Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

Monica thanked him and left the office. She passed the swimming pool, which was half empty and full of leaves. 201 was at the top of a rickety-looking flight of stairs; she waved her hand over the lock and let herself in. The room was small, and was furnished with a twin-sized bed, a small breakfast table, a sink, a shower panel, a videobox. Everything was worn-looking, clean, but no doubt barely within Patriot guidelines—

  —real.

  She set her bag down and walked once around the room, testing the videobox, the sink. Some people lived for years in a place like this. Check to check. No space, no modesty. Even in Deborah’s basement she’d had her own room (sort of), and they’d had privacy in the shower. Here, everything was out in the open. It might have been romantic if you were rooming with your shiny new hubby (and you didn’t mind watching him soap his behind in the mornings), but otherwise you were putting up with third-world accommodations.

  This is America, Monica thought. This is what I’m fighting for. Meager spaces for people of modest means.

  The toilet was tucked away in a closet-sized compartment; there was no clothing recycler (which meant she’d either have to stand naked in the laundry room—if there was a laundry room—while her only set of clothes was cleaned, or she’d have to wash her things in the sink), no refrigerator. She experienced a moment of panic as she realized she hadn’t thought of what she wanted for dinner, but reminded herself she would only be here for the night. If need be, she’d grab something from the vending machine.

  She’d make do.

  CHAPTER 40

  Monica ate dinner—a deli sandwich she’d picked up at a nearby liquor store (along with detergent, rubber gloves, and a few grooming items)—alone at the breakfast table. Afterward, she showered, washed her clothes and hung them to dry. Then she sat on the bed with her back against the headboard, her knees drawn up, and reveled in the strangely satisfying feeling of uncertainty. This is how you’re supposed to feel, said a little voice in her head. Not sheltered and protected and totally unaware of what’s going on around you as you compete for a country you’ve never really seen—where’s the patriotism in that?

  She thought of Hades and Tracie and the girls, and where they might be cooped up for their spring break, taking time out from work that was almost make-believe anyway. Photo shoots and fake-outs—she could do so much better! That’s what Hades had meant during his midnight talk with Tracie: Monica (and other key athletes like her, no doubt) had the ability to earn the States some serious moola, but because of bureaucratic red tape she was playing it down, bringing in more moderate scores and keeping places like the Midnite Motel open even though it was more than a decade past its prime.

  Wrapping the sheet around herself, she went to the window and opened the curtain a crack so she could peer outside. There were three security guards pacing in the pool area. One of them was Lieutenant Kim.

  So, they do know where I am and what I’m doing.

  Monica put the curtain back in place. She returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged in the center and dumping out the contents of her backpack. The bracelet that Pat had given her tumbled into her lap—she didn’t remember packing it, but it was a welcome find nonetheless. She fastened it around her wrist, watched as the letters spelled out a new message: RITE CHOICE COLA IS SUPERIOR TO SPARK! COLA IN EVERY WAY EXCEPT FLAVOR.

  How typical, thought Monica, smiling, of Pat to say something like that. His expertise regarding off-brand colas was second to none. She wondered what he was doing right now. Gaming, probably. Possibly thinking about her. She’d known him all her life; they’d grown up together. There was comfort there. He wasn’t perfect, more boy than hunk, but he’d never lied to her or used her for his own purposes. John…there’d been something there, love, maybe, but duty, too. A sense of loyalty split between his girl and his country. He may have thought there was no other way when he’d taken on his illicit assignment—but if Pat had been offered the same opportunity, Monica was sure he wouldn’t have taken it, and not just because of his anti-establishment upbringing.

  It would have been nice to talk to him. Turning on her notebook, she fired up her messenger and found that he was online. She hesitated, though, her cursor hovering over Pat’s skater-punk avatar. Whether or not Tompkins’ security team was monitoring her communications, she wasn’t sure she wanted to explain her current circumstances until they were over and done with.

