by Larry Niven
Why be sexist? Probably ten million men had considered it, too.
Donald Crawford had made it. He was one of the few whose gamble had paid off. Those fifteen to twenty per Olympiad were paraded before the public once or twice a year, with great ceremony.
Those who failed to make it at their first Olympiad smiled bravely and trained like fiends. Those who failed a second time…
Like Abner? presently died.
Chapter 3
“Test run,” Jillian said crisply. She slipped Beverly’s core into her desk console, and waited. And waited. Presently a distant voice said: “Jillian?”
“Right here, Beverly.”
“You just wait there a minute, sugar. I was in the shower.”
Making adjustments to the system, she meant. “I’ve got all the time you need,” Jillian said.
Holly was concentrating on her chessboard, but when Jillian broke away from the installation procedure, her roommate picked up the broken threads of their conversation. “So… where were we? Neurotransmitters?”
“Right.”
Holly ticked off names on her fingers. “Choline, acetylcholine, dopamine, all that crowd. The communications brigade. The thing you’ve gotta understand is that your survival is based on staying balanced between extreme states. It’s a weird equilibrium—”
“Just a minute. I’m starting to get something here.”
The visual field flickered, and Jillian was looking at her own face. The mirror-Jillian’s skin dissolved, leaving a glowing skull. Bone followed, until a disembodied brain bobbled in the middle of the field. A chair appeared beneath it, tilted onto two legs. The brain balanced on top of the chair. Incandescently brown eyes popped from the ends of the optic nerves.
“Beverly, that’s disgusting.”
“But roughly accurate,” Holly chuckled. “She’s trying. You must have a fun Void.”
“I’ll wring her neck. Anyway, you were saying?”
“Boost tinkers with the balance, makes your brain select performance over health.”
The field changed. The brain grew stork legs, began jumping through circus hoops. The hoops caught fire, and calliope music began to play in the background.
“I think Beverly is fully installed,” Jillian said wryly.
“Have her access the files on Boost.”
“All right. Test, Beverly. I need effects of Boost on the human nervous system.”
The field pulsed with blue fog. “Long and short term?” her Simulacrum’s voice asked.
“Yep.”
“Multiphasic. Most noticeably a massive release of androgenic growth hormones. This effect takes months.” As Beverly spoke, more crispness and personality filled her voice.
“Expect an increase in aggression and in coordination. There are mental effects. Clarity and speed of thought increased up to fifty-two percent. An average of twenty-five percent.”
“Thanks, Bev. That’s all for now.”
Jillian shut the unit down.
She scanned the room, and thought it small but comfortable. All of her clothing was stored away, chairs and tables rearranged, and it was starting to feel like home. With Beverly now installed, Jillian felt she was ready.
“What are you thinking?” Holly asked.
“I don’t know. Boost, maybe. It sounds so good.”
“And costs so much. For about eight years you’re a superman. It’s probably twice as good as any other ergonometric technique. Or any combination of techniques, for that matter. Then, surprise! Your own body eats you.”
“But you Boosted anyway, Holly.”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for loopholes. It’s a mug’s game for the rest of you. Cancer, epilepsy, acromegaly. You get just two chances to go for gold, Jillian. Achilles didn’t get much of a choice.”
Holly returned to her chess game. Jillian sank down into her chair, and listened to her thoughts for a minute. She had not yet Boosted. She’d have to choose soon.
The tale was told to three billion TV sets during every Olympiad. The gods had offered Achilles a short, glorious life, or a long dull one. He chose glory.
Behind her, Holly screamed “Mate!”
While she immersed herself in her morning workout, Jillian watched the others in the gym. Their bodies had that telltale Boosted angularity. Jillian walked out onto the mat, her new judo gi crisp and just a little scratchy against her skin. Her black belt was knotted carefully, the white threads pale beneath the frayed surface. A worn black belt implied that the practitioner was more experienced.
