Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  “And Heroes’ Day? Will it be one of the ‘better’ days?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Zor smiled slightly and swiveled in his seat so that he could gaze through the viewport. (If he was waiting for Monica to elaborate, he was sure to be disappointed because she was speechless, literally shaking in her boots. She’d much rather have been back in Hades’ outhouse gym, taking orders, taking falls.)

  “Monica,” he said after he’d let her stew awhile, “Olympus is a complex animal, the net effect of thousands of officers doing their jobs properly and in a timely manner. It takes cooperation. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, because in any operation of this size, teamwork is invaluable. You can liken it to the organs in your body: if one shuts down, it puts strain on all the others, and, if things aren’t fixed, you get a cascade effect that results in death.” Zor faced her. “Do you get along with your teammates?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you follow orders from your commanding officers?”

  Monica assumed he meant Hades and Tracie. “Yeah…most of the time.”

  “‘Most of the time’ isn’t good enough.”

  Monica said nothing.

  Zor nodded, rose from his desk and stepped over to where an antique-looking telescope had been positioned beside the viewport. Hunching over slightly to peer through the lens, he asked, “Do you like your hometown? Your house, your parents’ car, your computer, audio player, microwave oven, and all the other little things that you’ve come to enjoy over the last decade or so of your life?”

  “I do,” Monica replied.

  “That’s good. Your loyalty to the Union has an incentive—but I think you’re still locked into the self rather than the other.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You will.” Zor adjusted one of the knobs on his telescope. “You see, your recruitment—and that of every man and woman aboard this station—was the result of momentum. Choices being made, plans being put into action. It’s a global process in which each of us plays a small but important role, and it’s crucial that there are no weak links, no festering wounds to threaten the health of the overall project. Our poor numbers these last few years could very well translate into the United States giving up its slot aboard Olympus—meaning we’d lose our momentum as a modernized civilization. Our ability to compete effectively in numerous economic markets would be crippled. Inner city schools would continue to go without up-to-date textbooks, computers, and lab equipment. Hospitals would have to face next year’s flu season with less vaccine. Shelf prices for food, amenities, electronics would continue to spiral out of control.”

  “We will have lost,” Monica murmured.

  Zor straightened, facing her. “You see, then, why it is of little importance whether or not you are in total agreement with your coaches. Their goal is the same as yours.”

  “To win.”

  “To win,” echoed Zor. “To keep ourselves in the game so that future contenders may have a similar opportunity for success—just as previous athletes competed for your chance to be here today.”

  Monica thought of what Pat had said on the day she’d been caught doing wall-flips at school. “There’s no war, but there’s still conflict.”

  “Precisely. Such is the great paradox of humanity. But there is progress.” Stepping away from the scope, Zor gestured at the eyepiece and said, “Look.”

  Monica put her eye to the scope—and suddenly the moon’s distant surface became a panoramic view of the bustling lunar landscape. (The lens’s software compensated for the station’s rotation, revealing that the instrument itself was not entirely antiquated.)

  “Americans, Britons, Russians, the Japanese,” Zor said, “and a dozen other nations, all working together, coexisting in harmony, right?”

  Monica pulled back. “They’re all after a similar goal, like us. Despite their differences, they’re working together.”

  “Those who make the cut, yes. Space is limited on the shuttle flights, and launches are expensive. Who decides who gets to go and when? We have our bids, but so do all the other industrialized nations of the world—and everyone is waiting on the edges of their seats for a slot to open up. Every four years. Like clockwork. Do you know who makes the decisions as to who goes and who stays behind?”

  Monica shook her head.

  “You do, Lieutenant Sardinia. Your scores, your teammates’ scores, and the scores of every other athlete competing on Heroes’ Day determine who gets funding and who gets the shaft, which research projects become tomorrow’s medicine, and which remain the pipe dreams of America’s sick and injured, which commercial endeavors will make or break your children’s economy.”

  Monica felt her throat muscles tighten just a bit. Every schoolchild knew the ways of the Patriot world as sure as she knew her reading, writing, and arithmetic—but Zor had made it personal, as if Monica herself would personally go before a panel of military suits and run down a list of her team’s scores.

  “It may feel,” said Zor, “as if the weight of the world has been placed upon your shoulders—but that’s because, for better or for worse, the world is yours to inherit. Whether you’re working here as a Patriot or down on Earth as a waitress, you will have to live by your choices, your successes, your failures. The same goes for your peers, your parents, friends, people you see on the news or out on the streets, people you’ll never ever know but whose work will affect your everyday life. And it’s not just us Terrans. Think of the Martian colonies. It’s a three month trip there, three months back. Time away from loved ones, time away from home. We’re expected to do our job down here so that our counterparts can do theirs up there—with the satisfaction of knowing that upon their returning to Earth we will be able to send future Americans to continue where they left off. Can you imagine the disappointment in coming home to a third-world nation simply because one little girl didn’t like the way the game was played?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Of course Monica knew it would be selfish of her to bow out now (not that she’d even considered giving up…not yet, anyway). Her entire career pining to be a Patriot elite—her time at KG would amount to nothing if she simply called it quits. And how would she explain herself years down the line? How would she tell others that she’d turned her back on becoming a Hero?

