by Jesse Gordon
Breakfast was quiet, surreal. The only one who did any real talking was Chris. Monica, Mike, and Sharon merely exchanged anxious glances, the unspoken question lingering on their minds: Is this real and not just a dream?
At seven o’clock, the NPAA shuttle pulled up out front. Monica stood on the front step and endured a barrage of hugs and kisses from her parents, from Deborah as Dunckel and Godin stored her luggage away.
“Make us proud,” said Mike.
“Bring America the gold,” said Sharon.
“Oh, sweetie,” sobbed Deborah. “How I’m going to miss you!”
Chris, the last to offer his goodbyes, wrapped his arms around Monica and said, “When it’s time for the floor exercise, I want you to do that break dancing trick where you flare!”
Everyone laughed. Then it was time to go. Monica strode down the walk and got into the shuttle. She situated herself in the passenger seat, fastening the harness as per Dunckel’s instructions (riding in such a vehicle was a new experience for her, as only military and various government officials were allowed to operate personal-sized craft—civilians were, for all intensive purposes, grounded). The shuttle rose into the air, Monica’s family watching and waving below. In a moment, they were tiny specks lost between the patchwork rooftops.
“We’ll reach the Milwaukee Skyport in about ten minutes,” explained Dunckel, aligning the shuttle with the nearest skyway. “There’ll be a modest wait, and then it’s on to Olympus Station.”
Godin glanced over his shoulder. “Ever ridden the skyways before?”
Monica shook her head, unable to reply, for the back of her throat had tightened up, and her palms had become sweaty—one of her latent fears had decided to rear its ugly head at a most inconvenient time.
“Ms. Sardinia?”
Clutching the seat with her hands, Monica closed her eyes and quietly asked, “Could we close the windows, please?”
“What’s wrong, Monica?” There was concern in Godin’s voice.
“I…I don’t like flying.”
“Ah, first time on a personal shuttle?”
Of course, Monica had flown on commercial airliners many times before, to and from various national conferences, but even then, at a mere 35,000 feet, she’d spent all her preflight time negotiating for the seat farthest from the window. “Yeah.”
“Jay,” Godin said. “Dim the windows, please.”
Opening one of her eyes a crack, Monica saw the windows (all but Dunckel’s, as he was driving) go opaque.
“Better?” asked Godin.
“Better,” said Monica.
Godin chuckled. “I never heard of a gymnast who’s afraid of heights.”
“I’m not afraid of heights—and I’m not afraid of flying. I’m afraid of crashing.”
Dunckel burst out laughing. “Well put.”
“All right, then, Ms. Sardinia,” said Godin, facing forward in his seat. “We fly to the skyport with windows dimmed.”
* * *
By God’s grace, the shuttle made it to the skyport without a hiccup, and Monica was delivered to the proper terminal to await delivery to Olympus. The skyport was much like a terrestrial airport, except here it was mostly military and industry folk eating at the restaurants, browsing the gift shops. A good many people were in uniform.
Godin took the liberty of buying Monica a soda; then he showed her around, explained how the skyport was kept afloat by a fleet of turbines that ran day and night. The windows offered a splendid angel’s-eye view of the Earth below (which, funnily enough, didn’t seem to bother Monica as it had during the shuttle ride).
“You’ll probably want to avoid the viewports aboard Olympus, though,” Godin said. “The station rotates somewhat rapidly. You don’t notice it when you’re going about your daily routine, but it can be dizzying looking out the windows—even the best of us can get motion sickness if we’re not careful.”
When it came time to board the shuttle to Olympus, Godin and Dunckel sat with Monica, each in turn offering their assurance that the ride would be brief and uneventful. Thankfully, this time around, there were no windows. Otherwise, the interior of the shuttle resembled the cabin of a very neat commercial airliner, with video screens embedded in the seat backs. All luggage and personal items were stored in a separate compartment.
“Because,” Godin explained, winking, “we’ll be weightless for a short while.”