She remembered when she first earned her dan ranking, and the evenings she had rubbed her new, starchy belt against cement, dipped it in bleach, sliced it shallowly with razors, trying to prematurely age her symbol of rank. She found the memory embarrassing, not funny. Poor strategy. Strive to be underestimated! What had old Sun Tsu said? “At the beginning, be as coy and frightened as a maiden. Then when the enemy gives you an opening, rush in and crush him.”
Abner approached her with the same oddly disconnected movement he had displayed at the train station, like a puppet suspended from rubber bands instead of strings. Sometimes it was hard to believe he had been one of the top judo players in the world.
“Are we ready to work today?”
“Let’s get to it.”
He gave her a swift visual inspection, and nodded curtly. Abner led her out onto a mat sandwiched with pressure sensors. The air shimmered with an I/O field, recording all actions as well as projecting whatever illusions might be necessary to evoke maximum performance.
Her opponent might have been a human being, so carefully was its appearance crafted. One could barely see the third leg, a slender stalk that projected to the rear to maintain balance. Its face was robotically neutral.
Jillian touched it, felt the balance. She inspected the fingers and hands, noting the hydraulics, the servomotors, the magnetic locks that would cling to the layer of foil in her gi.
With the slightest of hissing sounds, it bowed to her.
She giggled.
“Worked on a Grappler Twelve before?” Abner asked.
“No, but we had a Nine available to us at P. Tech.”
“The Grappler Twelve has faster reflexes, and a better grip-you’re webbed up under your gi? Otherwise it won’t really be able to grasp you.”
“Yes. We can do a check.”
“We’re going to be evaluating you for strength, balance, and coordination. Speed and endurance will be checked later, against a live opponent.”
“Ready,” Jillian said.
Balanced on its skeletal third leg, the Grappler moved in. Jillian extended her hands, and they gripped each other’s sleeves, the Grappler’s magnetic fingertips locking to the foil layer of her gi. The webbing that cocooned her body and attached it to the inside of the gi worked perfectly: the Twelve’s grip was much more convincing than a Nine.
Jillian pivoted, slid her hip inside, and performed a perfect ogoshi hip throw. The Grappler flew over her back and crashed into the mat. Its legs contracted and extended, gyros whirred. It righted itself in less than two seconds, and was back.
This time Jillian used a deashiharai foot sweep. The Grappler did a clever little dance, and came very close to reversing the move.
She lowered her hips, dropping her center of mass. The Grappler suddenly went top-heavy, easy to upend and smash into the mat.
She was enjoying herself.
Abner watched, no hint of clownishness on his face, no laughter in his eyes as he watched the vectors play out in holographic display.
The test went on and on. Throwing, being thrown, coming to grips and taking the Grappler to the mat. There the robot was weak on technique, but compensated with awesome leverage.
Pushing herself now, she tied it up in a succession of mat holds and chokes, and forced it to beep submission three times.
At the end of an hour, Jillian was sopping wet, and blowing for air.
“Very good,” Abner said blandly. “No
w I think it’s time for a human opponent.”
“What?”
He smiled evilly. “The Grappler is decent for a readout or a warm-up, but there’s nothing like a little honest human flesh.”
Jillian was still gasping as he led her to another mat. A very blond woman two inches shorter than Jillian waited there. “I want you to meet Osa Grevstad. She’s going to work with you today.”
Although shorter, Osa was heavier through the shoulders. They probably weighed the same.
Her hair, cut short, did little to offset the butchiness of her overall appearance: hard, springy muscle, heavy bone structure, a level of energy so high she seemed to vibrate. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, a frequent symptom of Boost.
Osa’s face tightened as she smiled. There was humor but no warmth there. “You are the American who does not need Boost. We will see.”
Jillian glared at Abner, not appreciating this at all.
The two women bowed and circled each other, moving into position. Their fingers sought grips on the gi sleeves as their hips twitched in feint, and they catstepped for position. Osa’s hands changed positions as lightly as butterflies.