  Zor passed her a knowing look. “You see why it is so important for you to set aside your pride? To make your choice and follow through? We’re all on the clock. To be frank, if you can’t handle the pressure, it would be inappropriate for you to remain a member of the U.S. Patriot team.”

  Monica offered a quiet acknowledgment. It was clear Zor had absolutely no problem bearing an incredible load on the shoulders of a thirteen-year-old girl. If she couldn’t stand up to his expectations, how was she going to manage it for a whole country?

  Reclaiming his spot behind the desk, Zor roused his computer console and started typing. “I’ll be seeing you at the assessment?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Monica.

  “Excellent. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  By the time Monica made her way to Mr. McDonald’s room, class was already half over. Without going into too much detail, she explained her absence and then took a seat, worked on her assignments in relative solitude. When it was time for everyone to push their seats together and participate in group discussion, she offered only “yes” and “no” answers, silent shrugs whenever Lisa or Kristen leaned over and softly asked if she was all right.

  Later, during afternoon practice, she lined up with the rest of the girls as roll was called, and started her warm-up exercises without a word to anyone. John waved to her from across the way; she refrained from waving back, hoping that he would understand: no more playing around. Business is business. Even if I only manage it for the rest of the day, I will be the model gymnast in Hades’ gym. I won’t let them crack my resolve—I won’t l
et myself sit through another lecture from Commander Zor.

  She kept her promise. As the day wore on, as time ran short and demeanors crumbled, every single member of the U.S. girls’ gymnastics team was yelled at, chewed out—but not Monica. Her game state channeled adrenaline, kept frustration at bay while her teammates went from grimly determined to just plain grim.

  On the way to the showers, Jackie decided to play counselor. “What’s with you?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Monica responded.

  “You mean him?” Jackie pointed at John, who was following his team towards the men’s showers, glancing over his shoulder at regular intervals to see if he could catch Monica’s attention.

  Monica turned, waved, smiled in a morose fashion. “No.”

  “Well, what?”

  She waited until they were in the locker room, then set her bag down, started removing her hairpins. “How did you take it when they told you the details?”

  “What details?” asked Jackie.

  “You know, how we’re competing for our government’s ability to send astronauts to the moon and Mars and all that?”

  Jackie shrugged. “You get used to it. It’s kind of like when you’re little and you find out for the first time that all those people in Africa are being made to work in cornfields inside the Barrier so that fuel pumps have fuel. It’s the way the world is.”

  “But doesn’t it bother you to know that if you mess up a skill connection, a hospital might close, or a school might have to go without updated computers?”

  “Oh, Monica, it’s not that black and white.” Jackie laughed.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s all symbolism. Don’t fret.” Jackie left Monica’s side, went over to where Britney and Lisa were standing and started a lighter conversation.

  Monica frowned, wondering if Jackie was being dismissive or if she really didn’t know the score. Unless Zor had been exaggerating, trying to get her all worked up as a sort of punishment for walking out on Hades—but no, even if, as Jackie had said, the Patriot world wasn’t “black and white,” the overall idea was real: little boys and girls were competing for worldly resources.

  Once upon a time in a sweltering little gym back on Earth, Greg Keene had told her much the same.

  CHAPTER 27

  December was quickly reduced to a cluttered memory scrapbook: Monica in the training room, Monica in the shower, in the cafeteria, Mr. McDonald’s classroom, back in the gym, back in the shower, back in the cafeteria, back in bed. The pattern carried her into the final throes of the month, when winter break was but a day away, a coveted promise waiting beyond the last hurdle: Pre-Season Assessment.

  The team trained efficiently for several hours in the morning. Monica’s bars and beam routines were feeling pretty good, though she was hesitant to breathe a sigh of relief until after the assessment was over and done with.

  Half an hour early, Tracie signaled it was time to prepare for the review panel’s arrival.

  She approached Monica as she was gathering up her things.

  “Your new competition leotards,” she said, handing Monica a box. “Make sure the girls are properly suited up. No creases, no loose spots. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Monica slung her bag over her shoulder, took the box and followed the others into the locker room, where everyone gathered around in anticipation as she handed out the new threads. There were mixed reactions—particularly to the leotards’ ample keyhole fronts and low-scooped backs.

  “These don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?” snorted Lisa, holding hers up.

  “It’s called putting out,” explained Jackie. “Or did you think the stores had simply run out of fabric at your last NCPA meet?”

  “Right,” added Monica. “Predesigned wedgies, an abundance of bare skin, an exploitation of contour—the mandatory qualities of any good elite, didn’t you know?”

  “Now you’re getting it,” Jackie said, laughing.

  Lisa stuck her tongue out.

  “At least they’re not thong-bottoms,” Kristen pointed out, and headed for the shower.