Monica smiled, swallowed—wondered what she’d gotten herself into. Checking and double-checking her harness, she set herself to watching a random sitcom for the duration of the flight, and only took her eyes off the screen after Godin had informed her that the ship was docked, and all was well.
Olympus, Monica knew from her planetside studies, was a torus-type station arranged around a central docking hub. Long spokes connected the hub to the torus itself, where the station’s 10,000 officers lived and worked. Gravity was provided via centrifugal force, sunlight via an intricate mirror system. Interior real estate was arranged into “belts”, which were further divided into “stripes” dedicated to military, scientific, business, industrial, and recreational endeavors. During Heroes’ Day festivities, the promenade belt (landscaped to resemble a sprawling valley freeze-framed in eternal springtime) often took on upwards of 80,000 additional guests.
However, as impressive as its architectural specifications were, Olympus wasn’t perfect. In the exterior photographs and video footage the station was a jewel suspended in the sky, a starlight Olympic dream twinkling in the night. On the inside…well, most space stations still in commission after twenty years were vulnerable to wear and tear, and Olympus, grand as it was, was not immune to the passage of time.
Not that there was an opportunity to stand around and pick at scabs, as Sharon liked to say. As soon as Monica’s shuttle docked, she and the other passengers were directed to a screening area, where a team of armed security officers patted her down, waved their wands over her front and back, head to toe. Once cleared, she was handed her backpack and duffel bag and was allowed to ride one of the golf cart-looking transports into the station’s outer ring. Dunckel and Godin hastily directed her through a series of interconnecting corridors, all smooth, almost glossy floors and ceilings, and faux-stone walls with niches bearing mythological reliefs or sprays of suspiciously healthy ferns. Everything was impeccably clean, but there was evidence of strain. Loose wiring hung in certain places, bulkhead panels were often missing, and the air was several degrees too chilly.
At the entrance to a wide, low-ceilinged corridor with doors lined up on either side (personal quarters, Monica assumed), her escorts bid her farewell and turned her over to a tall, hulking black man who introduced himself as Lieutenant Tompkins.
“I’m the security coordinator for this stripe,” he said, shaking her hand and leading her down the corridor. “You’ll have to excuse the informality of your arrival—usually they have a welcome committee for the teams, but as you probably know, there have been some changes made recently, many of which involve my serving as bellboy and/or doorman.”
Monica smiled.
“Anyhow, this is your home stripe. Here you’ll find your quarters, bathroom facilities, and a commons room. Your coach will explain the particulars—ah, here we go.” Tompkins slowed as he approached one of the cabin doors—in front of which stood a chic-looking woman holding a notebook computer and a camera.
Linda Baimbridge.
“Here she is!” Linda squealed, coming to life as if on cue. “My proud little team captain—look at those darling locks!” She darted forward, stooping slightly so that she could feather Monica’s hair. “This is going to look so nice once it grows out. Oh, aren’t you the most adorable little thing!”
Monica had been briefed about Linda, her team’s publicist, ahead of time, and so wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the woman—though she was ill-prepared for the sheer amount of personality coming at her full-force. Five-foot-five, mid-to-late thirties, still able to fit nicely into
denim jacket, halter top, and stretch pants, Linda’s social abundance left Monica speechless as her hand was pumped, her picture taken, her cheek pinched.
“Welcome aboard,” Tompkins said, once Linda had finished her preliminaries. He waved the cabin door open and did his best to hide a smirk as he ushered Monica inside.
Three of her teammates (who’d evidently arrived only moments before) were in the process of unpacking their things. There was Lisa Trotter, a blue-eyed brunette; Kristen O’Brien, freckle-faced and red-haired; Alana Chang, tiny, elf-like, probably asked several times a day to confirm her age and Patriot eligibility. Their wrangler: Coach Tracie, fortyish, brusque, to-the-point—to be addressed as “Coach Tracie” at all times. She shook Monica’s hand and instructed her to get situated while she conversed with Linda and Tompkins out in the corridor.
“She’s always like that, from what I can tell,” explained Lisa, once the door closed. “They say working with Darren Hades will do that to you.”