  Besides, she wasn’t properly dressed.

  She closed the messenger, opened her browser and started surfing the Web in search of news about the Onyx accident. She didn’t have to search for long, as the planetside newsfeeds were very different from those offered aboard Olympus. The world was not quiet and serene. Everyone knew the story and was propagating it: a British gymnast had been shot in the leg, and was currently undergoing regenerative therapy at UCLA. She was expected to make a full recovery in time for camp. No word on who was responsible, though there were hundreds of flame wars going on over which of the Patriot nations would most likely benefit from such a scheme.

  Monica’s name was hyperlinked in one such thread. Following the link, she found herself at one of the fan sites John had told her about. The stats section was impressive, containing every piece of information on her imaginable. At the bottom: a small, glowing box showcasing her military unit stationed overseas. The webmaster had included a group photo of the platoon hoisting her framed portrait above their heads—

  —holy shit.

  Experiencing a sudden and abrupt clarification, Monica closed her notebook. She now knew why joining the national team counted towards her military service: it was her military service. That’s why they made me a lieutenant. Not, merely, to give me clearance aboard Olympus, but because I’m a member of the United States military. I’m just not being deployed in the field.

  She lay back, wrapped the sheets tightly around herself. Outside, a car screeched to a halt. The driver swore loudly, then drove off. Nearby, someone was hacking their guts out. A block or two away: sirens.

  Oh, to be back home, to be back with the Keenes and moping around my dilapidated little ’hood, where everyone but me supposedly gets the attention and appreciation they deserve.

  How the ignorance had been bliss.

  CHAPTER 41

  The following morning, Monica woke to the sound of other people talking about her:

  “All it took was that first exhibition, and she was hooked. The NPAA has an outreach campaign to get children interested in the Patriot program. They sent a group of young acrobats to Monica’s school touting gymnastics as a fine way to have fun and to serve your country. Monica was only six years old, mind you, but she knew that that was what she wanted to do. We started looking for a gym for her, but everything was so expensive—and too far away. That’s when we found the Keenes’ club. It’s a small local gym, hardly larger than a workshop shed, but NPAA-accredited. And Greg was willing to work with us.”

  “I remember when Monica first came in with her mother. She was the shiest little thing—all I could see was this tiny head peeking out from behind Mrs. Sardinia’s leg, but we eventually coaxed her out into the open. She had muscles all over, though she had no prior experience whatsoever. I gave her and her mother a small series of exercises to work on over the next two weeks, just to see. They came back in half the time, and Monica had learned everything perfectly.”

  “Why gymnastics? Simple. I wanted Monica to come home so tired that I could make dinner and do the laundry without her bouncing off the walls. My plan has, as of yet, proved unsuccessful.”

  Monica lowered the volume on the videobox (she assumed she’d left it on after some random late-night viewing session). Yawning, she left her bed, stretched, and lowered herself onto the floor. She was halfway through a set of push-ups before she realized what she was doing—and even then it didn’t seem like an altogether unreasonable way to start the day. Laughing to herself, she continued with a series of bodyweight exercises. When she was finished, she showered and got dresse
d, and was deciding what she wanted for breakfast when someone knocked on the door.

  It was John.

  “Good morning,” he said, looking nervous, surprised, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “How are you, Monica?”

  “Fine,” she replied, stepping out and locking the door. “I was just on my way to get something to eat.” She glanced down into the pool area. A pair of men in identical leather jackets were sharing a smoke as they watched her. “Tell me you weren’t just bumming around the neighborhood and decided to drop by.”

  “Your people sent me. They said you, um, ran away.”

  Monica scowled, started walking. “I’m on my spring break, that’s all.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I can’t believe they sent you.”

  “Well…yeah. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, either.”

  “You seem to have a knack for expanding upon bad ideas.”

