The Super Olympian- Bloodhound

by Laer Carroll

  "Hello, Ms. Latham."

  "Hello, Sasha. Come in." She stepped aside and gestured for Sasha to come in, a comprehensive motion that included Silvana.

  Her sister said, "Thank you for having us over."

  "Come out to the patio. I'm having some iced tea. You're welcome to join me."

  The woman closed the door and led them through a nicely appointed living room, down a hallway, and through a dining room off a kitchen. Which seemed, from what was visible, to be ultra modern. No lights were lit, but enough late-afternoon sunlight came through large windows to keep the house from seeming dim.

  The former model wore a silky muumuu patterned in bright colors which, though loose, caressed her body enough to show Sasha the woman was as lithe as in her modeling days. Those clues and the grace with which she moved told some secret part of Sasha how much the woman weighed within a few pounds.

  The "patio" was actually part of a large perfectly greened back yard bordered on three sides by trimmed bushes more than human height. The left side included a large swimming pool filled with water and bordered with several round tables shaded by gaily colored umbrellas.

  The right side held a patio under three tall trees and included a square floored with red brick. Its far side was a cooking area with a long built-in preparation table. It was almost a kitchen in itself, lacking only a refrigerator .

  Caroline Latham led the sisters to a set of plastic up-holstered lawn chairs under a free-standing wooden roof of light-brown wood. A large frosted glass pitcher of iced tea and three glasses sat on a round table. Everything was within reach, if one stretched or half-stood, of three chairs of several in a semi-circle.

  She sat in a chair nearest the table and began pouring a glass of iced tea for herself. She sweetened it as the sisters sat nearby. The position let all three look at the swimming pool but also see each other.

  Silvana only sat for an instant before she rose and poured glasses of tea for Sasha and herself. She took one pink packet of artificial sweetener for herself and two brown packets of rock sugar for Sasha.

  For a minute or two the three stirred their glasses with plastic straws. Then Silvana spoke.

  "This is very lovely. Did you design it yourself?"

  "No. My talents don't lie in that direction. I engaged a designer, gave her a rough idea of what I wanted, and then picked one of her designs. Then my husband and I suggested a few changes. Very minor ones. She was a real artist."

  She took a sip of her tea and spoke to Sasha. "I hear you'll be going to the Olympics. You must be very excited."

  Silvana laughed. "Not Sasha. She just decides what she's going to do and then does it."

  "You make me sound like a human guided missile!"

  Silvana widened her eyes.

  Sasha faked a hurt look. "I just don't wear my heart on my sleeve."

  Silvana raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  The former model hid a smile with a sip of iced tea. "You said in your phone call that you wanted advice on becoming a fashion model. Both of you? "

  Silvana said, "No. I might want to become a fashion designer , or an interior decorator, or maybe even an architect. I just came to help Sasha, if I could."

  Latham looked at Sasha. "Why?"

  Sasha had given some thought to what she would tell people. "I've been committed to competing in the Olympics since I was five years old." Which was true.

  "I expect I'll do well. Maybe even win all golds. I've done that already at all the national and world competitions for the last year." Which was mostly true even before her transformation. It would certainly be true at the Olympics. The big problem there would be to hold back to merely human levels.

  "But once I've done that, then what? I've no interest in further competition, or making some new world records by some tiny amount. I'm no good at teaching—"

  Silvana broke in. "Not true. You're good."

  "OK. Fine. I don't WANT to teach. Or start up some new line of sports equipment, or help some company do it. Or have anything to do with athletics, in fact.

  "I've been so focused on the Olympics that I've never gotten interested in anything else. It's time I did."

  Caroline Latham leaned over to pick up the pitcher and refresh her glass. "The first years of college is where a lot of people broaden their horizons. Discover what they like to do. Meet people."

  "I've read a lot about colleges and how they work. They may give you a lot of leeway, but it's all still structured by the colleges. I'm used to discovering my own directions, and planning how to get there. And sticking to plans as long as they work."

