Niven, Larry & Steve Barnes - Achilles choice

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Achille's Choice Version 1.0

This e-text scanned, OCR'd and once overed by Gorgon776 on 15 May 2001. It needs some more

correction. If you correct this text, update the version number by .1 and add your name here.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

ACHILLES' CHOICE

(Scanner's Note: Fuck you.)

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49 West 24th Street

New York, N.Y. 10010

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Niven, Larry.

Achilles' choice I Larry Niven, Steven Barnes ; illustrated by Boris

Vallejo.

p. cm.

'A Tom Doherty Associates book."

ISBN 0-312-85099-9

I. Barnes, Steven. II. Vallejo, Boris. III. Title PS3564.19A63 1991

813' .54-dc2O 90-48782

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

First edition: March 1991

0987654321

ACHILLES' CHOICE

Chapter I

Jillian Shomer ran along the north edge of the quarry, toward a distant, silent ocean, into the

dawning sun.

Her breath vibrated in her mastoid process, made sharp rasping sounds in her Comnet ear link. In

her own very informed opinion, she sounded ragged and undisciplined.

Hot fudge sundaes are a basic food group. The words were etched in acid, her self-

appraisal as merciless as the grade.

She unclipped the plastic bottle at her side, and sipped shallowly. Thin, faintly sweet,

with a briny edge. The drink was custom-formulated from analysis of her own sweat, a nutrient

solution composed chiefly of water and long-chain glucose polymers, with a few electrolyte

minerals judiciously added. Jillian thought the sweat tasted better.

The air would heat soon. Morning chills burned off quickly of late, unusual for

Pennsylvania in late March. April and May would be hot.

She squeezed the bottle closed with her teeth, and pushed onward. Halfway through now.

Sean Vorhaus would be meeting her for the last two miles of the run. With the first tickle of

fatigue her mind, ordinarily the most orderly of instruments, began to wander. She focused, and

continued to dictate.

"Beverly: note. Mind seeks patterns. Predictions. Wrong here. Old math . . . says

weather's chaotic. Initial conditions. Disease, money, whatever. Try crime. Greek poets, storm. .

. metaphor for personal change. Proposal-"

She panted, and wiped away the trickle of sweat oozing from beneath her terry-cloth

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headband. Her breathing normalized swiftly, and she continued.

"-use fractals, predict-global sociopolitical patterns. Determine where chaos rules human

life-"

Funny how concise these notes always were. When she was running, she couldn't spare the

breath! An athlete training at a reasonable level should still be able to talk . . . and unable to

sing; who was it tried that? And Beverly would edit out the gasping.

In print it would come out more like, "Although the human mind functions so as to seek

patterns and predictability within chaos, the peculiar mathematics of my chosen field suggest that

the only pattern ultimately discernible in weather is chaos itself. Weather is very sensitive to

initial conditions, as is disease con-

trol, the relative value of currency, and whatever else I can come up with. This approach might be

used to reduce crime rates. But note: the Greek poets used storms as metaphors for drastic changes

in human existence. Proposal: although currently considered impractical, I believe that fractals

can be used to predict global sociopolitical patterns. The trick is to determine the degree to

which chaos itself is a controlling factor in human life-"

The path split and she automatically chose the high road. The old mine lay at the feet of

the Allegheny mountains, and had once been a source of coal and natural gas.

Energy sources and environmental concerns had shifted drastically in the last hundred

years. Thanks to the Council, there were probably forty billion tons of coal in the Pennsylvania

earth that would never be harvested. How many tons of smog did that translate into? How many

square miles of soot-stained lung tissue?

The deserted mine was an atavistic eyesore, a raw, mile-wide slash. Long ago, men had

ripped coal from the earth, made it bleed black, carted away its flesh to heat homes and

industrial furnaces. Today the Council had decreed cleaner sources: solar satellites, geothermal

stations, fusion reactors.

The strip mine lay before Jillian, around her, a barren womb. Its grueling inclines and

sudden, twisty depths were a challenge to mind and body, an ideal preparation for the rigors to

come.

So lost in reverie was Jillian that she failed to hear Sean's familiar rhythmic stride

until he was ten feet away.

Sean Vorhaus was taller than she, and broader through the chest, with a longer stride. But

he was a sprinter, with a sprinter's power in his upper body. Jillian was built to run miles, not

meters. Her other physical discipline added the torso muscle that made them an obvious social item

around Pennsylvania Tech.

