by John F. Carr
“And of those twenty-two,” Cavor added, “One stands out above all the rest.”
“Yes,” Voorhees agreed. “I see she’s become something of a sensation in the media. Not to mention the young ‘stud horses’ here at the party.” He directed the latter comment to Broome with a smile.
The three of them looked down at one of the buffet tables. A mass of young and handsome athletes from all over the CoDominium was gathered in a swirling circle, and at the center of this hurricane of testosterone was Becca Royce of Haven.
“If she is not yet a great beauty,” Broome commented, “that time is not far off.”
Haven’s thin air meant a higher exposure to ultraviolet radiation, and its inhabitants had adapted accordingly in just a few generations. Becca tanned quickly in the warm rays of Earth’s sun in Rio de Janeiro. Bronze skin, golden hair and her mother’s deep grey eyes had every male who saw her asking who she was and whether all Haven girls looked like her.
“The reaction of her fellow athletes is to be expected,” Voorhees said, “What about her response?”
“Not so much as a flirtatious smile, Commissioner,” Cavor answered. “Then again, this is a farm girl, and farm girls learn at a very early age how young males act around young females. And why.”
Voorhees smiled. “There is a Greek myth about a young girl who was suckled by a she-bear and grew into a fantastic athlete and huntress. She was the first to wound the monstrous Calydonian Boar and was even counted among Jason’s Argonauts on the quest for the Golden Fleece. She vowed never to marry any man who could not beat her in a footrace; she only lost because of trickery and divine intervention.” Voorhees pointed at the young woman below. “I believe she stands there in the flesh.”
“Acquisition Branch has been diligent, Commissioner,” Broome said.
“Particularly with this one,” Cavor added. “In fact…” he called Voorhees’ attention to one of the wait staff below; no sooner had Becca Royce put down her glass than the waiter swept it up and into a pocket in a single gesture.
“The saliva samplings provide a wealth of detail about her gencodes,” Cavor went on, “but we are still taking great pains to acquire as much actual live tissue as possible. We were hoping she’d be menstruating during the games, but according to the monitors in her quarters, there’s been no sign of this. We do, of course, have blood samples taken in the normal course of drug screenings and other tests.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that she might be sufficiently injured to put her in hospital for a few days?” Voorhees mused.
Broome did not look hopeful about that, at all. “That, Commissioner, would require that she actually injure herself—or at least be in a position where an injury could be inflicted without drawing too much attention. Both are problematic given her skills and talents as evidenced to date.”
“It’s not all bad news, sir.” Cavor said. “The preliminary examination of her codes bears out your hypothesis that Miss Royce is, in fact, a mutation of the Perseid Embryo, and by all appearances a thoroughly stable one. The lack of menstruation supports your conjecture that she is infertile, which means that the potential for exploiting her genomes can be monopolized by Sauron.”
“The Russians can’t perform directed genetic modification and the Americans won’t.” Broome’s tone was simultaneously contemptuous and pleased.
“Idiots,” Voorhees declared. “A universe waiting for the hand of Man to reach out and grasp it and they twaddle over their absurd moralities and labor to keep human science in the dark ages with the suppression of scientific research. All because they think it will prevent a war that is, in fact, inevitable.”
All three were quiet for some time.
“They’re really going to do it, aren’t they?” Broome asked. Like all Sauron colonials, Broome was of North American ancestry. Her family tree had transplanted wholly to Sauron and, while it no longer had any significant branches left on Earth, loyalties ran deep in Sauron’s young culture The lack of a clear lineage did not make Broome indifferent to the fate of the twelve billion people still living on what even the most independence-minded Sauron still thought of as the Home World.
Voorhees’s expression was unreadable. “For the first time since the Great Exodus, people on colony worlds are seeking to return to Earth rather than escape from it. The greatest number of returnees have been from colonies settled by the former states of the old European Union: Churchill, Bismarck, Nueva España, Beau Monde…but even Tabletop and St. Ekaterina have lost reactionary elements who have returned to the Home World to ‘renew their allegiance’ to the U.S. or Russia, as it were. Publicly, less than half a dozen colonies have voiced any criticism of the nationalist sentiments that have been sweeping Earth for a decade.”