  She paused, fumbling to express her thoughts.

  Silvana said, "In other words, she hates to be bossed. And she thinks she's smarter than anyone else."

  Sasha laughed ruefully. "Trust my sister to be brutally honest."

  "How very masculine of you," said Caroline to Silvana.

  Sasha peered at her, trying to see if she was being insulting. The woman was smiling, but Sasha had seen many acid-tongued girls smile when they cut someone with words.

  Reading a dozen symptoms invisible to ordinary people Sasha decided she was merely joking.

  "I suppose it comes down to wanting to see the world that I couldn't see when competing. I might be in Beijing or Paris, but mostly I saw hotels and locker rooms and gymnasiums. We had no time, or energy, to see the city. Some times we got to go to fancy restaurants, but that was about it.

  "So that's really the reason, I suppose, I want to be a model. Travel, freedom to set my own schedule. Figure out what I want to do with my life."

  Caroline sipped from her glass, set it down on the table, spoke.

  "Modeling may sound wonderful. But it's business. And can be hard work. And we're always looking for new work. Those glamorous parties you see us attending are business, too. Networking, getting our photos in magazines. Are you prepared to work hard?"

  Silvana said, "You wouldn't ask that question if you lived with Sasha. She works hard. All the time. Her friends practically have to kidnap to get her to have fun."

  Sasha made a face but did not disagree.

  "Very well. Here's what I'll do. Call an agency in LA called Felice, recommend you. They're in the phone book. They also have a web site. They are an international organization. Maybe number four or five in the world.

  "Are you willing to give endorsements? "

  "If they're for something I believe are good products, sure."

  "Fine. But when the agency people ask you about doing it, say you can't think about anything until after the Olympics. Don't let them push you into saying anything beyond that. That might prejudice the judges against you."

  "Someone push Sasha? They'd have to be crazy. Or stupid."

  Caroline shrugged. "There are plenty of stupid people in the world."

  They talked about modeling for a quarter hour more (17 minutes and 37 seconds according to Sasha's internal clock). Rather Caroline did. Then Sasha heard the front door of the house open and close and children's voices. Then several minutes later a girl about Silvana's age and a boy two years younger rushed into the patio.

  "I hope you don't mind signing autographs. My daughter and my son are fans of yours."

  "Not at all. Part of the job." Sasha turned in her seat and smiled at the two children.

  Both were handsome children, no surprise with their mother, and ash blond. The girl wore a wraparound grey-and-white-checked skirt over leotards. She had freshened up but Sasha could smell that she had been exercising heavily, ballet or some such judging by her costume. The boy wore a blue and white soccer uniform and had freshened up little if at all.

  The two slowed as they approached and stopped a few feet away. Each was carrying a photograph and a pen.

  Their mother introduced them and the children asked for Sasha's autograph. Sasha smiled and reached for the proffered photos, both apparently printed from the web onto slightly glossy paper .

  The one for the girl showed Sasha at
her most recent trampoline competition. Caught in mid-air, with legs straight and arms out to the sides, Sasha appeared to be flying. The boy's photo showed her at the gun show, firing her automatic around the corner of a fake wall. In her casual clothes, dark glasses, and hair in a pony tail under a billed cap, she looked like a plain-clothes police officer at a shoot-out.

  Silvana greeted the two and, once they were settled into chairs, asked questions about them which drew them out of their shyness in the presence of a celebrity. Sasha, realizing that she would have to learn to do this with strangers if she were to act more like a normal person rather than an Olympics-obsessed athlete, began to copy Silvana.

  The afternoon had been well-advanced when the sisters had arrived. Shortly Caroline Latham said it was time for her to fix dinner and asked Sasha and Silvana if they would stay for dinner. The sisters glanced at each other. Silvana nodded and Sasha accepted the invitation.