Sean's ruddy face glistened with sweat as he came abreast of her. They managed a quick,

bumping kiss without breaking stride.

Ah, the glories of coordination.

"How's the hip this morning?" he asked.

"No more 'click click.'

"Any word from Beverly?" He pointed to her Comnet. The Council might try to reach her now,

she supposed . . . but she didn't expect any contact before noon. Even so, it was comforting to

know that whenever or wherever the call came, whatever the answer was, she would know.

Their footsteps seemed to merge. "You know how I feel, Jill.''

She nodded. The grade steepened. They took a seventy-degree sprint up a ridge of ash and

shattered stone, breathlessly matching strides, Behind them the morning sun had cast a slender

silvery wedge on the western rim of the quarry.

Day was here. Almost certainly their last together. No matter what the Council's decision,

things could never be the same between them. Sean could never again be coach and mentor. Probably

not lover. Perhaps not even friend.

A chill swept her, and she focused on the steady rolling stroke of sole against rock.

The incline leveled out. Jillian's breathing normalized swiftly. The dark, stony earth

turned beneath her shoe, but she didn't stumble. Her ankles were strong. By both nature and

nurture, her entire body was as durable and flexible as copper wire. She compensated, caught her

balance, and ran on.

Sean brushed a lick of brown hair back from his forehead. "In a couple of hours. . . you

won't be mine anymore."

I never was.

The thought reached her lips, but went no further.

Sean saw the tension of restraint, misinterpreted its meaning, and hushed what he thought

would be a cloying endearment. "Let's"-he huffed for air-"not kid each other. Not now. You'll make

the team. And you're going for the gold. Even . . . if you come back to Penn Tech, you'll be

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different. Linked. Just want you to know"-he puffed, sucking wind as she picked the pace up-

"wouldn't have missed this for the world. All of this-"

She tried to speak again.

"Bullshit," he said amiably. "Save breath. Need it. Race you to the bikes."

He broke into a run. As always, she dredged up strength from somewhere in her reserves to

follow him, match him. And as always, especially now, on this last of their days together, she was

careful not to pass him.

There were classes scheduled at Pennsylvania Technical University, but no one expected

Jillian Shomer to attend them. Not today.

She would wait for the word. Yes, or no. Go or stay.

Arm in arm they returned to her dorm room. They took a hot, leisurely shower together,

sluicing away the perspiration, soaping each other's bodies lavishly. Her long hard biceps femoris

muscles tingled as the warm pulsing water dissolved knots of tension.

And as they showered, Jillian's multifunction personal data Simulacrum Beverly analyzed

her run. As always, Bev's critique was merciless and precise. As always, it was given in a

cunningly programmed Southern lilt.

"-compensating for the grade, your stride altered to twenty-three inches."

Jillian waited for the carefully crafted sounds of disapproval.

"Tsk, tsk, Jill. Is this the best you can do? We both know that twenty-five"-Beverly

pronounced the number twenny-fahve-"is optimum for your height and present weight."

Sean chortled. "Bev slays me."

"Energy," Jillian called, spitting water.

"Energy metabolism appears adequate . . ." A pregnant pause. "But you made a little

mistake, honey."

"And what was that?"

"When you tinkled this morning, I got a urine sample-"

Jillian grimaced, and whispered to Sean: "Remind me to disconnect the toilet monitor."

"Hah!"

"-and it looks to me like you snuck in a little snack since yesterday."

"Me? Me? How could you say such a thing?"

"Sugar," Bev said reprovingly. "Based on alkaloid content and protein chromatography, the

contraband was most likely a hot fudge sundae."

"Guilty as charged. Bravo, Beverly."

"Jillian, dear child, your nutritional profile is solid enough to survive an occasional

dalliance, but don't expect me to applaud."

Jillian toweled off as she left the shower, and watched as a holographic scan of her body

appeared in the air before her. Pools of color-coded glitter swirled in the image, displaying

circulation and muscle tension.

She lay stomach-down on her bed, eyes on the shimmering image. Sean knelt beside her.

His fingers were magical, easing knots of tension from places so tight they hadn't had

room to scream. She rolled over, and her towel fell away.