Abner’s right, she had to admit. There’s nothing like human flesh.
Osa spun tightly and went into ogoshi hip-throw position. Halfway into position she dropped lower, extended her leg to scythe Jillian’s knees.
Jillian somersaulted into the throw, curled into a ball except for the hand that gripped Osa’s shoulder and the foot that tucked into the blonde’s gut. As Jillian hit the mat her own momentum heaved Osa up in a devastating tomoenage stomach throw. Osa flipped like a gymnast, but landed on the balls of her feet in perfect balance. She grinned, and said “Meow.”
Jillian had never seen anyone move that fast, but controlled her awe: she also noticed that Osa’s reflexes were slightly faster than her coordination. Sometimes Boost changes things too quickly. And that fact Jillian could use to her advantage.
The two women circled each other. Osa smiled. “You’re very good, for one so timid.”
“I detect an accent.”
Jillian feinted a hip throw. Osa stiff-armed her back. “Yes. Born in Sweden, but I am Agricorp, not national!” she said proudly. “There were too many Judoka in Scandinavia.”
“Somebody pulled some strings?”
Osa danced to the left, then right, almost catching Jillian in a foot sweep as she adjusted position. “Transferred my union files to a fishery in Seattle. It was easy to make the North American team. Your judo is not so good as ours.”
Jillian started to protest, and suddenly Osa was gone, had disappeared under her, and Jillian was swinging in an explosively tight arc into the mat. She slapped hard, still had the breath jarred out of her. Then Osa was on her, grinding Jillian’s face and chest into the mat, cranking her arms back, going for the pin.
The woman was everywhere at once, swarming, shifting, tireless.
It took everything that Jillian knew to keep Osa off, and she would have, if there had been a time limit.
But it went on, and on, a blurred, sweaty nightmare of fevered effort and ragged, shallow breaths. Osa seemed to grow stronger as the minutes passed, while Jillian, already fatigued by the bout with the Grappler, came closer and closer to complete exhaustion.
The room swam. Her throat spasmed for breath, and her stomach knotted as she rolled over onto her side. The room began to swim, and Jillian’s head pounded with pain. She felt totally disoriented.
Where was Osa? Had she given up?
Osa was grinning at her. Abner’s arms were around her, and he peered into her eyes, concerned.
My God… she thought bleakly. I’ve been choked out.
Abner shook his head. “You better stop being so proud, tap out faster. Osa’s pretty deadly with her hadaka-jime, isn’t she?”
Jillian shook her head ruefully, and tried to roll over. Osa was standing, her arm around another girl, and they were smirking at her.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” Jillian said.
“Jillian!” Osa called. “The Council might take a few Nationals to Greece. We need towel girls.”
Jillian started to go for her. With sudden, unexpected strength, Abner pulled her back, herded her to the door of the shower room. “It’s all right, Jillian. I learned what I needed to know.”
“What? If I snore?”
He laughed. “I needed to know if you’d quit. You were beaten from the start, you know. I set you up. And you never quit.”
The fatigue and frustration were almost too much. She started to say something, and felt her voice catch in her throat, looked quickly downward. To her surprise, he encircled her shoulders, and hugged her quickly. To her even greater surprise, she liked it.
“I’ve definitely got time for you, Jillian. Go on. Get dressed.”
She smiled uncertainly, and then fled toward the distant smell of steam and soap.
Chapter 4
Even her aching bones couldn’t distract Jillian from the excellence of the Rocky Mountain Center’s training table. Dinner was plentiful fresh fruit and vegetables, pasta and rice and chicken.
But despite the unity of purpose (everybody needed calories), there wasn’t a real air of camaraderie. Even here, the awful risks of their shared venture dampened high spirits.
Holly sat next to her, picking at her meal with mantislike grace. Despite the delicacy of her movements, food vanished from her plate with astonishing rapidity.
“Still sore?”