  At that Caroline rose and placed her glass on a serving tray. Silvana hurried to place her glass and Sasha's on it. Sasha stood and placed the nearly empty tea pitcher on the tray and picked up the tray. She told Caroline to lead the way to the kitchen. On the way there they met the woman's husband just coming in from parking his car in the garage.

  "Interesting kids," said Sasha as she turned out of Caroline Latham's driveway to head for home.

  "You did good. Maybe you'll turn into a human being after all."

  Sasha glanced at her sister. That remark could be taken more than one way. Was it time to reveal more of her secret to Silvana?

  She also wondered something else .

  "Are you going to be...annoyed that I'm going to be—"

  "—that you are going to be the Beauty of the family? No. It's Brandon who calls me that. Because I like pretty clothes and hair styles and makeup. But it's making beauty, not being a beauty, that I'm into."

  Sasha turned out of the housing area onto a more brightly lit thoroughfare leading home.

  "So that's why you said you wanted to be a fashion designer?"

  "I said maybe I wanted to be." Silvana's voice had a smile in it. "I'M not the one who decides what to do with her life when she's an infant!"

  Sasha laughed. "Pretty ridiculous, wasn't I?"

  "I never thought about it. That was just the way you were. Like Gia always being up about everything. Even at breakfast!" Silvana was emphatically not a morning person.

  They rode in comfortable silence for a couple of blocks.

  "I told Doc Elliott what really happened to me," Sasha said. She glanced at Silvana, who hitched herself around in her seat so that her body mostly faced toward Sasha. Her gaze was intent.

  "I think Mamá suspects more happened than I've told her. I'm sure Papá and Gia don't. I've told Brandon a little bit."

  She glanced at Silvana again, who nodded encouragingly. So she told her more, mostly about her greater strength, toughness, and ability to heal herself. She said nothing about her ability to heal others. Nor did she mention her more extreme abilities.

  "So what does this have to do with being a model?"

  Sasha was silent for a moment. The street lights shining through the car windows flashed directly on her face every few seconds.

  "What I said to Mrs. Latham was true. But there's more. It's like I was given a gift from Someone." Sasha was skeptical about God, at least the church's version of God, but she was not an atheist.

  "It seems like I ought to do something with it. Something no one else can do.

  "I said something to Brandon about joining the FBI. But that wouldn't really use my abilities all that much, and I'd have to hide them. But it's in the right direction."

  Silvana smiled. "So you want to be a superhero, like in Bran's comic books?"

  "Sounds silly when you put it like that." Sasha snickered. "Wearing tights and capes. And heels while chasing bad guys."

  Silvana laughed. When Brandon had been a kid he loved comic books. Mocking the silly costumes of the superheroes had been a favorite way the two sisters had of teasing him.

  Silvana sobered. "No way to persuade you it's a stupid idea? What am I thinking? Getting you to change your mind once you've made it up?"

  "I haven't made it up. I just know I have to do something. I just don't know what, exactly."

  Sasha turned off the main thoroughfare they were on into their residential area. It was only a few miles to their home.

  "Well, at least let me help you with your wardrobe."

  "Hey, I am NOT wearing tights or heels!"

  "Certainly not, silly. But you can dress nicely."

  "I know you. You're thinking of something flashy."

  "Was not. But you should wear something nice. The best way to sneak around is to look normal. And you're so pretty if you try to dress drab you'll stand out."

  "I'd need something loose, so I could move easy."

  "And it'd have to be tough. I've been reading about this new fabric. They're planning to weave bullet-proof vests out of it."

  "Is it fire-proof? Water-proof?"

  "I don't know, but I can find out...."

  "And nothing red!"

  "No, certainly not. But blue suits you...."

  "Grey can be pretty," Sasha wheedled.

  "You need a touch of color. And, speaking of color, would it hurt you to wear a little bit of lip blush?"

  Mercifully, the driveway to their house was coming up. But, Sasha thought with amused resignation, her sister had decided to make her A Project. And Silvana was at least as stubborn as Sasha herself. She might as well bow to the inevitable. She was going to be Made Over!