At the age of twenty-three, Jillian Shomer still seemed to have baby fat along her jaw,

unless she bit down hard to reveal the muscle protecting her neck. Her face, framed by short

blonde hair, was too strongly angular to be sheerly decorative, softened only by eyes which were

oak-brown with flecks of emerald. She might have been considered plain, except when smiling or

talking. In much the same way, her body was too solidly muscled, her subcutaneous fat pared too

finely for any classically feminine image. But when she was in motion . .

Ah, that was quite a different thing. In motion, Jillian was liquid light, a symphony of

power and grace, and ordinary standards simply didn't apply.

"Ultrasound analysis reveals a weakness in the left Achilles tendon, which is caused by

tension in the right hip flexor."

"Suggestion?"

"Twofold. First, postpone your plyometric speed drills while we run institute

rehabilitative lateral gastrocnemius exercise."

"Fine. And the second?"

Beverly paused, almost shyly. "Well, I'd recommend some form of massage to help your hips

relax, honey. Maybe that big burly hunk of a man has some suggestions."

Sean guffawed, rolled her and scooped her into his arms. "Cheating!" he said. "That's what

she always prescribes."

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"We think alike is all. Right, Bev?"

"Humph. A Southern lady doesn't watch such goings-on."

"In that case, switch off."

"Have fun, children."

Sean and Jillian laughed together, and then quieted. How could they make this seem casual?

Everything they said or did had a ring of finality to it.

"I don't want to look at the clock," she whispered.

He smiled. "What do you want?"

"Just hold me. 'Gird up thy loins now like a man...'"

"Huh?"

"Job thirty-eight, verse three."

"Pretty randy for a Bible verse." He brushed her lips with his, then nuzzled the nape of

her neck until her breathing grew deep and ragged. "And what did it say after that?"

Her voice was thick, and swallowing was an effort. "Something about 'laying the

foundations of the Earth.'

"Ambitious."

She pressed herself against him. "Just hold me until they call. I don't want to think.

I'll go crazy if I think."

He was good that way. They were good for each other, that way. For Jillian, he was the

only one who had ever been able to stop the madness, stop the daydreaming, the endless carousel of

thought.

Then why couldn't I belong to him?

Because I don 't belong to myself.

For Sean, the future meant a position on the board of Penn Tech, tenure, publication,

precious Comnet access time.

For her, the stakes were the whole world. So they held each other until the wall rang,

beckoning her back to reality. And safely cocooned in Sean's wiry arms, she heard the news she

needed, feared, the words she hoped for.

When the glorious rows of Olympians marched in Athens, Jillian Shomer could well be among

them.

And sometime between now and then, she would have to make a terrible decision.

Life. Death. Victory.

"Achilles' choice," Sean whispered.

And for the last time, they made love.

The being that called himself Saturn sat in his Void, a spider crouched in the midst of an

infinite web, with strands that reached into every aspect of communication and information

retrieval on Earth. Jillian Shomer's name slid past his awareness, barely noted. She was one of

thousands of finalists from all over the world. Many of them would make it to Athens. Few would

live to great age.

He couldn't afford to care, and didn't. In a few seconds he scanned the entirety of her

academic and athletic career, calculated the odds against her, and filed her away with the file

flagged.

She really hadn't much of a chance. He would watch her esthetic event, though. Her concept

was appealing, one that he might have tried himself, long ago, in another life.

Chapter 2

Sean's fingers touched her shoulders, the taste of his kiss still warm on her mouth. His eyes had

left her face, were focused on the line of gleaming tube cars behind her. A pleasantly synthesized

voice sang out the current stream of departures and arrivals for Pittsburgh Central.

She circled his waist, crushing herself against the hard bands of muscle. She fought to

absorb him, impress him upon her memory: ice-blue eyes, thin firm mouth, black hair, Apollonian

torso. A scent tinged with musk and fresh citrus. His heart pounded its languid rhythm, and hers

sped to match it.

"We'll see each other again," he said finally.

"It won't be the same." Damn it, she had promised herself she wouldn't snivel.

"It never is." He tilted her chin up. "And who is it that taught me that?"

She managed a smile, went up to tiptoe, pressing her mouth against his again, lips parted,

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sealing their goodbye with a ferocity that shocked her.

Then she stepped back and, without another word, entered the nearest car on the Denver

platform. She found a seat and threaded her ticket through the chair arm. The door closed behind

her. The line of windowless cars slid forward, like the first moment of a roller coaster ride,

down and down and down.