“Globally.” Jillian glared at a roasted thigh, mentally labeled it Osa and sank her teeth into it. “I think I’ve got a few ideas for the Ice Queen, next time around.”
“She was first alternate on the Scandinavian Trials last Olympiad, when she was only sixteen.”
“Slightly advanced, isn’t she?”
“One word for it. Bet she suckered you into talking to her.”
Jillian glowered, and Holly laughed heartily. “Yeah, I knew it. I heard some rumors about how she switched from Scandinavia to North America Agricorp so easily.”
Jillian searched the room until she found Osa, sitting in the midst of a group of husky young men and women, laughing, attacking her food ravenously.
“Rumors? I thought the Council recognized no national boundaries, and all that.”
“Baksheesh never hurts.”
Osa looked up, locked gazes with Jillian, and smiled expansively.
Jillian broke eye contact.
Holly laughed. “She’s beaten you already, you know. Got you hexed, but good.”
A protest died on Jillian’s lips as a fanfare blared over the cafeteria’s speaker system. Dr. Kelly’s voice broke through the static. Normally acerbic, it fairly bubbled with excitement. “Your attention please. Donny Crawford’s shuttle has just requested permission to land. He will arrive in approximately one minute.”
Every head in the room swiveled toward the windows.
Crawford swept down in an electric-blue float car, the air beneath the car distorted by a haze of heat and turbulence. A ramp unfolded, touched the ground, and three men stepped out.
Donny Crawford, and the usual Council bodyguards.
A sigh ran through the room as he trotted to the mess hall, flanked by the bodyguards, who were themselves minilinked to his security system. Their constant visual inspection of the grounds would be augmented by the electronic and satellite scans of the entire area. They were 360-degree-alert. It was difficult to imagine anything getting through that screen.
The security was understandable. Donny was high-level Linked, a candidate for the Council now. If his area of expertise had been political science or economics rather than the pure sciences, he might already control serious power.
The external door opened, and he was there, haloed by fading sunlight, radiant.
Striding to the front of the room, he was beautiful, by carriage and visage more effortlessly charismatic than she could have dreamed. The room’s stra
ined, competitive air dissolved.
She had never been so close to a Linked before. Jillian felt a sudden yearning that shocked and dismayed her with its intensity.
He smiled brilliantly. “I just showed up a little early. Thought I’d join you for dinner. Looks good from here.”
“Looks better than it tastes!” somebody yelled.
“We’ll see. Listen, everybody-after you’ve finished eating, I’d like to get to know as many of you as possible. We’re having an informal get-together, all workouts and coaching sessions canceled for the evening.”
Thank God.
With a healthy wave of applause, the trainees launched back into their dinners.
Jillian chewed thoughtfully. She watched Donny as he went to the head of the food line, piling his tray high.
“So what do you know about this guy?” Holly said conspiratorially.
“Well, I know he’s gorgeous.”
Holly’s nod of agreement was emphatic. “I wonder if he can be made. I don’t know how much time he’s got. Or I’ve got…”
“Whoa, girl. Back, back. Rein in those hormones.”
“You don’t believe any of that bull about sex being bad for your athletic performance?”
“Well,” Jillian mused, “I’m not saying having sex during training is a felony…”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“It’s more like a misdemeanor: the more I miss, demeanor I get.”
Holly laughed until Jillian had to slap her on the back. It felt like slapping a truck tire.
After dinner was over, they retired to the meeting hall next door. Tables and chairs were arranged in starbursts.
Crawford circulated through the room shaking hands, smiling, flirting, talking shop. Jillian saw nothing overtly peculiar about his hairline…
Beneath Donny’s hair a wire mesh had been implanted in the scalp. Metal strands only a few molecules thick extended into various areas of his brain. They controlled the firing of neurons and synapses, and regulated many of the biological functions that Boost had disrupted. That was Donny Crawford’s way out: as long as he remained Linked, the side effects of Boost wouldn’t damage him.