  John sighed, followed her down the stairs and out into the street (the undercover security men—Monica hoped they were undercover security men—tagged along a dozen paces behind, making sure to look as casual as possible). “I deserve that, I know.”

  Though it was on the tip of Monica’s tongue to agree with him, she kept quiet, kept herself wrapped in an air of nonchalance.

  “They wanted me to win you back. You know, for public relations purposes—it would look good on record to see Canada and the United States working together. I wanted to come here because I was worried about you. You’re still my girlfriend, and I still love you.”

  “Don’t bring love into this,” said Monica. “This is about points and deductions. Nothing more.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Sure I do. Don’t you? Isn’t that why you went to Olympus in the first place?”

  John looked hurt. “I have my duty and my conscience, and every moment is a new chance to excel or fuck up. I have to live with that, and with my decisions, flawed as they may be. God’s idea of free will, I guess.”

  “Don’t get religious on me,” said Monica, turning a corner and spotting a strip of stores and restaurants a few blocks down.

  “Actually, I’m agnostic.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “Does it?” asked John.

  “With no God, there’s nothing holding you back from raping little girls for extra points.”

  “I don’t rape little girls.”

  I know, thought Monica, surprised by her own bitterness.

  “And I believe there’s a God, but I don’t think it’s anything we can comprehend or understand. I believe there’s a bigger picture here on Earth, too, but it’s something only the corporate elite are allowed to understand. Most of us only think we know.”

  “Is that your rationale? You don’t know any better, you’re not allowed to understand how things work, so you just do what you’re told, rack up those points for your country in any way possible?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I…” John shook his head, looking upset, but refusing to let himself get angry. “I’m not on the national team anymore.”

  Monica slowed her pace, looked at him for only the second or third time since his arrival on her doorstep. “When did that happen?”

  “This morning. They woke me from bed with word that I had to come see you. Once I told them I had no intention of doing their dirty work anymore, they no longer had any use for me.” John laughed. “My dad thought I was crazy when I turned up at the gym in my street clothes. ‘We can work on your scores!’ he said—he doesn’t know any better. He thinks everything I’ve done these past few months has been the result of teenage angst or hormones. They kept him out of the loop. I can never tell him any of this.”

  Monica felt like crying—her game state was being stretched dangerously thin. “How do I know you aren’t regurgitating some speech your people gave you to memorize?”

  “You don’t,” said John. “I knew you’d be wary on my way down, but I had to come anyway. They wanted me to tell you to go back to Olympus, that you’re needed by your teammates and your country and all that.” He sniffed, looked away. “I just couldn’t stand thinking of you all alone here. I couldn’t stand thinking it was my fault. I had to see you, even if it’s the last time.”

  By now Monica had stopped walking altogether, and was facing John down, trying to read his face, his body language. He looked so tired, his cheeks puffy from lack of sleep and contrasting sharply with his sturdy, muscular frame. She wanted to believe in his vulnerability, but there was no way to tell for sure. He was a good actor, after all. He’d convinced her to hand over her heart, and had very nearly gotten her to do the same with her body. And afterward…he may or may not have gone on to Heroes’ Day without her, may or may not have left her to manage the guilt on her own.

  She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, friend to friend, no passion. She didn’t have to say it, and she knew John didn’t have to hear it: they were merely friends, now. Forgiveness…that was still in the works—but she didn’t hate him.

  “I’ll be seeing you around,” she said, and continued on her way, making sure to keep her face down-turned so no one would see her tears.

  CHAPTER 42

  Monica decided to stay a second night at the motel. She wasn’t so much testing the NPAA’s patience as she was adamant about getting through whatever it was she had to get through on her own. There was some comfort in the knowledge that she at least had the duration of her spring break before anyone actually knocked down her door and dragged her back to Olympus. She ate, she bathed, washed her clothes, watched a few videocasts, browsed the Internet. At long last she managed to fall asleep.