Part of her had expected the royal treatment, brass bands and ticker tape and a chorus of

hallelujahs to wish her bon voyage. She felt utterly alone.

No one understood the isolation of total discipline. For ten years there had been little

social life, less free time.

Only the endless, grinding cycle of training and research. Ultimately, it had pushed even Sean to

the outside.

At least she had Beverly. Beverly's personality core resided in an optical wafer in her

wallet. She knew she was indulging her paranoia, but it was a conscious indulgence. Once in Denver

she could hook back into Beverly's main banks through Comnet. . . but she had heard horror

stories, and never traveled without a core. Beverly had been her cybernetic nursemaid, childhood

friend, study partner, confidante, and lab assistant. Ultimately, Beverly had been the only

shoulder for Jillian to cry on when her mother died eleven years ago.

She would not risk Beverly.

As she flashed within the earth, as weightless as a lost ghost, she felt that aloneness

more starkly. She seemed to be passing over an invisible meridian. More than time and distance

were being traversed here. And if she made the wrong decision.

She squeezed her eyelids shut, and tried not to think for the rest of her seventy-minute

ride. The train fell through the bowels of the earth at nearly orbital speed. Its silence was

broken only by the thunder of her heartbeat as it returned, stroke by slow stroke, to its resting

pace of forty-six beats a minute.

The Denver station was a honeycomb of concrete and stainless steel, so like the Pittsburgh

depot that it was disorienting. The price of standardization. Transportation had built the depot,

and the Council liked uniformity.

She looked out across the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Only strangers were to be

seen, but in an odd way, they were family. In whatever city, whatever country, at whatever craft

they toiled, more than at any other period in history, the citizens of Earth were one united

people. These folk had never known the specter of war. Famine and pestilence were distant memories

for most of them. These were the children of a new time, the first generation with the power to

make a perfect world.

Most specifically, a world in which friction between its component parts was being reduced

to something approaching zero.

By the time the Council had formed, less than 30

percent of American adults were registered to vote, and less than 45 percent of those used the

privilege. The nations of Earth were dying institutions, impotent relics of a more primitive age.

And who really cared?

A cardboard placard held by pale slender fingers caught her attention. It said: JILLIAN.

She squirmed her way through the crowd.

The man holding the placard was thin-marathonthin, his posture like a question mark, his

facial bones too prominent. An age ago his bright boyish good looks had reached through a TV set

to capture a young Jillian's heart. There wasn't much left of that. He had huge hands, their skin

stretched so tight that they seemed amphibian. She pretended not to notice.

Booster-induced acromegaly. Within months he would be an utter grotesque. If he lived that

long.

A thick belt around his waist was the only prosthetic system she could see. A

microprocessing system in the belt performed millions of operations per second, communicating with

implants in the owner's liver, pancreas, spine, heart, and brain. The massively invasive technique

could slow, but not halt, the inevitable deterioration.

His mouth was unexpectedly warm and friendly. His eyes, gray-green, invited her to share a

world filled with mischievous secrets. "Jillian Shomer?"

"Abner Warren Collifax?" Both were unnecessary questions.

He offered an arm. She took it, found it disconcertingly skeletal. "Come on. Your luggage

is coded through already. It should be down the chute and in the car by the time we get there."

"Privilege?"

"You're one of the elite, and don't you forget it. I can guarantee you no one else will."

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She liked him, his eyes and his thin tousled hair and most of all the way he had made

peace with his awful burden.

The Denver station's standardized sweep of featureless, curving walls began to change as

they approached the escalators. A kinetic wall tapestry shimmered in the tunnels, depicting a

vista of iron-gray mountains speckled in white. As they boarded the escalator, the seasons

changed. The white mantle grew thicker and whiter. Tiny skiers flew down the slopes.

Abner was one step ahead of her, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to

another: a touch of hyperkinesis.

Shyly, Jillian said, "I watched you four years ago, in your second Olympiad."

"You're surprised to see me still around?" He brayed laughter.

She was instantly embarrassed. "Pleased. Only four Americans have ever combined judo and

fellrunning. I'm looking forward to working with you."

"If you still feel that way in nine weeks, I haven't been doing my job."

They emerged into an underground valet garage. Rows of electric cars gleamed in the

artificial light, each nosed up to a charging post. Luggage was already coasting out of wall

chutes. Jillian squinted, wondering which car might belong to this gangling man who had fought so

bravely, and borne his second, terminal defeat with such courage.