“Are you talking about Coach Tracie or Ms. Baimbridge?” asked Kristen.
Lisa giggled. “Maybe both, now that I think about it.”
“Where is Coach Hades?” Monica asked.
“Probably hiding in the training room,” said Lisa. “I think he did a single planetside interview before flying up here for his one-year term.”
“He doesn’t like publicity,” Kristen said.
“How funny,” said Monica. “Have any of you met him yet?”
The girls all shook their heads.
Lisa said, “I researched him on the Internet.”
“He’s cute,” Kristen said. “He doesn’t look like he’s almost thirty.”
Everyone cooed. Even Alana, the quiet one, was caught blushing.
Monica set her bag down, glanced around the room, which was quite Spartan. There were bunks on either side, with cubbies built into the bulkhead beside each bed; a desk with a computer terminal sat centered against the rear wall. “Who goes where?” she asked.
“We all agreed,” said Lisa, “that since you’re team captain, you should be the first to pick which bunk you want.”
Kristen and Alana nodded their heads and waited patiently—and in that moment, Monica realized she really was team captain, the Big Sister to two-thirds of the United States’ precocious Patriot team. There was no way any of her new roommates would be turning twelve before the start of the new season. (In Alana’s case, Monica was certain she wouldn’t be smelling birthday candles for at least another six months.)
She chose the bottom-right bunk.
“Is the rest of the team aboard?” she asked, testing the mattress with her knuckles.
Lisa nodded. “It’s just us, Jackie Davisson, and Britney Lawler. They’re the stars. They share their own room.”
“I’m kind of nervous,” Kristen said. She’d fished a plastic token from her pocket and was preparing to flip to see who got the top-left bunk. “They’ve never put together a Patriot team like this before, forgoing the National Training Center and all. And spending an entire year up here with Jackie and Britney…I mean, you see them in the feeds all the time—Jackie’s made the cover of The NPAA Journal three times this year. She’s like a supermodel. Britney, too. International superstars. And you, with your national rank through the roof and all…”
Alana looked like she might be sick.
Christ, thought Monica. The NPAA really has wiped the slate clean—and me, the babysitter. Not one of her new training partners was familiar, either. She might have seen Lisa at the National Convention earlier in the year, but it was doubtful any of the girls had had much national experience prior to their being drafted for service aboard Olympus. They certainly didn’t have any international experience, and from the looks on their faces, they probably hadn’t been away from their hometowns for more than a weekend at a time. Even then, they’d had their club coaches with them.
“Monica?” asked Lisa (she’d gotten bottom bunk, left).
“Yeah?”
“I don’t mean to offend or anything, but…you’re so much older than the rest of us. I checked your NPAA profile, and, well, how come you’re—I mean, were—a junior? How come you never joined the Patriot team?”
“Because,” Monica answered, “I was never asked.”
“Never?”
“The NPAA has its method of selection, I guess—but I’m here now. We all are.”
Kristen, top bunk, left, grinned. “Think you’ll make it through the whole year?”
“For the NAU?” Monica left her bunk, walked over to where the other girls were standing. She held out her hand, palm down. “You bet.”
The others took the hint and slapped their hands atop Monica’s. All at once, they cheered, “For America!”
Coach Tracie entered the room. She carried a large bundle in her arms.
“Your station uniforms,” she said, distributing accordingly. “Sizes have been taken from your personal profiles—if something doesn’t fit, let me know and I’ll have Wardrobe adjust it for you.”
Monica unpacked her uniform. It consisted of a one-piece bodysuit, black along the torso and legs, with the standard Olympus star pattern, in gray, across the shoulders and upper arms. There was also a jacket and a pair of rugged-looking boots.