  The girls washed up, suited up. Monica had them stand in a line so that she could give them the look-over. She couldn’t help but notice that everyone—herself included—had grown up just a little bit over the last month and a half, their jaw lines sharper, the swelling around their eyes more pronounced, their torsos approaching the leaner side of lean.

  Tracie came in for the final inspection. If someone’s butt crack wasn’t defined well enough, she did a touch-up, whipping out the hairspray and making her adjustments. The idea was to insinuate chiseled bare bodies painted in Olympus colors—comic book superheroes. Gymnasts. Patriots.

  Approved for consumption, Alana stood waiting by the entrance, a somber look on her face.

  Monica approached her. “Pre-meet jitters?” she asked.

  “I’m not ready for this,” Alana replied.

  “Sure you are.” Monica recalled their morning practice; Alana hadn’t missed any of her routines. In fact, she was the most well-rehearsed of all the girls, suffering the least amount of injuries. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “You were brilliant this morning. You’ll be brilliant during the assessment—and on Heroes’ Day.”

  “That’s the problem. If I pass, that means I’m part of the team. That means the next time I compete it will be for the United States. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

  “You can handle whatever you put your mind to.”

  “But I don’t know if I want to.”

  Oh, lord, Monica thought. Hell of a time for a freak-out!

  At that moment Tracie started towards the door. “Are we ready, ladies?”

  “We are,” said Monica.

  To Alana: “You’ll do fine.”

  * * *

  The Assessment was, for Monica, a repeat of her final day at Keene’s Gymnastics. A row of military men—Zor included—sat at the edge of the training area (which had been emptied, the other NAU teams lined up outside) and waited for the team to complete a brief warm-up. Then, exchanging nods with Hades, Zor raised his hand and said, “Begin.”

  Alana was up first. Monica whispered a few last-minute words of encouragement into her ear—alas it didn’t seem to have much effect. She took to her routines with little of the confidence she’d shown during practice. She seemed terribly distracted, hopping on her landings, wobbling on the beam, and even shedding a few tears after missing an elementary kip element on bars. At first Monica thought it was perhaps part of Hades’ fake-out regime, but when she saw the looks of frustration on his face every time she made a mistake, she knew this had nothing to do with planned strategy.

  Tracie looked surprisingly nurturing as she led Alana away afterward. She coddled her in the corner.

  Jackie went second, and though she looked concerned over Alana’s performance, she nevertheless made it through her routines with only the barest mistakes here or there. Britney and Kristen followed next, performing in a similarly flawless manner.

  Monica was fifth, stepping forward when Hades called her name.

  “Mount the beam, please,” he said.

  She mounted the beam, stood waiting, perfectly balanced.

  “Back handspring to back tuck to switch leap.”

  She performed the skills, landed delicately, waited.

  “Straddle L to press handstand.”

  Lowering and supporting herself with her arms, she held her legs parallel to the beam, straddled, then rotated her hips and lifted upward until she was in a handstand position. She held this for a moment before righting and waiting.

  “Back, tuck, back, back.”

  Monica did exactly as she was told. This went on for several minutes as she cycled through her various skills and connections, showcasing strength, flexibility, and balance.

  Then, the moment of truth:

  “Double back, with cop-out.”<
br />
  Cop-out. Hades’ keyword for “intentional fuck-up.” Fake-out. Monica launched into her set. Upon landing the second handspring, she made sure her left foot was planted firmly on the beam, made a well-practiced slipping motion with her right, pretended to overcompensate, and went down headfirst, her torso nearly slamming against the beam, legs flexing and attempting to keep the rest of her aboard, but to no avail. After a moment’s clinging to the underside of the beam, she dropped onto the floor, presented to the military men, and then remounted. Waited.

  “Same set,” said Hades. “No cop-out.”

  Monica redid her tumbling pass, this time without the drama.

  “Thank you. You may dismount.”

  Monica complied, jogging over to where her teammates were as Lisa was called up.

  Jackie had a questioning look on her face. “Cop-out?”

  Monica cocked her head to one side, surprised. “Fake-outs. You haven’t learned any?” She’d assumed Hades had been taking the other girls aside to work on their acting skills as well.

  “I was going to learn them.” Jackie almost looked hurt. “But Hades never gave me a second chance after I yelled at him. I thought he’d thrown in the towel with that sly stuff.”

  “Obviously not,” said Britney, glaring accusingly at Monica. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Monica was beside herself—as if she were somehow conspiring against her own team by training privately with Hades. “I’ve been working my ass off these last two weeks. To be honest, gossip wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. Anyway, I thought you knew.”

  Jackie and Britney stepped away, conversed amongst themselves in hushed tones.

  “So, that’s what you’ve been working on with Coach Hades?” asked Kristen.

  “Yeah,” Monica replied.

  “Sneaky. I don’t like it.” Kristen shook her head. “The longer I stay here, the less I like the way they do things.”

  “I think Alana would agree with you.”

  “Speaking of Alana…” Kristen trailed off, smiled politely as Alana was integrated back into the group. She didn’t say anything, but Monica could see it in her tear-streaked face: I want to go home.