Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  Melissa repressed a shudder, keeping a smile pasted on her face for her parents' sake.

  The Outbreak.

  If that hadn't been stopped, there'd be no Olympic Games, that's for sure. As it was, the virus had cut a swath through the world population, including Melissa's little corner of the planet. Why, three people on her street alone had succumbed to the illness before a cure had been found.

  It's over now, she told herself. True, but the effects lingered. The temporary ban on travel, for one thing, which is why they were holding the Olympics virtually. Still, there were benefits to that, too. Like being able to live at home while playing in the Games.

  I've always hated flying, anyway, Melissa thought. She shook her head. Time to focus on the game.

  Melissa sniffed, drawing in a deep breath, and grinned as she jogged into position for the pre-game warmup. Someone had managed to inject the smell of fresh-cut grass into the air. They really did think of everything.

  During the practice drills, it took some effort to zone in on the ball as it snapped toward her from Coach Gordon's bat. Melissa was grateful for the extra sessions in the Simuldome with Liam—they'd sharpened her skill at tracking grounders.

  Finally, the game got underway, with Melissa's squad taking the field for the first inning. The United States, as the visiting team, batted first. Melissa raised her glove into ready position as the leadoff batter strode to home plate.

  As it turned out, Melissa didn't need to call on her glove for anything more than catching the ball as the team fired it around the infield after each strikeout. Both pitchers were zinging the ball with authority. By the fifth inning, Canada held a slim 1–0 lead.

  As she trotted off the field after the top of the sixth inning, Melissa passed Claire Smythe, the opposing third baseman.

  "All good, is it?" Claire said in a slightly mocking tone. She leaned forward. "Don't count on it."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Melissa mumbled to herself. She's just trying to psyche you out. Don't fall for it. Melissa turned to glare at Claire's retreating back.

  The match ended 1–0 in Canada's favor, and Melissa, after stopping to re-tie her shoelace, found herself at the end of the handshake line. Claire, who was the final person in the United States line, shot a quick look around her before talking to Melissa.

  "Seriously, girl, keep your eyes open," Claire said. "I don't want to say too much, but—"

  Get to the point, Melissa thought impatiently as the other woman glanced around, as if to verify no one was listening.

  "Just watch carefully, in the Australia game. I heard you're sharp. You'll figure it out." After a final glance around, Claire scurried away.

  What was that all about? Melissa wondered. She shrugged. Unable to get the encounter out of her mind, Melissa still felt preoccupied when she said her goodbyes to her virtual teammates and exited the Simuldome.

  When she stepped into the open air, Melissa squinted against the brightness of the sun. Just as she settled her sunglasses into place, she heard a familiar voice.

  "Are you okay?"

  Melissa turned, smiling when she saw the serious expression on Izzy's face. "It's all good," Melissa replied, willing her face into a neutral expression. She wasn't ready to share that unusual verbal exchange with Claire. Not yet. "How was the view from the press box?”

  "Great." Sunlight glinted off Izzy's glasses as she turned to look at Melissa. Despite the availability of laser technology, Izzy preferred to correct her nearsightedness the old-fashioned way. "There was something odd, though."

  "What's that?" Melissa asked as the two headed for the express bus stop.

  "No journalists from Australasia and very few from Europe," her friend replied.

  "That's not so strange, is it?" Melissa asked. "I mean, there were no teams from Australasia or Europe playing at the time."

  "In the past we'd have seen some coverage, or even reporters watching just to get a background they could use when covering their own country's games." Izzy's brow creased as she frowned thoughtfully.

  Melissa shrugged. "I guess you'll have to see if that changes in the next few days," she said.

  When they reached the bus shelter, Izzy scowled at the neon letters flickering across the LCD display screen at the rear of the small structure.

  "Now what?" Melissa nudged her friend with her elbow.

  "I just get tired of the constant bombardment," Izzy said, pointing to the screen. "If it's really 'all good' why is someone so insistent on telling us all the time?"

