Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  Lisa finished her beam work and was excused from the podium. She high-fived everyone but Alana, whom she paid a worried, almost dissatisfied frown.

  “What’s her problem?” she whispered into Jackie’s ear.

  “Freak-out.”

  “No shit,” Britney muttered under her breath.

  Monica glanced at where Hades was conversing with Zor and his men. Tracie, nearby, waited with her arms folded, not saying anything to anyone. Eventually she came over and, in a hushed tone, told the girls to gather their things.

  “How’d we do?” asked Jackie.

  Tracie held her finger to her lips. “We’ll discuss it later. Go get cleaned up. Mr. Kim and Mr. Cross will bring you back to the home stripe.”

  * * *

  John met her in the NAU lounge.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up so that her face was level with his.

  After a polite peck on the lips, Monica asked, “Did you make the cut?”

  “Yeah.” John nodded. “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re Patriots now. Well, in a slightly more official manner.”

  “Funny,” said Monica, “I don’t feel like a Patriot.”

  John glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then pinched her bottom. “Sure you do.”

  “Stop that, you brute,” Monica said (though she let him remove his hand at his own discretion). “How much time do you have?”

  “Our shuttle leaves the hub in half an hour.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss me, too.”

  She pushed him away, hugging herself and pretending to pout.

  “Oh, sorreee,” John cooed, taking her in his arms again and smooching her deliciously on the cheek. “I think it’s crazy that they’re keeping your team here for Christmas. How in the world are you going to pass the time without me to bug you?”

  She glanced around at the unadorned lounge (holiday decorations weren’t allowed, so as not to alienate any given religious affiliations). A random Patriot woman was sitting at one of the tables and typing quietly on her notebook. “The NPAA wants us up here 24/7. We’ll have Christmas Day off, probably New Year’s—otherwise our coach wants us to start training for our first conference of the season. How about you?”

  John shrugged. “The girls at my gym are having their annual gala. I get to help run the show, make sure all the equipment is set up properly—child labor stuff.”

  Monica laughed.

  “Besides that I guess there’ll be the usual family get-together. My father does like to cook up a storm on special occasions—”

  “John!” Dean called from the lounge entrance. “Come on, time to go—oh, bye, Monica! Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Monica said, waving.

  John picked up his bags, kissed her once more. “See you on the other side, kitten.” He followed Dean out of the lounge.

  Steeling herself against a jolt of homesickness, Monica sighed, glanced once more around the nearly-empty lounge, and decided she might as well head back to her quarters.

  Out in the corridor, a few paces along, she noticed a small congregation gathered outside room 15.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she drew up to the group, comprised of her teammates, Linda, Tracie, Kim.

  “Oh, Monica, there you are,” sniffed Linda, dabbing at her cheek with a soggy handkerchief. “We’re saying our goodbyes.”

  For a moment Monica didn’t understand—and then she saw that Alana was wearing her street clothes, and that she had her bags with her.

  She was going home.

  “Wow,” Monica said, hugging her tight. “It seems like only yesterday we were figuring out who got top bunk.”

  “That’s why I have to go,” said Alana. “Up here, time goes too fast. I didn’t think it would bother me, but…I’m tired of missing the little moments that matter.”

  Who cares? Monica wanted to say. We made it past the assessment, all of us—you’re this close to competing for America! Don’t leave! But it was Alana’s decision to make, and she’d made it, even though there would undoubtedly be consequences. (Over Alana’s shoulder, Monica saw Tracie frown, not looking particularly pleased. She said nothing, however.)

  Snap-snap. Linda was taking pictures.

  Alana pulled back, smiled. “I’ll watch all of your competitions on the tube.”

  “And I’ll write every chance I get,” promised Monica.

  Alana nodded at the others, followed Kim out of the stripe.

  Tracie faced the remaining girls. Her frown seemed to have etched itself permanently in her face. “I needn’t remind you that Alana’s leaving is strictly classified?”

  A collective nod from everyone.

  Tracie walked away.

  “That was quick,” muttered Jackie after she’d gone (and after Linda had stepped off to the side to make a call on her phone). “Did she tell any of you she was quitting?”

  The girls shrugged; Monica remembered what Alana had said in the locker room—the sum of a dozen different worries and self-doubts exhibited since the beginning.

  “I guess she just didn’t have what it takes,” said Britney.

  “Shame,” said Lisa.

  “Yeah,” agreed Kristen. “I wonder who’s going to replace her?”

  “Hopefully someone with the slightest bit of a backbone.”

  The girls (all but Monica) laughed, sighed, looked as if a burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

  They don’t feel it, Monica thought, returning to her quarters, laying on her bed, pressing her hand against the bulkhead—feeling Olympus’ subtle vibration travel through her fingertips. They’re too young to understand. It’s happening—it’s been happening. The same affliction that broke up the last U.S. Patriot team is now affecting us, and Alana is the first casualty.

  CHAPTER 28

  Monica woke early on Christmas morning with sleigh bells ringing in her ears—her alarm clock’s gleeful demonstration that it had remembered the appropriate holiday.

