Loser

by Valerie J. Long

  “Number three—I had nothing to lose. I could freely run riot, there were no outside constraints. I don’t have sponsors or a trainer, nobody who would have cared if I win or lose here and now.”

  “And that shall suffice for such a result?”

  I shrugged. “I can only say—it did suffice. I’m relaxed. I don’t care if someone regards me as doped. I guess, even with all known methods of doping, my competitors couldn’t have beaten me today. Anyway, I’ve only achieved this result for myself, and I know how I have to judge my result. You can praise me or condemn me, that won’t change a thing for me.”

  “You don’t care for clean sports?”

  No, meanwhile I don’t. It so doesn’t matter. “I didn’t say that. I am clean. I don’t need doping. I have no reason—if I want to know how good I am, doping is just the wrong way. I don’t have sponsors, and I don’t want any. Big money is thus ruled out. But I don’t care if you believe me or not. Counter-question—who of you believes that clean sport exists? Well?”

  For a few seconds, there was an embarrassed silence, which led the officials to the false idea that my impromptu press conference would be over. Firm protest from the press people quickly clarified the situation. Anyway—instead of the initial mess, they were quite disciplined now. As the reporters had understood that I was willing to take my time for their questions, they didn’t have to fire their questions within the first half minute.

  “An entirely different question, Johanna Meier. Do you know your namesake, who invented the Meier effect?”

  The other reporters, who just had started to raise their own questions, paused curiously. Some obviously didn’t know what to do with that question. Crap. No, I wouldn’t lie, and as I was about to die tonight, it didn’t matter anymore.

  “You’re relating to the effect of improved guidance of gravitons by multiple control impulses, which are decrypted locally by an orthogonal signal, so that all gravitons in the right place are addressed with a universal signal. The energy consumption of a gravitational field could be reduced by a factor of one-hundred-and-twenty compared to the previous, simple solution in the first laboratory test—a true breakthrough. No, she’s no namesake of mine.”

  Some of those present were already guessing toward the solution. The questioner was still clueless. “But her name is Johanna Meier, too? You must’ve intensely delved into her work if you can explain it so well.”

  “Of course I’ve delved into that matter. I developed this theory. I’m the one, myself.”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Three

  Okay—for one evening I was Supergirl, Superbrain, Ironwoman, the heroine of Honolulu, and I reveled in the attention. The press conference in the finish area was disbanded, the party relocated to the yacht harbor. There, on an industry tycoon’s ship, I found the opportunity for a shower and could exchange the sweaty jersey for a comfy tee shirt dress. A girl from the crew offered to get me bra and panties. I declined. What for?

  I gladly accepted the occasional glass of champagne, even if that drink only shared its name with Ronnie’s precious stuff. It surely wasn’t from France. However, it was well suited to make scantily dressed girls happy, careless, and uninhibited. Suited to then lure this girl to a lonely corner on the ship, preferably an unoccupied cabin, and screw her there.

  Only to find out in surprise, how this girl then turned the table and broke the hunter in good and proper, as I liked to do to my victims. Condom? What for? Tonight I want to feel alive, tomorrow I’m dead, and aside from that—but you don’t know—I have my nanos.

  I briefly mused if I should change my plans and go overboard drunk—no, drowning was an unpleasant death. It would become unpleasant anyway. I didn’t need a lengthy phase of suffocation on top of it.

  Close to midnight, I caught myself thinking of postponing my departure from life again. No way! I called myself to order and said goodbye to my host. “It was a long, strenuous day, and I don’t feel really well now.”

  “Shall I call you a taxi?” he asked, concerned.

  “I’d like to walk a few steps. I need the fresh air.”

  So I left the party and started my way in the general direction of my hotel—and toward my appointment with my death.

  Even if I had moved this idea around in my mind for weeks, it didn’t come easy to me to pull this plan through now. I love my life, fuck all! I felt fear. Fear that something could go wrong. Fear that my feigned death could become true death, but even more about what could happen to my corpse.

  Dragon crap—it would be even less fun to be killed by the Cartel or tortured to death. So don’t bitch around girl, but get going, I commanded myself. Yes’m, I confirmed and mentally clicked my heels. To death, four, three, two, one—

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Four

  Dead.

  Cardiac arrest.

  It hadn’t hurt at all. My nanos had suppressed the respective nerve signals. My body lay in a kind of hibernation. A first inspection couldn’t tell that I was still alive.

  The easy part was done thus. Thereafter, I had to wait until someone found my lifeless body and reported the find. On his arrival, the emergency doctor could only register my death—no heartbeat, no breath, no mind activity, at least my nanos didn’t let anything show. My body was brought to the morgue. Without signs of violence, nobody felt immediate necessity to initiate an autopsy and cut my body open. I was only stored.

  I didn’t notice much more, after all I was dead, wasn’t I? My nanos had to keep me alive without giving me away by heartbeat, breath, or body temperature, so my brain didn’t receive much blood. It just sufficed to prevent the brain cells’ die-off and recall me to life when time came—that is, when nobody was around.

  After the rubbish dump story, which I hadn’t experienced consciously, this was my second resurrection. This time I had my nanos’ support, which helped me to overcome the worst side effects. Nevertheless, it felt like a mix of hangover, muscle-ache, limbs gone numb, and severe influenza. Moreover, it was darn cold in the morgue, so I developed goose bumps and began to tremble. In short—I felt lousy.

  Having in mind that I was actually dead, I fared relatively well. I only had to pull myself together and take care of stealing my corpse before anybody spotted me. Very likely, I only wasn’t in my fridge drawer because someone had plans with my body, and those people were just taking a break.