“And those openly in favor of the movements all think their “mother nation” could run things better than the Russo-American CoDominium,” Cavor said.
“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t be nationalists if they didn’t.” Voorhees sighed. He turned to Broome. “So, yes, Aishya, in answer to your question, I believe they are ‘really going to do it’. They’ll have their war, the war they’ve been preparing for ever since China died and the Russians re-created their Soviet Union from the remains. America and Russia simply cannot co-exist; it’s not in their cultural natures. One world isn’t big enough for them, and dozens of worlds only make them more keenly aware that who rules Earth rules all worlds.”
“Do you think their war will spread to the colonies?”
Voorhees shook his head. “Doubtful. The political balance is shifting toward increased power for the CoDominium Senate; and the stronger the Senate becomes, the weaker it makes the Russian and American coalition that created it. Earth’s nationalist movements are accelerating this process. Their war will fully establish the CoDominium Senate as the uncontested authority over human affairs. Even if the colonies objected to this—which they will not—a Russo-American war on Earth will be over before the colonies can participate in any way. Given the time constraints of Alderson Jumps, it’s likely such a war will be over before most of the colonies even know it has begun.”
“Either way,” Cavor said, “The CoDominium will be too busy to meddle in Sauron’s internal affairs.”
“What trickery?” Broome suddenly asked.
“Hmm?” Voorhees turned to her.
“The young girl in the Greek myth. What was the trickery used to get her to lose the race and marry against her vow?”
“Ah. I wondered if you’d catch that.” Voorhees finished his champagne. “A young suitor appealed to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, for a way to defeat the girl and win her hand. Aphrodite, being generally opposed to vows of chastity, gave him three golden apples of irresistible beauty to cast in the girl’s path during the race. Thus distracted, the girl stopped to collect each apple, falling further and further behind the boy, who won the race and her hand in marriage.”
“He didn’t win much of a bride if she was such a flighty creature as to be distracted by baubles,” Broome observed.
“Oh, don’t be too hard on her,” Voorhees said. “The apples were enchanted, after all. And solid gold, something of a commodity in the ancient world.”
The three friends laughed.
“I think I know that story,” Cavor spoke with a dawning realization. “Wasn’t the girl’s name—”
“‘Atalanta,’” Voorhees answered with a nod.
“So that’s where you got the name.” The tone of Cavor’s voice had gone from respectful to awed.
“Yes,” Voorhees admitted. “I changed it right after you two were brought in. The original ‘Perseus’ code name for the project seemed inappropriate once I learned of her gender and her exceptional attributes.”
Cavor frowned. “Too bad they can’t be allowed to return home,” he said with real regret.
“No,” Voorhees answered. “It would hardly do to release such breeding potential back into their general populations, beyond
Sauron control. Besides, what really matters about them, their genetic potential, will be preserved and perpetuated through Sauron.”
“It occurred to me,” Broome said, “That the conclusion of this project will create an entirely new field in Sauron’s social organization.”
“Indeed?” Voorhees asked.
“This data will require an entire branch of professional eugenicists who will be dedicated solely to overseeing the genetic database of all Sauron citizens now and into any foreseeable future. They will have to be a highly trained caste, an authority unto themselves. Masters of breeding, as it were.”
Voorhees nodded. “Yes. Quite right, Aishya. We shall have to think of something to call them….”
Cavor stiffened. “Look. The Supreme Chairman of the CoDominium is talking to the Royce girl. Getting his picture taken with her too, I see.”
“And the American Secretary of State is right there with them,” Broome added, smiling. “I wonder what they are promising her? Golden apples, perhaps?”
“The world, no doubt.” Cavor said.
“But which one?” Broome asked lightly, and they all laughed.