  “Merry Christmas,” Lisa yawned. She pulled the sheet over her head and shifted onto her side.

  Kristen remained asleep.

  Dressing in sweatpants, T-shirt, and sneakers, Monica grabbed her notebook and left the room, went down the corridor and into the lounge. She found herself a table and, firing up her video messenger, called her parents.

  Sharon answered. She looked tired, but as soon as she saw Monica her mood brightened. “Monica! Hi, sweetie! Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas, mom.” Monica squinted, catching various unfamiliar background details—she’d been expecting to see the dusty, cluttered backdrop of Aunt Deborah’s basement, but instead she saw a spiral staircase, a plush-looking sofa set and big-screen video panel, a towering, glittering Christmas tree that easily reached from floor to ceiling. Of course, she thought. The new house. She’d spoken to her family on several occasions, but everything had been a blur, the details lost in all the noise. Somewhere in their conversations the new NPAA-sponsored home had been mentioned—even so, it was strange, almost surreal to see her family’s time line unfolding alongside her own. She was an observer now, no longer a participant, her only link home a 16:9 video messenger window.

  “So, you guys are in Milwaukee now?” she asked.

  “Sure are,” replied Sharon. “Pretty much settled in. You’re going to love your new room.”

  Monica smiled. “What time is it there?”

  “Just past midnight. Chris is in bed. Your father and I are playing Santa.”

  There was movement in the background. Mike, wearing a floppy-looking Santa hat, was placing a small armful of wrapped gifts beneath the tree. Sharon called him over to the console.

  “Monica! How are you?” he asked, scooting beside her.

  “Fine. Just woke up. How’s everyone?”

  “Great
, better than ever. Well, we’re missing you terribly, but things are going well. Look at you! You’re sturdier and stronger every time I see you. I can see it in your shoulders, in your arms. They been working you hard up there?”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” said Monica, remembering her meeting with Zor. “I passed the Assessment. I’ll be competing for the U.S. starting in January.”

  Sharon whooped joyfully, planted a big, wet kiss on Mike’s cheek. “Oh, sweetie! Congratulations! Our little champion!”

  “Thanks,” said Monica.

  They talked for a while, her parents eventually insisting on giving her a virtual tour. Carrying their palm console with them, they showed her the upstairs first, taking her into her new bedroom, which they’d decorated with all her medals, trophies, and certificates. The bathroom had a walk-in shower. On the ground floor, they passed through the largest kitchen Monica had ever seen and stepped out onto the pool deck—they had their own swimming pool!—which overlooked a spacious backyard. Mike held the console up and did a panoramic sweep that ended with a shot of the house itself, barely visible in the subtle light, but impressive nonetheless. (Monica didn’t say anything, but it felt extremely good knowing that her time as a Patriot had paid for a new house, a new start—she was a contributing family member again.)

  After the tour, Mike and Sharon said their goodbyes, blowing her kisses and waving as she signed off. She sat for a minute or two, tingling all over, a long-delayed thrill finally taking hold.

  Her training had finally begun to manifest real-world results.

  Not feeling like getting on with her morning just yet, she called Pat, knowing that he was probably still awake. Indeed, he appeared on the screen after only a few seconds.

  “What’s up, Monica?”

  “Hi, Pat.”

  “Wow. You on the Hollywood starlet diet?”

  “Apparently so,” Monica replied, a bit self-conscious now that both her father and Pat had noticed her physique. “Compared to the other girls, I’m not only over the hill, but morbidly obese, too.”

  Pat shook his head. “You weigh like what, seventy pounds?”

  “My coach wishes I did.”

  “Darren Hades.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seems to be working. He’s got you all…chiseled.”

  “Image over fundamentals.”

  “The Patriot way. How’s Johnny?”

  “John,” Monica corrected.

  “Yeah. Him.”

  “He’s fine. Home for the holidays.”

  “I know you like him, what with his super-huge muscles and perfect coordination. You two make it yet?”

  Monica grimaced. “Pat!”

  “I’m only joking. Your love life is none of my business.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Pat looked away from the camera. Monica could see him biting his lower lip. Near the bottom of the video frame she spotted his right arm; the friendship bracelet he’d made at the mall was clasped around his wrist.

  “Oh, Pat,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” Pat replied, sighing, facing the screen again. “Not anymore. And even though you’re with someone else now…I’m still going to have a crush on you till the day I die—but that’s fine, because as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “Corny line.” Monica took a deep breath, let it out. Enough with the emotional stuff. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

  “Merry Christmas. You ready for the new season?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’ll be getting me front-row tickets to all your conferences, right?”

  “I’ll have to look into that.”

  Pat smirked. “Just add me to the duty roster. I’ll be a janitor or something.”

  “You want me to hack the roster?”

  “Yeah, baby,” laughed Pat. “Bring out your inner geek and work some mad code gymnastics. I bet you could do it too, if you let me give you a few lessons.”

  “I wouldn’t talk like that,” warned Monica. “The security team is probably monitoring us.”

  “I’m sure of it—but they know I’m just kidding.” Pat made an angelic face. “See? Harmless!”