  "Enough with the conspiracy theories," Melissa said with a smile. "To change the subject, are you coming for supper tomorrow?"

  Izzy was silent for a moment, and Melissa thought she knew why. The Mourningdoves, thanks to Melissa's status as a national team member, received extra rations. Izzy's family was sticky about accepting what they viewed as charity. For a moment, Melissa thought Izzy would refuse, but the dark-haired woman surprised her.

  "I'll be there, under one condition."

  "What's that?" Melissa asked.

  "Mom insists I bring some tomatoes from our greenhouse."

  Melissa paused for a moment, then nodded. "That would be great."

  * * *

  Melissa felt in the peak of health the next day, and the Simultron agreed, giving her a 99 percent rating. When she took the field against Australia, a perennial powerhouse in women's softball, Melissa felt a heightened level of tension. Still, it would be good to see some old friends. All international sports had been suspended by the Outbreak. Until now, that is. This would be the first time she'd seen the Aussies, live or virtually, in three years.

  The last time the teams had clashed, Melissa and stocky Aussie third baseman Chloe Smithson established a routine of muttering "G'day" as they passed one another. To her disappointment, this time Smithson stalked by as if she'd never seen Melissa. Feeling slightly hurt, Melissa shrugged it off. Guess the Olympics is a whole new ballgame, she told herself.

  When Melissa took her turn at bat in the second inning, she swung out of synch at the first offering Aussie hurler Laura Williams threw across the plate, missing the ball by a significant margin. Or, she thought she'd missed it. Melissa's jaw dropped as she watched the white sphere arc out into deep left field.

  It took a tersely worded "Run!" from Coach Gordon to get Melissa's legs moving. Despite the delay she reached second base safely, standing up.

  When she took the field for the brief infield warmup in the defensive end of the next inning, Melissa deliberately tried to miss the grounder coming from the first baseman, Pat Millingham. The ball went right into her glove.

  What is going on? Melissa asked herself, grateful that no balls came her way through the remainder of the game.

  "Coach," she called toward Coach Gordon's retreating back as the team trotted off the field. "Can I ask you something?"

  Coach Gordon turned and smiled, then said hurriedly, "Have to run. Talk to you tomorrow." She winked out of sight.

  Melissa sat in the change cubicle and put her head between her hands. Am I going crazy? she asked herself. She tugged on her street clothes and strode out into the sunlight.

  * * *

  Rob Farmingham ran his right hand through his short blonde hair as he stared at the controls in front of him. He'd been told women's softball would be an easy assignment. Yet, the whole Simulsystem had sagged twice, first when the program overrode a player's missed swing and converted it to a hit, and then again when the same player missed the ball on purpose during the warmup. He'd told Vinnie Namm they shouldn't force things. Vinnie had shrugged and replied that orders came from elsewhere, and he'd better figure out how to make it work.

  Am I overreacting? Rob asked himself, rubbing his hand across his face. He glanced up at the hundreds of screens in the Simulsystem Headquarters. The readouts showed athletes at multiple locations around the globe. Images came here, to HQ, for synchronization and output to the broadcast centres.

  Rob sat for
a moment, considering. Finally, he arrived at a decision.

  It wasn't a big deal. Probably no one had even noticed.

  Besides, if the thing could run itself, without intervention, they wouldn't need operators, would they?

  No need to mention this to anyone. He glanced at his watch. He had time for a break before his next assignment. Great. He could use a coffee.

  * * *

  "Good game today." Liam smiled across the table at his sister.

  Melissa grinned back. "Something funny happened, though," she said. "You know that hit I had in the second inning?"

  He nodded.

  "I was certain I'd missed the ball, but it went for a double. I think the Simultron was off somehow," Melissa said in a tentative voice.

  "Sorry, can't help you," he said solemnly. "All my games were live. I never had a chance to try the Simultron. Maybe if we'd had it then, I wouldn't have blown out my knee." His face was wistful.