“If I were her,” Voorhees said, “I should hold out for the golden apples. I don’t think the other offer will amount to much in the long run.”
MERITOCRACY
Earth, Olympic Village, Brazil: 2082 A.D.
Despite having grown up on a farm and making many trips with her parents to Market Days in Castell City, Becca thought she had never seen so much food in one place at one time in all her sixteen years.
In the past year of schooling and training for Haven’s Olympic team, Becca had gained seven pounds and an inch of height, by the Church’s Old Standard measurements.
She was neither distracted nor tempted by the many young men who worked so hard to impress the young girl from the colony moon no one had ever heard of.
She was, however, very distracted by the food.
Becca was frowning at a miniscule ear of corn, wondering why on earth anyone on Earth—hungry, hungry Earth—would ever bother with growing such a nonsensical waste of effort. She shrugged, popped it in her mouth and reached for a strawberry.
“Those won’t mix well,” a voice at her shoulder warned.
Becca turned to see a tall man about her father’s age smiling at her. He wore a steel-grey suit and a deep red tie. Medium brown hair and steel-rimmed glasses completed the image she had seen on so many newspads: Mikhail Utkin, the Supreme Chairman of the CoDominium, himself.
Becca had stopped with the strawberry halfway to her mouth and realized she was doing a fair interpretation of one of the family’s muskylopes: Staring, slack-jawed, unblinking and just about to make a sound that would come out like something between a cow’s low and a snore.
Utkin smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, turning them both to smile for a conveniently close photographer.
“Smile, Miss Royce,” another voice said. Becca saw he was equally well-dressed, sporting a pin in his lapel that was a perfect miniature replica of the flag of the United States. “We have lots to talk about.”
And talk they did, until an ever-growing crowd of news people began to press in on them all and Becca actually managed to break away into the crowd of athletes and some semblance of anonymity. She never noticed the three members of the serving staff who had culled her from the photographers and the squabbling statesmen. The Sauron waiters had culled her from the herd as artfully as wolves isolating a young elk calf.
Becca found herself in a mix of young men and women closer to her own age. All fit, all glowing with vibrant good health, and all of them apparently happy to see her.
“Hey, it’s the golden girl,” one of the girls said, smiling. Her jersey showed she was an athlete from the American-sponsored colony of Tabletop. Becca thought she was the most exotic creature she’d ever seen. Golden-hued skin, bow-shaped lips and black eyes that actually slanted, like a cat’s! All framed by hair so straight and black it might have been painted on.
The girl held out her hand. “I’m Bao-Yu Colson,” the girl announced. “Equestrian, Tabletop.”
“Becca Royce,” she said, shaking hands. “Um, Track and Field, Haven.” The others had formed a semi-circle and regarded her with expressions ranging from polite interest to positively grim resolve, though all had smiled or laughed when she had told them her name and events.
“True enough, Becca,” a boy in New Hibernia colors asserted with a grin, “We all know your events!” he too offered his hand, though he’d been one of those whose expression showed that he was somewhat wary of meeting her. “Bruce Ede, Boxing, New Hibernia. Och, and I am going to be in big trouble when my girlfriend finds out I spoke to you. Ye’re nae exactly her favorite person in the ’verse right now.”
Becca smiled at his funny accent; all his r’s sounded like little motorboat engines, but his smile was warm, his handshake was just enough beyond brotherly to be flattering and his eyes were very, very blue.
“Sara’s not your girlfriend, Bruce; you’ve only known each other for three days and after the games end next week you’ll probably never see each other again.” A lanky young man with ebony skin and golden eyes clarified Bruce’s relationship status, much to the other’s dismay. “I’m Ronnie Nwosu; Ronnie’s short for Badrani. I’m on the Panafka swim team.”
And so it went ’round the circle of athletes, only two of whom were competing in Women’s Track and Field. Not surprisingly, these gave Becca the coolest reception, but in a few minutes, both had warmed up to her, as well.
