Robert Reed - The Tournament

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2024-11-23 0 0 41.88KB 21 页 5.9玖币

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ROBERT REED

THE TOURNAMENT

The round of 1 048 576 The Net calls everyone it selects. That's the rule.

Always at five in the afternoon, Eastern Double-Daylight Time. Always on the

Friday before June's first Monday, the bulk of the month reserved for little

else. More than a million phones sing out at once, their owners picking up as

one, nervously hoping to hear the Net's cool, unruffled voice giving them the

glorious news. Another Tournament is at hand! The best of our citizens will be

pitted against each other, in a myriad of contests, the single-elimination

adventure culminating in honor, wealth and an incandescent and genuinely

deserved fame.

Some contestants like being with friends when the call comes. Not me. Bette

claims I'm scared of being embarrassed by a silent phone. Maybe so. But I

think

it's because my first call was a surprise, coming when I was a kid -barely

eighteen-- and expecting nothing. I'm at least as superstitious as the next

idiot, I'll admit it. And I was alone that first time as well as every time

since. This is my seventeenth Tournament; I like my atmosphere of anxious

solitude, thank you. And I won't change one damned thing.

Five o'clock. My phone sings, and my hands shake. Opening the line, I watch my

viewing wall fill with the Net's milk-on-jade symbol, and the expected voice

says, "Hello, Mr. Avery Masters. You are ranked 20,008 in the national pool,

forty-seventh in your district. Congratulations, sir. Details will follow, and

as always, the best of luck to you."

"Thanks," I manage, breaking into a smile. Forty-seventh is my best local

ranking ever, but in truth, I'd hoped for better. My training has been going

great; all my qualifying tests are up. But then again, who's to bitch?

Positive

thoughts, positive results. That's what coaches tell you. With that in mind, I

brighten my smile, reading about Monday's opponent.

Ms. June Harryman -- a district legend. She's deep in her eighties, both hips

plastic and a carbon rod fused to a regenerated spine. She's made fifty-one

appearances in the Tournament, including its very first year, and while she

never finishes high, she's always there, always full of pluck, always

garnering

local praise and national mention.

No, I think, I can't ignore the lady.

Don't look past tomorrow, coaches tell you. Even if tomorrow isn't for three

days.

Our morning event is a 10K race, and the Net has given Ms. Harryman a

twenty-five minute head start. That's a brutal lead, I'm thinking. It's

probably

as much for her hips as her age. Then comes our afternoon game--some kind of

puzzle; that's all I'm told-- and in the evening, in a tiny studio not ten

minutes from my apartment, we'll go toe-to-toe in U.S. geography.

I bet the old gal knows a lot of geography. What could be worse, I'm thinking,

than being knocked out in the opening round by some low-rank half-artificial

grandmother?

When the phone rings again, I mute it. It's probably Bette calling to

congratulate me, then tease me about my opponent. Except I'm not in the mood

be teased. Just to feel confident, I start naming state capitals. And I forget

Guam's, which puts me into a panic. I'm taking a refresher course when Bette

arrives -- a breasty, big-hipped woman strolling into my apartment without

sound. I barely notice her as she turns through dozens of sports channels,

finally finding what she wants on the Net and cranking up the volume until my

ears hurt.

"According to friends," says a well-groomed reporter, "she felt chest pains as

she reached for the phone. It was five o'clock exactly." A lean, white-haired

woman hovers over his shoulder. Ms. June Harryman. "An artificial heart is

being

implanted --"

"What?" I cry out.

"-- with Ms. Harryman's long-term prospects deemed excellent."

"Didn't you know?" Bette's round face smiles, thoroughly amused. "Hasn't it

told

you?"

It means the Net, which has to know. The Net handles emergency calls, controls

every autodoc, and identifies consequences in an instant. Of course it knows.

A light blinks on my console. Punching the button, I hear:

"Mr. Masters, you have a bye for next Monday." Infinitely patient and

incapable

of amusement, the voice gives no sign of being impressed with my remarkable

luck. "Enjoy your weekend, sir. And we'll see you on Tuesday morning." 524 288

Reach the first round, and you're guaranteed a few dollars. It doesn't pay for

cheap treadmill or two hours of forced hypnosis, but it's a wage, and for some

people it's all they want. The illusion of being professional, that sort of

thing.

Payoffs accelerate slowly at first; you need to get out of the first week

before

you earn a living wage. Win your district -- my goal of goals--and you'll have

comfortable life. But then come the regionals and the authentic wealth. And if

you can defeat all twenty of your opponents -- one of us does that trick every

year-- the Net awards you a billion dollars, tax-free, then transmits to you

every congratulation from every one of your forgotten cousins.

Bette says the Tournament is silly. She says that a happy, wealth y nation

needs

better obsessions. But I don't take her teasing too seriously; I'm naturally

confident and self-assured, I hope. And besides, she lets me tease her in

turn.

I like telling her she's one of those stuffy souls who pretend outrage,

knowing

they lack the talents needed to win. "Poor Bette," [ say, 'without mercy.

"Poor,

poor Bette."

I make a fair living with these June competitions. Then for the rest of my

year

I'm in training, always preparing, always working my body and mind into shape

for next year's shot at immortality.

After Tuesday's competition, Bette calls to congratulate me.

"Did you watch?" I ask.

"No," she lies. "I just saw your name posted, that's all."

It was my first day of real competition, and I'm already among the last

quarter

million contestants. Today's opponent was a man-child, a giant built of muscle

and sinew, and for the morning's contest I was the one awarded handicap

points.

That's how the Net keeps things interesting. It has files on our body types,

muscle types, age and general physiology, and the formulas it uses have served

well for half a century. Even with my handicap points, I was behind at

lunchtime, the man-child lifting a mountain of iron over his bony brow. But in

the afternoon, sitting in a VR booth, I piloted my biplane in combat, downing

dozens of enemy craft and taking a healthy lead into this evening.

Bette tells me, "I didn't know you were such an expert in algebra."

"So you watched, did you?"

"Me? Never." Her face covers my wall; she doesn't bother softening it with a

vanity program. "That was pretty cocky of you, telling that kid to lift

quadratic equations for a change."

"You did see it," I shout.

She says, "Never."

She tells me, "I just hear the gossip, that's all."

I yawn, then say, "Bette, you know the rules."

"You need your rest. I know." But before she vanishes, she says, "I just

wanted

to tell you, I've got a feeling about this year."

"What feeling?" I ask, trying not to seem too curious.

A wink, an amused grin. Then she says, "Never mind." She waves me off, saying,

"You need sleep, and never mind." 262 144

I wake from a dream where I'm throwing basketballs in neat arcs, each one

dropping through a hoop tinier than a bracelet.

Some competitors pay big money for implanted dreams.

This dream is genuine, which makes it feel like an omen.

Wednesday's opponent is a smallish woman, not quite young, and she shoots from

Xs made by the Net, her marks closer to the hoop than mine. As is fair. Early

on, either because of nerves or simple bad luck, she misses a string of free

throws, then more distant shots. Then we play some one-on-one, weights on my

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Robert Reed - The Tournament

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