  Monica stretched in her seat. “I should go before you get me into trouble.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll start Lesson One next time. Good luck, Monica.”

  “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 29

  For Team USA, the week preceding the new year was one big shopping spree, instigated and directed by Linda, who insisted a little therapeutic spending was necessary to soothe the nerves and soften the credit accounts. Monica took great pleasure in being able to buy herself a new purse, a handful of outfits, and presents for her family—all with her own money. She and her training partners also spent a lot of their time in the promenade belt, with Tracie (surprisingly) chaperoning trips to the movies, the swimming pool, the spa, and wherever else the girls wanted to go (Hades had skipped out after the Pre-Season Assessment—shore leave, supposedly).

  Apart from her group activities, Monica spent a lot of time in the lounge with her notebook. Downloading various newsfeeds and swapping messages with friends on her Blabbr page were equally effective methods of passing the time, and they allowed her to maintain a connection to the Terran world below, which was surprisingly serene. No word of radical movements or political snafus, no stock market scares or food shortages. For the moment, it seemed people were behaving themselves, living life in manageable bites. Sarah was going steady; Amy had mastered her flyaway doubles; Angeline’s mom had finally let her change her hair style—and John, well, he was playing pen pal, writing every day and oftentimes sending pictures or videos to elaborate on his comings and goings. Monica’s favorite: “A Day in the Life of a Turner,” as filmed by John Matusik. He’d brought a video camera to his gym and put together a ten-minute documentary that included a tour, interviews with his training partners, and a bare-bottomed shot of Dean (who was none too happy about being recorded without warning—even if his naughty parts had been politely filtered out) in the shower.

  New Year’s involved an unexpected late night trip to the Olympic Arena, where several thousand military and civilian elites—resident crew members and paying tourists—had gathered to ring in the new year. It was an appropriate introduction to the arena, with live music, a light show, and the unveiling of the new Global Olympic Mural, which was a pseudo-3D world map hologram, created this year by a French painter named Pierre Stévenin, that would display all the major competing nations’ standings once the season got underway (the hologram was also fed to most major cities, to be flown overhead ’round the clock).

  Monica, pressed between her teammates, Linda, Tracie, the three bodyguards, and a squirming mass of super-jovial spectators, watched and clapped and shouted at the top of her lungs along with everyone else as the mural was ignited, as the arena’s towering stonework gods and goddesses—the Twelve Olympians—were illuminated by the Patriot glow.

  And down on Earth, watching the spectacle via their videoboxes and computer consoles and cell phone screens, the masses readied their mental tallies, began their months-long vigil as they watched and waited for their chosen elites to deliver them from the doldrums.

  CHAPTER 30

  The first week of January was marked by the return of Olympus’ athletes—as well as the arrival of Alana’s replacement, an alternate from California whose name was Autumn Ray (Autumn Ray!). Appearing quietly during morning practice, Autumn was the epitome of decadent elitism: crow-haired, dark-eyed, twelvish, obedient, easily lacking the extra poundage that supposedly weighed down Monica’s physique—she did whatever she was told, never complaining, never disagreeing with anything her coaches did or said.

  “How many different kinds of meds do you think her parents have her on?” Jackie asked when it was time to wash up for lunch.

  Monica wiped the sweat from her brow and gathered up her things, paid a gla
nce at Autumn, who was standing beside the podium and patiently waiting for Linda to complete an impromptu photo shoot. “She’s the perfect athlete, two parts machine, one part human.”

  “I remember thinking the same thing about you when we first met.”

  “Really?”

  Jackie smiled. “Yeah.”

  Kristen, swallowing the last bit of moisture from her water bottle, frowned and looked at Monica. “You really think she’s got augmentations?”

  Monica rolled her eyes. “I was speaking figuratively.”

  “I know,” said Kristen. She blushed and looked away.

  “Maybe she’s mental,” said Britney. “On the news they say kids with certain kinds of ADD are good at repetitive tasks—and you know gymnastics is all about repetition.”

  Jackie gave Autumn a disapproving look. “I don’t care. She’s still creepy in that California-Goth valley girl way. Probably into candles and incense and industrial metal music.”

  “Don’t fret,” said Monica. “I’m the one who has to share a bunk with her.”

  Lisa put her hand on Monica’s shoulder, shook her head, and walked towards the locker room.

  Monica zipped up her bag. Over in the Canadian section, John was finishing a bars set, landing, presenting, glancing briefly in her direction. She waved, but he turned away, apparently preoccupied, his face caught between a look of disappointment and desperation—he’d been like that all morning, and it had shown in his work, which had been uncommonly sloppy. She hoped his father wasn’t coming down on him too hard.

  She wanted to go over to him and offer a few words of encouragement, but Tracie caught her by the shoulders and steered her towards the women’s shower room.

  “On task, please.”

  On task, please, Monica mimicked silently.

  * * *

  Ten minutes before the lunch hour was up, John arrived at the cafeteria.

  Monica had been watching the entrance hopefully; now she got up, gathering the girls’ trays (as was her habit) and dumping them into the recycler. She joined John at the food kiosk, tapped his shoulder.