  Chapter 7 - Pari s

  The sky over France this midsummer day was clear except for a high thin layer of cloud. Sasha Canaro was above that layer in a needle-nosed supersonic passenger jet, so she had a clear view of Europe in the vision screen she had pulled from a well below her first-class seat. It showed land faded blue by distance, mottled grey mountains and dark bodies of water dimly seen far ahead of the jet.

  There were no views out the sides of the craft. The perilous regime of a high-flying supersonic vehicle did not allow the luxury of windows. The vision screen before her was a good one so Sasha had no complaint.

  She reached forward and tapped the menu above the screen twice. A belly view replaced the forward view she had been idly watching. It showed Paris from above. Another tap on the menu superimposed labels over the image. A tap on each label zoomed the view of whatever was beneath it.

  Sasha viewed for the dozenth time the site of the summer Olympics on the outskirts of Paris. It was old but had been completely renovated and added to. She cycled quickly through each of the venues where she would be competing in a few days, reviewing any last-minute changes to the facilities and the transportation options from her hotel to them.

  There were no surprises. She settled back and dozed for a half hour. Then the announcement came of their impending arrival and the plane tilted slightly and turned into its landing spiral. Sasha heard it and sank back into a doze.

  As Sasha filed out of the airliner tunnel she saw a sign pointing the way to the Olympic participants' lounge. She followed it with her carry-on bag trailing behind her. All of her other luggage had been shipped ahead either to her hotel or to the Olympic facilities.

  Inside the lounge she saw several Olympic competitors and staff she had met in years past. She approached one large round table built into a wall corner and was greeted with hugs and handshakes and waves from those sitting around the table. Someone fetched an additional chair and Sasha squeezed into the group.

  A table-center electronic ordering carousel let her order a fruit drink and she began to catch up on news of the people she knew. It was strange, she reflected, how it seemed as if no time had passed since the last competition she had attended. It was as if they were all on an eternal ocean liner traveling forever into the future. She felt a warmth inside her for all these companions on their strange journey.

  "Hey, Sasha," said
a large chunk of a man happily wedged between two thin female athletes across the table from her. "How's it feel to be labeled 'Most likely to win all golds'?"

  She rolled her eyes and spoke up over the hubbub. "Terrified. As if I needed more pressure!"

  There were chuckles from a few of those around the table before they turned back to more intimate speech.

  About thirty minutes later (28 minutes 33 seconds by Sasha's inner clock) an announcement came over the lounge's speaker system. It was time to board the courtesy bus for the incoming Olympic athletes and staff.

  Almost everyone swiped their credit card in the slot of the ordering carousel. A few dropped money in several currencies onto the table.

  Like everyone else Sasha craned her neck to look out the bus windows as it drove by the Village Olympique from a half mile away. Six years ago it had been a down-at-heels warehouse area nestled inside a loop of the Seine River on the northwest side of Paris. Now it was a modern sports facility, and would become an entertainment district after the Olympics .

  Several structures could be seen through and around the trees and low buildings between the facility and the four-lane highway the bus was on. Visible were an oval domed stadium, very white in the late afternoon sun, several boxy smaller buildings, and the two tall towers of a hotel of white stone.

  The top several stories of one tower of the hotel were unfinished but were enclosed, safe from the weather. The other tower was completed and Olympic staff and officials would be housed there during the events. As they had occupied it for several months before as the final touches were made to the enormous organizing effort to schedule and control the competitions of more than 10,000 athletes and 300-plus events.

  Ten miles west beyond the Village was Sasha's hotel. It was in a small old town built on the Seine nestled within trees. The hotel was bordered on the side opposite the river by a line of middle-class suburbs. The lodging was one of several hundred in the Paris metro area used by athletes, coaches, officials, staff, and visitors here for the Olympics. It was an old ten-story building of red brick. Each room had a small balcony, only the lowest balcony visible from street level through the canopy of old-growth leaves.