A silver needle-wedge coupe glided up to them. Her bags had been piled into the back.

Abner punched a tip into his wristlink, touched it to the pimply attendant's badge. The badge

glowed and quietly said:

"Thank you very much, Mr. Collifax. Most generous." The attendant held the door for them. As they

drove up the ramp, Abner chuckled. "You've got to wonder, don't you?"

"Wonder what?" The sunlight made her squint as they emerged into the open. Denver was

intimidating. All glowing chrome and dull glass, crowding out life, a mutant forest clawing up

into a cloudless sky.

"The attendant," Abner said after a pause so long her mind had wandered. "He programs his

badge to thank you if you tip high. Maybe it curses you if you tip low. I can tip him without

touching his hand. They've kind of got the people out of the loop, don't they?"

"You've got a weird mind."

"One of a kind." He grinned.

Ahead of them lay the Rocky Mountains.

Nestled into the foot of those slate-gray peaks was the Rocky Mountain Sports Research

Facility, visible from ten miles away as a symmetrical array of domes and cubes. Jillian

experienced a wave of déjà vu as they passed an angle identical to that of the airport mural. Then

Abner glided on, and the moment passed.

"How are the academic facilities?"

"You'll find everything that you need. I don't think you'll need that p-core."

"Just the same-"

"Old friends are the best."

The car delivered them to the gate in four more minutes. It slid open at the silent urging

of their guidance unit.

"Have you made a decision about the operation?"

The question was just a touch too innocent. She had been waiting for it, and was only

surprised that it had taken so long to arrive.

"First, I want to see how I stack up." She chose each word carefully. "Just me. No

modifications. I've been working on some noninvasive techniques of my own, and I'm hoping."

"Hope," he laughed. "I remember hope."

"It's alive and well."

"And living in obscurity."

He pulled up to her dormitory, a three-tiered beige cube. Only a pink and blue trim of

hyacinths around the base gave it any semblance of grace. "We'll have a general meeting in about

forty minutes."

"I'll be there. And thanks."

"Thank you," he said. Something that might have been pride flitted across that ruined

face. "Thanks for asking for me."

"You're the best I could find, Abner. You were one of the greats."

"I'm also a dinosaur looking for a tar pit. Some people don't want me here. Maybe they

don't want to be reminded." He ran thin fingers through thinner hair. "Anyway. Welcome to the

death camp."

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She slid her rucksack out of the back seat, then leaned her head in. "Abner?"

"Yes?"

"You don't resent it, do you?"

"I knew what I was doing, Jillian. Just . .

"What?"

Abner seemed to fight with himself, deciding how much of himself to share. "Well, I had

two silvers and a bronze. The guy who beat me in academics delivered a paper on the relationship

between illiteracy and crime. He claimed we could cut the crime rate by thirty percent just by

rearranging the educational priorities in grade school. He took gold, that's how impressed they

were."

"That must have hurt."

"That didn't." Some vast and distant pain floated behind his eyes. "The Olympiad is about

finding the best and harvesting their knowledge and their genes. What hurt is that he was wrong.

He had to have been wrong, because they never used it."

She stared at him. "Who was he?"

He paused, and then smiled crookedly. "Russian. Name of Pushkin. Dead now. He only took

the one gold."

Ice touched the nape of her neck. And Abner, too. Dying for lack of gold.

They were both silent, and Jillian knew that he was about to leave. Before he could speak,

she said, "Abner. The truth, okay? Knowing what you know now, would you do it again? Would you

Boost if you were me?"

He leaned back into his seat. The clownish grin disappeared. "Would I have your skill?

Your basic talent?"

"Better still. You could have yours."

"This old man blesses you."

"Stop stalling. Would you take the Boost?"

He grinned crookedly. "In a hot second." And the car cruised away.

Jillian lugged her belongings into the building, up the stairs. A tickle of perspiration

had wormed its way down her back by the time she reached the second level. Her footsteps echoed

emptily in the deserted hallway. She heard distant shouts and thumps of exertion.

She leaned her forehead against one of the windows, and looked out over an outdoor track.

A battery of scanning devices were posted at sixteenth marks on a half-mile oval. Lithe

figures jogged, sprinted, leapt. Her heart trip-hammered.

The fifty-foot ribbed dome to the east would be the sports medicine facility. There, her

mind and body would be taxed to the maximum.