  John was a ghost in her dreams. She was usually in the gym when he came to her. She would be stretching, conditioning, working on a routine, and suddenly John would be there with her on the podium, sometimes naked, sometimes not, but always impassioned, an experienced (as she imagined, for she of course had no practical sexual experience) lover to hold her and cuddle her and make love to her and tell her everything was all right as he melded his flesh with hers.

  She woke up in the middle of the night aching. One part adolescent physiology, two parts emotional disarray—the aftereffects of imagining ideals that could never be. She managed to coax herself back to sleep again, but this time when she dreamed of John he was cold and cruel, assaulting her from behind, cupping his hand over her mouth and thrusting viciously to make her hurt.

  Waking with a start, she threw back the covers, got out of bed. It was early, an hour before dawn, but she refused to attempt sleep until she was reasonably assured her brain wasn’t going to dwell on the morbid. She got dressed, then sat at the breakfast table with her notebook and, as had become her habit, went online. The NPAA had a special spring break mini-site up; included were a blog and pictures of the girls’ gymnastics team posing on some beach in their bikinis. Hades looked ludicrously good in his neon-green Speedo. He looked rested, happy—silly Gloomy! That’s how he’s supposed to look. All fun and games, eye candy for the fans. But notice how Autumn is looking away from the camera in this shot, as if she’d rather be anywhere else; see how Hades is smiling just a little too broadly with Jackie on his shoulder; don’t forget that Coach Tracie is nowhere to be seen—

  A knock at the door.

  Monica blinked, looking away from the computer screen, surprised that dawn had come and gone without her noticing. She got up and smoothed her hair, peeked out the window, and saw the last person on Earth she expected to be paying her a visit: Greg Keene.

  She opened the door.

  “Happy birthday,” Greg said with a nod.

  She bit her lip—she’d forgotten today was her birthday! “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “If by that you mean do your friends and training partners back home have some crazy idea that you’ve run off and locked yourself in a shabby motel for God knows how long, then no, your secret’s safe with me. That Baimbridge woman is ad
amant about keeping the team’s image immaculate. May I come in?”

  Monica waved him inside. He had a boxed cheesecake with him, which he set on the table as he glanced around the room. “I figured there wouldn’t be a refrigerator here, so I paid the extra credits for a self-cooling box.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So. Fourteen years old and sporting your very own bachelorette pad. You’ve become emancipated, eh?”

  “Er, yeah,” Monica replied, suddenly feeling silly, childish—she was glad Greg had come.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Well, it’s just for spring break.” She sat at the table with her hands folded in her lap. “I guess they told you what happened.”

  “Not at first,” said Greg, sitting across from her. “But I got it out of them. Everyone’s real hush-hush about the whole thing. They want to pretend nothing’s wrong. And your coaches aren’t talking to anyone. Typical bureaucratic technique.”

  “Nothing’s changed, then.”

  “Ah, but something has changed. That’s why you’re here regardless of the fact that no one in their right mind would let an underage girl check into a motel all by herself.”

  “There are guards outside. I’m sure my tag is being monitored as well.”

  Greg leaned forward. “Why do you think you’re here?”

  A girl was shot, Monica thought. My boyfriend spent almost half a year lying to me. My coaches act like training Patriot elites is the last thing they’d ever want to do. “I don’t know.”

  “The program is in big trouble,” said Greg. “Did you know this is a matter of national security?”

  Monica shook her head.

  “Oh, yes, kiddo. You’re being monitored 24/7 for your safety, but the NPAA also wants to make sure you’re not standing on street corners and handing out pamphlets documenting the shabby training practices going on aboard Olympus.”

  “How much trouble am I in?”

  “You have some time yet,” said Greg. “Mr. Zor has agreed to allow the coaches a chance at resolving the problem—but you’re on the clock. In five days he gets to send a SWAT team down here, and if it comes to that, you won’t be returning to the Olympus training room, you and your parents will be heading for a court martial. Breach of contract and all that.”