  "Yeah, that's true." Melissa passed the plate of sliced tomatoes to her left, where Izzy was sitting. She really shouldn't grouse about the Simultron when Liam would give almost anything to be able to play rugby again, even in virtual form. "I'm sure it was nothing."

  After dinner, Melissa walked Izzy the short distance down the street to the Millers' tidy brick bungalow.

  "Thanks for bringing the tomatoes. Tell your mom she's got a great crop this year," Melissa said.

  "She got ahold of some heritage seeds," Izzy said. "She feels they're hardier. They produce better, too."

  "I didn't imagine it, you know," Melissa blurted. "What I thought I experienced at the softball game, I mean, not the tomatoes."

  "I'm sure you didn't," Izzy said, leaning closer. "I'm going to tell Noah, see what he thinks."

  Melissa felt a sudden chill. It was one thing to share your thoughts with your best friend and your family. It was quite another to let your best friend's brother, an undercover member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, in on it.

  "He'll think I've lost it." Melissa could feel her face redden.

  "He'll think nothing of the sort," Izzy said confidently. "Leave it with me. And try to get some sleep. Britain won't be an easy opponent, tomorrow."

  Melissa grimaced and turned back toward her house. Sleep was one thing she didn't think would come easily. Not tonight.

  * * *

  "Fitness level: 88 percent—" Melissa didn't even register the Simultron's remaining patter as she exited the small room.

  Melissa dressed clumsily, hands shaking. She really hadn't slept that well last night, and the Simultron couldn't be fooled. Melissa sighed. Coach Gordon wasn't going to like those health stats.

  Sure enough, when the game started, utility infielder Susan Rostwick trotted out to Melissa's customary position.

  With a prime vantage point from the bench, Melissa watched carefully for any signs that other players were experiencing phenomena similar to what she had felt in the Australia game, but nothing seemed unusual. Perhaps she'd missed out on sleep—and her spot in the starting roster—for nothing.

  When she emerged from the building, Melissa heard a familiar voice call her name.

  "I thought you weren't going to make it to this game," she said when she spotted Izzy striding toward her.

  "Noah called. He wants to meet with us." Izzy seemed out of breath. "He said it was important."

  Her hands feeling suddenly shaky as self-doubt hit, Melissa felt an impulse to turn and run. Too late. She could see Noah waving from the edge of the parking lot.

  "He looks as laid back as ever," Melissa said to Izzy as they walked toward him, feeling a stab of envy.

  "Oh, he gets wound up sometimes," Izzy said, rolling her eyes.

  "Hi, ladies," Noah said. "If you'd care to have a seat—" he gestured toward his jet-black Honda Accord.

  Melissa slid into the backseat and shot an inquiring glance at Izzy, who occupied the front passenger spot.

  "Not on official business?" Melissa asked jokingly.

  "No." Noah's voice sounded solemn, and Melissa decided to zip it until asked a direct question. To her surprise, that came more quickly than expected. "Who have you told about the—anomaly—you experienced?" Melissa noted the way Noah glanced quickly up to the rearview mirror, studying her face, before returning his attention to the road.

  Melissa frowned, concentrating.

  "What I thought I experienced," she said. She shrugged. "I told Liam and my parents and Izzy, obviously. That's it."

  Noah sat, silent, for several seconds. "You didn't imagine it," he said. He shook his head. "I shouldn't tell you. It's risky. But you may be in danger, so—"

  Melissa exchanged glances with her friend. Danger?

  "You realize, of course, that the Outbreak hit some countries far harder than it hit us.”

  "Yeah," Melissa replied, leaning forward.

  "The international community agreed it was important to make things seem normal, as much as possible, despite the travel ban. That's why the decision was made to carry on with the Olympics." Noah paused. "But some countries—well, their communication infrastructure is down. We don't really know what's going on. They certainly aren't in a position to participate. But not having them there would create too many questions, so their athletes were programmed into the Simultron. And in the games they play against their opponents, someone . . . um . . . manages the data as opposed to letting the game take its course."