And over there . . . a converted dormitory, given nowto. . .

"That's the academic center," a male voice said behind her. She spun to face a young man

of perhaps twenty-five years. His massively muscular body strained at a gold-trim warm-up jacket.

A soft, round face, with bright green eyes framed by extremely black hair. He was pushing a small

covered cart.

"What?"

"That's the academic center," he said almost apologetically. "I figured that you were

looking at it, and maybe wondering." He wiped huge hands on his red, white, and blue nylon sweat

pants, and offered one to Jillian. "Hi. Jeff Tompkins."

"Jillian Shomer. I saw you at the last Olympiad. You went bronze, didn't you?"

His answering smile was shy, a little nervous. "Yeah. This is my last chance." He bit back

some other comment, and muscles along the base of his jaw leapt.

"Ah-what's in the cart?" Jillian asked. That twitch at his jaw was fascinating. Now that

she noticed it, it seemed to pulse regularly, like a little lizard running around under his skin.

He smiled sheepishly again, and lifted the lid.

Jillian sucked in her breath. "You did this?"

He nodded.

The marvel was perhaps seventeen inches along the base. Jeff Tompkins had carved an ivory

model of a palatial estate, complete with towers and gardens and arches and miniature fountains,

pillars and statues and even a tiny horse-drawn carriage at a miniature main gate.

"What in the world?"

"Oh," he said vaguely. "It's the palace built by Le Vau and Mansart for Louis XIV. At

Versailles, of course." He pointed, his thick fingers so much larger than the miniature work that

Jillian could hardly believe her eyes. "See here? The Cour d'Honneur, with little statues of

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Richelieu, and Du Guesclin, and Louis of course. . ." His voice grew absent. "The Cour Royale, and

behind that the Cour de Marbre. . . the palace Chapelle was started by Mansart in 1699, but Robert

de Cotte finished it . . . I need to touch it up. I was worried about how it would travel."

"My God. It's boggling. How long . . . ?"

He shrugged. "Four years. I started right after last Athens. I figured, you know, better

go for it."

She touched it gingerly. "Elephant ivory . . . ?"

"Of course not. Mammoth. Part of the '17 Siberian excavation." A faint smile curled his

thin lips. "Well, better go. Welcome to the club, Jillian. I sure wish you the best of luck." He

turned and headed down the hall, pushing his cart with its precious cargo.

Jillian watched Jeff until he disappeared around the corner, and then took her rucksack

down to room 303. She nudged the door open with her foot.

A short black woman sat at a computer table. She wore cutoffs that exposed corded calves

and thighs and a powerful upper body. Her tightly curled hair was cropped very short. When Jillian

entered the room, the woman rose and spun with that liquid grace which implies perfect

coordination. The shorter woman appraised her for a moment, and then grinned hugely.

"You must be Jillian Shomer. Fractals and judo?"

"And fell-running."

A dark hand was extended to her. It was strong, and hard with callus. "I'm Holly Lakein.

Molecular biology and the balance beam. Chess. Do you play?"

"Not really."

"Oh." She grinned, and waved a hand at the

computer table. A visual field projected a chess set composed of simple geometric shapes. When

Holly's finger brushed a bishop, it skittered across the board to the next square. "Just

reexamining Anderssen- Dufresne, 1852. Berlin. What they call the 'Evergreen' game. I think I've

found a new response to the Queen Sacrifice that won the game."

Jillian smiled politely. "That must be very exciting."

"Yeah . . . well . . ." Holly shrugged. "Hell with it." She motioned toward a frame bunk

on the far side of the room. "That one okay?"

"Sure." Jillian tossed her rucksack down on the bed, and watched under her arm as Holly

floated to a closet, pulled down sheets and blankets, and tossed them to Jillian with a flip of

her wrists.

Holly's economical perfection of movement was captivating, even applied to so mundane a

task. Every joint seemed to be an oiled ball bearing; every exquisitely toned muscle moved in

perfect sequence.

"When did you have it done?"

Holly grinned again. "Forty days ago. The Boost is peaking now, and will plane for the

next month. Then we'll crank it up again. Hoping to hit Everest just about Athens."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Of course," Holly said. "But then again, my research is on the reversal or stabilization

of the process itself."

"You mean . . . without Linking? I didn't think that was possible."

"Ask Abner."

