll be here on the deck.”
DeAndre first went to the cafeterium, where he grabbed a stool from one of the numerous tables. From there, he tiptoed to the center of the ship, where the propulsion system whirred and whined.
He removed the shirt and shorts that had served as his bedclothes, so long ago on Earth. Holding the lighter to them, they soon were ablaze. Knowing that the end was imminent, he stood upon the stool, clothes in hand, and jumped. Both articles were deposited into the nuclear core in what would certainly be the final dunk of DeAndre’s career.
DeAndre sprinted away as fast as he could. A burning cinder would reach the nuclear core at any time. In just moments, he reached the main deck, where Galorian waited for him.
“It’s done,” DeAndre gasped.
“Good,” Galorian said, holding out his hand, which DeAndre took in his own. “May the peoples of Thaul-Ratos and Earth enjoy harmony between them that will last all the ages! And whatever awaits us on the other side, I hope that there I will find beings like yourself, DeAndre.”
Suddenly, a storm of fire engulfed the deck as the ship’s superstructure failed around them, discarding its contents into the unforgiving void of space.
—-
[Epilogue: 100 years later]
DeAndre Jordan III sat happily in front of the holoscreen. The NBA was on. In front of his wide eyes, the Vegas Aces and Virginia Thunder clashed in a much-anticipated regular season contest that many speculated would be a Finals preview. 5’10” star center Joe Oostman was putting on a clinic, tallying twenty points and nine rebounds halfway through the second quarter.
An ad break had begun, and DeAndre’s attentions became focused on his grandmother, who was sitting silently in her rocking chair, knitting.
“Grammy, tell me about how Grampa used to dunk on a ten foot rim.”
Grandma Jordan chuckled and shook her head. “You’ve heard that one a million times,” she said, looking over to the mantle, where a picture of her late husband had been placed. Looking at it filled her with pride, but also with sadness, and she took a second to steady her voice before she continued, “You sure you want to hear it again?”
DeAndre Jordan III nodded eagerly. “Please grammy, please!”
“Okay,” she began. “A long time ago, in Los Angeles…”
Part I: http://youtu.be/oqwKLokpgJM