  "You mean—those were computer-generated versions of Australia's players?" To her dismay, Melissa's voice sounded squeaky.

  "Exactly." Noah paused for a moment and despite his effort to smile, Melissa had a momentary sense of the immense burden he carried. "We know illness hit hard in Australia, because they ran out of vaccine. We also know a tsunami devastated Japan, and we aren't sure about their infrastructure either. As we learn more, the truth will come out, but it will be gradual. The burden of too much bad news at once—well, you saw the panic and the riots at the outbreak of the Seven-Month War that followed the Outbreak. We just can't afford to go through that again. Everything is too fragile."

  "Wouldn't people who have relatives in the affected places know something was wrong?" Izzy frowned as she considered this question.

  "Communication to and from those locations is also managed," Noah said steadily. "Carefully."

  "What about drones or other surveillance?" Melissa blurted. "Surely you can find out."

  "After the Seven-Month War, all countries swore a non-surveillance treaty. Besides," Noah's expression turned wry, "some aspects of infrastructure are working just fine. We could get drones to the border, but I doubt they'd make it across."

  "So it's not 'all good.'" Izzy's voice was harsh.

  "No, it isn't," Noah agreed mildly.

  "Then why are you telling us?" Izzy challenged.

  Melissa glanced out the window, noticing they'd reached the park near their neighbourhood. The play equipment and the softball diamond sat empty, and no other vehicles occupied the parking lot.

  "A number of us believe this has gone far enough," Noah replied, his voice sombre. "In the short term, sure, the secrecy made sense. But now, the people controlling the information still won't acknowledge that there's a time and a place for informing the public."

  Melissa closed her eyes. "What does this have to do with me?" she asked. "I'm just a softball player. I'm not a politician."

  "No," Noah said. "But there are two reasons to tell you. One, someone else may realize what you know. And that someone may go to great measures to keep the information from getting out."

  Melissa felt the blood drain from her face.

  "Secondly . . ." Noah paused, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. "Since the Games attract worldwide interest, worldwide coverage, the Olympics provide the perfect opportunity to convey a message. At precisely two o'clock tomorrow, a number of athletes will stop whatever they're doing—swimming, running, jumping, playing. We believe it will be enough to crash the Simultron. That's
the opportunity."

  "So you want me to—" Melissa couldn't even force her lips to shape the words. My dreams. All those years of hard work.

  "The Aussies and the others who aren't participating . . ." Noah paused, and swallowed. "Do it for them."

  "That's a low blow." Melissa's voice shook as she glared at Noah.

  "I didn't mean it that way," he replied mildly. "But the problems we're facing—they require our best minds, a collaboration, not the thoughts of an elite few. The first step is to break the code of secrecy."

  "Aren't you afraid of riots? Destabilization?" Melissa countered.

  "Of course, there's that chance. But regardless of the timing, that possibility might always be there." Noah looked at the empty park. "We need to have faith in people. We need to trust them to do what's right."

  "I'll . . . consider . . . what you've asked," Melissa replied. "But I won't make any promises."

  "I understand," Noah said, shooting Melissa a warm smile. "Either way, good luck tomorrow."

  * * *

  Melissa trotted onto the field, shooting a glance at the score clock high above home plate. One fifty-three p.m. She picked up the grounder from Pat Millingham at first base and fired a throw back before daring to shoot another glance up at the clock.

  One fifty-six. Am I really going to do this?

  When the warmup was over, Pat rolled the ball toward the dugout.

  One fifty-eight.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa caught Coach Gordon's face pointed in her direction. Melissa felt her cheeks go hot. I'm being too obvious, she thought, scuffing her toe across the ground and pounding her fist into her glove, as though preparing for just another inning in just another game. There's time to back out. No one will know. Well, no one except—

  The lead-off hitter from the Venezuelan team stepped to the plate.

  One fifty-nine.

  Giselle Plouffe adjusted her grip on the ball as she eyed the catcher, looking for the signal. She nodded, rocked back, then fired the pitch toward the plate.