The room was arched loftily. The light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere,

filtering down from the ceiling like a spray of moondust. Through the wall-wide windows Jillian

could see the Rocky Mountains, their reality less vivid than a train station mural.

An irritatingly thin voice brought her attention back to the front of the room. The voice

belonged to a tanned, slender woman whose sad eyes and pouchy cheeks reminded Jillian of a shaved

housecat. "For those of you who don't know, I'm Dr. Andrea Kelly, your liaison with the Rocky

Mountain Sports Medicine Facility. I would like to welcome all of you to the North American

corporate and national training camp for the Eleventh Olympiad."

There was a polite smattering of applause. Jillian looked out over competitors nearest

her, recognizing few of them. Most were faces without names. A few were faces and events.

There, sitting in a cluster on the left side of the room, was the track squad. Powerful

but lean, they seemed as nervously alert as antelope in dry season. She tried to guess their

modifications: artificial knee joints? Synthetic hemoglobin?

Near them were the power lifters, recognizable from their gigantic deltoids and the

enormous sweep of the lats. The other Olympians avoided them. These monsters were Boosted, and on

them the Boost had worked its most extreme miracle. Muscle and bone had thickened to a simian

density. Their hands knotted and unknotted compulsively, and a palpable air of leashed aggression

hung in the air about them.

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From pictures in various scientific magazines she recognized faces: a discus thrower who

specialized in underwater telecommunications. The article said his spine had been prosthetically

restructured to allow greater torque. A regional lightweight women's power lifting champion with

microprocessors implanted in the motor end plates of muscles in thighs and back. Her doctoral

thesis had been immediately classified by World Security.

All looked to be between eighteen and thirty-two.

Andrea Kelly was still speaking. Her high, reedy voice barely needed amplification.

"Everyone here understands the stakes. You have made serious decisions, sacrifices, lost jobs and

friends, separated yourselves from family for the sake of our quest." She paused.

Two seats down from Jillian, a blond, wiry lightweight wrestler muttered "Our quest? What

you mean we, white man?" A black man next to the wrestler highfived him, and there was a wave of

nasty laughter.

"Three or four of you still have unresolved issues. This might be a good opportunity to

discuss them."

A massive arm was raised on the other side of the room, and Dr. Kelly gave its owner the

floor. Jeff Tompkins stood. He was wearing a cut-off shirt, and his musculature was even more

pronounced. His upper arms and shoulders were a grotesque relief-map of veins and muscular

striation. "I'm Jeff Tompkins."

"Hi, Jeff."

"Aum . . . Doc Kelly. A lot of us have already made our decision about Boost. I just want

it out on the floor for the ones who haven't. Sometimes people Boost even when they don't have to.

I throw the hammer, so I need the speed and power. But if you're not in a pure power sport, what

are the chances of a gold or silver without the Boosting?"

"And just why do you care, Jeff?"

He looked at her with undisguised contempt. "You get your data whether we live or not.

We're not 1-lab rats you can use up and throw away. Like I said- I made my choice. I don't regret

it. But for some of the others, it's the wrong damned choice."

Dr. Kelly tried to smile, and finally arranged her features in an expression of dignified

neutrality. "The choice is more problematic for those of you who do not compete in a linear skill.

In other words: how fast do you run, how high do you jump, how much can you lift? Those of you in

gymnastics, wrestling, or fencing cannot just look at the record tapes and compare your

performances with those of past gold and silver medalists. There's a gray zone.

"Most of your lives you've been surrounded by less gifted intellects, less developed

bodies. If you have been involved in sports where strategy and skill are more important than

simple speed or strength, you may question the value of Boosting.

"Let me answer your implicit question as explicitly as I can. If un-Boosted, regardless of

whatever other modifications you may have made to your mus

des, nervous system, or skeletal structure, you will be competing with Olympians who have a

fifteen to twenty percent advantage over you in both the physical and psychological realms."

The young man fidgeted, shifting from side to side in a manner reminiscent of a small

child. Finally, he said, "Yeah. That's what I wanted to hear." And he sat down.

There was a ripple of sound. One of the wrestlers stage-whispered "Buck-buck-buckawwk!"

and somebody halfheartedly shushed him.

Jillian stood.

"Doctor," she said. "As long as the floor is open, I have a question, too. The point of

the Olympiad is to select the best. Why confine the definition of 'best' to those willing to risk

death or disablement within nine years? That has always troubled me."