“Country colors are printed across the back of your jacket,” Tracie continued. “Rank insignia can be found on the collar. As specialists aboard Olympus, you’ve been granted lieutenant-Patriot status—don’t abuse the privilege. Your home stripe is NAU-3C. This is room 15. Remember that. Outside these quarters, you are to be in uniform at all times. The exception, of course, is when you’re training with Coach Hades or myself, or when you’re off-duty. We’ll review station policy more thoroughly later. Right now, as the press have set up in the assembly room, I need you all spruced up and in uniform. The bathroom facilities for this stripe are out the door and to your left. Be respectful of our sister nations by not spending an overt amount of time in the shower or in front of the mirror. All extended grooming activities should be performed here, in your quarters. There’s a mirror behind this panel here—” Tracie pressed a button beside the door; a portion of the wall replaced itself with a full-length mirror. “—and a clothing sanitizer built into the bulkhead to my left. Expect the custodian to come by between nine o’clock and noon daily. This normally won’t be of concern, as you’ll be training during those hours. Regardless, make sure all your personal belongings are stored away in your cubbies. The bots can sometimes have trouble telling trinkets from trash. Understood?”
Everyone nodded.
CHAPTER 15
The assembly room was wide and low-ceilinged, with rows of seats sprawling down a mild slope that gave way to the podium area. There, a table wired with an armada of video cameras and microphones had been set up. Each of the girls in Monica’s group was given a name tag and directed to sit quietly until the U.S. team was called for its interview (Tracie, Linda, and a pair of Tompkins’ men stood in the aisle).
Monica moved down the row. Her seat was adjacent to that of the tallest (and likely oldest) of a group of Canadian boys who’d filed in moments before.
“Gymnast?” asked the boy, paying her a friendly nod as she took her seat.
“Yeah,” she replied, and moved to fasten her name tag to the breast of her jacket. When she slipped, and the tag started to fall, the boy reached out and grabbed it, presented it to her with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, blushing.
“You’re welcome. I’m John. John Matusik.”
“Monica Sardinia.” She shook John’s hand. “Are you new here, too?”
John put on a scowl, though not without humor. “Not as new as you. No, my team has been aboard for almost two weeks. The news media are just getting around to us.”
“Wow,” said Monica. “Isn’t that kind of careless considering the circumstances?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I listen to the coaches talking, and it’s all, ‘If the U.S. gets to tra
in aboard Olympus, so do we!’ It’s a real big entitlement thing, but you never see any stories about it on the news. The media seems to be the last to pick up on these kinds of subtleties.”
“Right?” Monica flitted her tongue. “It’s only Heroes’ Day, after all.”
“One thing is for sure: It’s going to get crowded once every eligible country has its teams training up here.”
“Are you nervous?”
John shrugged. “Yes and no. This is supposed to be an important season for the NAU, so I guess in that respect I’m anxious to do my part—but it’s not going to keep me from sleeping soundly at night. I’m only here because my father owns the gym where I train. I know my stuff, but I wasn’t first choice for the team—last minute injuries in the roster, you know. Whether or not any of us makes it past the pre-season, my father thinks our presence here will look good in the headlines—and who wouldn’t want the attention?”
Monica frowned, unsure if John was being serious or if he was merely satirizing his country’s outlook. “What kind of attitude is that?”
“I’m not making excuses,” John said. “Nor am I setting unreasonable goals. I plan to excel within the boundaries I’ve set for myself.”
“Oh.” Monica thought it an odd way of looking at the sport, setting boundaries instead of goals, but she nodded anyway, and was on the verge of saying something else when one of the adults seated nearby—John’s coach (and father, judging from the striking resemblance)—leaned over and tapped him heavily on the shoulder.
“Face forward, John,” he said.
John did as he was told, but not before rolling his eyes and winking at Monica.
Stifling a giggle, Monica faced forward as well.
The news folk did their thing. After a long while of sitting and listening to half-heard questions and comments involving several of the other nations, Linda guided the U.S. girls from their seats and down the aisle, to the podium.
The interview was a new experience for Monica, as back on Earth, juniors didn’t get press time, nor were their performances recorded beyond small groups of friends and family who brought home video cameras with them to the various conferences. There was makeup to be applied, lighting to be adjusted—and Tracie, quite the bundle of nerves, didn’t let her girls answer a single question without making a fuss.