One of them was a pretty girl with short, dark hair and eyes like old ice, a Ukrainian girl named Illyana Volkova who was competing for the CoDominium. She said she was relieved that her standing had not put her up against Becca in any events, but Becca noticed that Illyana’s nails were raw and bitten down to the quick.
As she spoke with and learned about her fellow athletes, Becca remembered a story from Sunday school when she was a child. It was about a little boy with a voice so beautiful the other children resented him for it. The boy wanted friends so badly he stopped singing in church, lowering his voice more and more each week until finally he was only mouthing the words. One day all the other children were sick and the Priest asked him to sing, only to find he had been silent too long, and the gift he once had was gone forever by his failure to use it. ’Those who excel at anything must accept the responsibility to do so,’ the lesson ran. ‘An aria is not meant for a chorus.’
Becca reflected that as friendly, as kind, as good as all these people were, above all else they were here to win. Each was the very best their country or their world had to offer, and each felt the overwhelming burden of their obligation to their country or world to excel. It made her feel humble and proud at the same time.
They talked about home, friends they had made, plans for life after the games. Bruce Ede’s ‘girlfriend’ was from Tabletop; she was the girl who had come in a distant second behind Becca in the Women’s 100meter. She arrived a few minutes later and, despite Bruce’s misgivings, hugged Becca warmly. “God, you’re fast!” she said, and nothing more was said of the race.
And so the evening passed, pleasantly, in good spirits. On the field, in shared events, these were all mortal foes, but they could never be enemies. Whatever the differences of their nations or colonies, the enemies for these young people were a missed step, an off-stroke, a hundredth-of-a-second miscalculation, and always the ever-present specter of a crippling, or even deadly, injury.
They spoke of how short life was, feeling themselves very wise and lucky and immortal. The oldest among them was nineteen.
Around them, the wait staff collected glasses, and napkins, and unfinished bites of food. Occasionally one would offer a comb to a preening young man, or deftly pluck a strand of hair from a girl’s jersey. None of the athletes noticed any of the wait staff. Most of them were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.
All of them were Saurons.
> ETHNOCRACY
Sauron, Autonomy Day: 2112 A.D.
“Citizens of Sauron; today we celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of our entry into the community of independent nations as a free and autonomous world, and a full member of the CoDominium Assembly.
“Our independence was not won in battle. We were not cast out from colonial forebears. We did not tear asunder the bonds of kinship, of culture, of loyalty from the nation which first sponsored our struggling colony here on Sauron, or from the Home World of Earth which supported us as we grew to our own maturity.
“No, we did not gain this state through violence; rather we have earned our place in this universe by the fruit of our own labors. We have worked to make our world wealthy. We have strived to make our culture rich. We have suffered to make our people safe. And we have dreamed, to make all our efforts worthwhile.
“It has been nine years since the Great Tragedy that devastated the Home World in a nuclear fire of wasted ambition and petty, nationalistic squabbles. We of Sauron are all descended from that Home World, and while we forever grieve for the loss of Earth, we resolve too that we shall never embrace the twin follies that destroyed her; provincialist nationalism coupled with an unwillingness to see the greater destiny that awaits the human race in the vast expanses of the galaxy.”
Voorhees was sitting in the back of a diplomatic limousine, listening to a recording of the Autonomy Day speech by First Citizen Kallas of Sauron.
Not a bad speech, he thought, although it is a terrible name for a holiday. And whatever speechwriter came up with that “provincialist nationalism” phrase should be sterilized.
Contrary to the First Citizen’s avowal, Voorhees did not, in fact, grieve over Earth’s fate. On the one hand, he felt such grieving would be hypocritical; his own agents’ role in supporting the Russo-American nationalist groups had certainly been part of America and Russia collapsing into the nuclear war that had rendered large portions of the Earth a poisonous, mass grave. And, while unfortunate, Voorhees did not consider the ‘Great Tragedy’ either especially great nor even particularly tragic; extinction was a part of life, after all. It was merely an example of what one of his professors had described as “evolution in action”.