Andrea Kelly's eyes bored into her. "Well, ah...Jillian . . . You're the newest one here,

and of course this discussion has come up several times before. The Olympiad is for those with

enough confidence in their own abilities to risk everything. That peculiar, Uncoachable capacity

for confidence produces champions. Enables a human being to put everything on the line. That's one

definition of a 'warrior,' isn't it? Well, we don't have wars anymore. But some people still need,

and want, to test themselves against the very best." She smiled brilliantly. "Confusion aside, I

know you're one of those people, or you wouldn't be here, Jillian. To those who will risk much,

much will be given."

Dr. Kelly seemed to expect applause, and waited for it. After a pause there was a polite

smattering, but she was clearly uncomfortable.

Jillian waited until even that small accolade had died. "I see," she said, and sat down.

Dr. Kelly nervously scratched an ear, looking out at a group which was unexpectedly still.

The room seemed to grow warmer. She cleared her throat. "Tomorrow," she offered, "our special

guest will be Donny Crawford."

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There was a murmur of recognition and approval from the audience. Jillian's reaction was

instantaneous, and visceral.

The honey-gold perfection of his body in motion, dismounting from the uneven parallel

bars. The deceptively boyish manner which masked a startling clarity of thought. The dark blue of

his eyes as he accepted the gold in memory of those who had died in its pursuit.

She remembered him as he stood four years ago, straight and tall before a Council-

appointed panel, carefully explaining the mathematical model for worldwide air traffic control. He

had revolutionized consumer aeronautics with that one talk. He had competed in four events, won

three gold and one silver. She guessed that maybe fifty million female viewers would have had a

baby with him then and there.

Why be sexist? Probably ten million men had considered it, too.

Donald Crawford had made it. He was one of the few whose gamble had paid off. Those

fifteen to twenty per Olympiad were paraded before the public once or twice a year, with great

ceremony.

Those who failed to make it at their first Olympiad smiled bravely and trained like

fiends. Those who failed a second time . .

Like Abner?

presently died.

Chapter 3

"Test run," Jillian said crisply. She slipped Beverly's core into her desk console, and waited.

And waited. Presently a distant voice said: "Jillian?"

"Right here, Beverly."

"You just wait there a minute, sugar. I was in the shower."

Making adjustments to the system, she meant. "I've got all the time you need," Jillian

said.

Holly was concentrating on her chessboard, but when Jillian broke away from the

installation procedure, her roommate picked up the broken threads of their conversation. "So . . .

where were we? Neurotransmitters?"

"Right."

Holly ticked off names on her fingers. "Choline, acetylcholine, dopamine, all that crowd.

The communications brigade. The thing you've gotta understand is that your survival is based on

staying balanced between extreme states. It's a weird equilibrium-"

"Just a minute. I'm starting to get something here."

The visual field flickered, and Jillian was looking at her own face. The mirror-Jillian's

skin dissolved, leaving a glowing skull. Bone followed, until a disembodied brain bobbled in the

middle of the field. A chair appeared beneath it, tilted onto two legs. The brain balanced on top

of the chair. Incandescently brown eyes popped from the ends of the optic nerves.

"Beverly, that's disgusting."

"But roughly accurate," Holly chuckled. "She's trying. You must have a fun Void."

"I'll wring her neck. Anyway, you were saying?"

"Boost tinkers with the balance, makes your brain select performance over health."

The field changed. The brain grew stork legs, began jumping through circus hoops. The

hoops caught fire, and calliope music began to play in the background.

"I think Beverly is fully installed," Jillian said wryly.

"Have her access the files on Boost."

"All right. Test, Beverly. I need effects of Boost on the human nervous system."

The field pulsed with blue fog. "Long and short term?" her Simulacrum's voice asked.

"Yep."

"Multiphasic. Most noticeably a massive release of androgenic growth hormones. This effect

takes months." As Beverly spoke, more crispness and personality filled her voice.

"Expect an increase in aggression and in coordination. There are mental effects. Clarity

and speed of thought increased up to fifty-two percent. An average of twenty-five percent."

"Thanks, Bev. That's all for now."

Jillian shut the unit down.

She scanned the room, and thought it small but comfortable. All of her clothing was stored

away, chairs and tables rearranged, and it was starting to feel like home. With Beverly now

installed, Jillian felt she was ready.

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