  I glanced around. Okay, tiled walls, bright white diode light from above, metal side table on wheels. On it lay several ugly-looking scalpels, hooks and clamps. The operation table I was reclining on was made of metal, too. Of course, I was naked—oh—and already partially cut open!

  My nanos had recalled the blood from the belly region, so that I couldn’t run dry—that would have been conspicuous for a seasoned corpse. Now, I urgently needed the blood circulation and my belly muscles, though. Carefully, I removed clamps, pads and hooks from my belly, closed the abdominal wall, and then waited until the worst damages had healed. This part could remain numb for another while, please.

  The first attempt to sit up failed entirely. The room circled around me with what felt like five-thousand rounds per second, and I lay flat again. Slowly. This way the second attempt worked, and no, it didn’t feel good, thanks for asking.

  Cautiously, I stepped to the only, two-winged door. Two portholes were meant to prevent people pushing the door into each other’s face, but also helped to make sure that the next room was empty. Fine.

  I wasn’t interested in the desk, but the lab coat on a hat stand helped me. One pocket contained a surgical mask—even better! Now, I needed a pair of shoes, but I didn’t want to be ungrateful. Until now, it had gone well!

  I only had to get out, then break in again, pretend to steal myself, and escape a second time, before the pathologist finished his break. Easy.

  Of course it wasn’t as easy—steps came closer, so his break was already over. It would be a shock if he came in and found his corpse almost nude, but alive and
with a miraculously healed belly wound next to his desk!

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Five

  A pity—but I couldn’t allow that. A carefully measured blow sent the doc to the land of dreams right after entering the room. A quick glance—was he followed by anyone? No—I closed the door.

  His clothes were too large for me, but I made them fit. Pants, shirt, lab coat, cap—oh yes, I was shaved—I stuffed the shoes, then I could pass for a short physician.

  Now, I fetched the wheeled side table and decorated it with a sheet hanging down both sides—in a way that a folded corpse hidden on the lower tray wouldn’t show. So prepared, I started on my way to an inconspicuous rear exit.

  I carefully wiped each door with a cloth, the same way as I had treated the tools before. My fingerprints shouldn’t show here, as the dead don’t touch door handles. On my way, I procured wet towels from a bathroom.

  Finally, I reached a storage room that looked appropriate to me. Yes—with an outside window, fine. I could open the window normally, then I climbed outside, closed it as well as I could and broke it, muffling the noise with a wet towel. Quickly I was inside again, brushed the shards aside, and then I fetched my wheeled table and feigned to pull a body through the open window. The sheet would leave some textile strands behind on the frame.

  No, of course, I didn’t do the entire tour three times. On my single way out, I left all the traces that I should have caused on my way in, including wipe traces on the right side of the door. I even created tracks of towel-wrapped shoes on the grass, which led to the broken window and, with significantly deeper prints, left from there. I had to jump for that.

  Again I looked around—there were no immediate observers—and ambled off. I felt like running, I only needed someone yelling after me, but my years-long training helped me to remain calm and inconspicuous. The difference between shoplifting and stealing a corpse isn’t big.

  Now I had to truly disappear. With the lab coat, I wouldn’t get far—or people would start to remember. No, in a garbage container a few blocks away, I waited for nightfall. Waiting dead on a pile of garbage could become a bad habit. In any case, I could use that time to heal my belly wound. The window climbing hadn’t done me good, but my nanos repaired it all.

  I needed something edible, urgently. The garbage didn’t smell appetizing, but I explored a bit and found slightly moldered pizza remainders. Could decayed food harm me? No, my nano-supported intuition told me. The nutritive value was more important.

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Six

  I didn’t return to my hotel room. Instead I visited a place where I had hidden a starter kit—after all, I hadn’t met my death unprepared.

  The plastic garbage bag released a small backpack, which in turn provided me with pants, tee shirt, shoes and a fashionable cap. I dressed after having brushed myself with a soapy cloth, washed with the content of a water bottle and dried with a towel—now I also smelled more like a civilized human.

  Before I could leave Hawaii, I needed a new identity. I had prepared that, too. I had violated my principles and not only stolen money but also a blank ID, and had completed it accordingly. For leaving the USA, it should suffice, as it also had sufficed for a return ticket to Germany, due three days from now.

  However, the biometrical data, which I had stored into this ID during a nightly visit to the registration office in a suburb of Wiesbaden, had to match the new Johanna Meier alias. So—like back then—I had to slightly change my fingerprints and retina pattern again. Miracles of Dragon technology!

  I had three days left until my flight. On my plan were relaxing, plenty of food, and growing my hair back. I already had found a less expensive room in a hotel mainly for budget tourists.

  Old and new newspapers were stacked in the foyer. Ironwoman Dies Of Heart Attack they had headlined, and Corpse Stolen From Morgue—Fetishists Under Suspicion was on the latest issue. Okay, that was the way I had wanted it.

  “Sad, isn’t it?”

  I looked up. A young man pointed at the headline and smiled. “I’ve always believed that this sport can’t be healthy. We’re simply not built for such a long-time strain.”

  “Yes, sad,” I agreed. “She was about my age. Heart attack. I’ve never thought about that. It could happen to me, too.”

  “That’s only the sports. Oh—sorry. You’re looking quite toned, too.”

  “Sure. Some running is good for my shape.”

  “Well, you really can’t deny the success.” He ogled me extensively.

  “You like what you see?”

  “You bet. May I invite you for a beer tonight?”

  That earned him my nicest smile. “Gladly. And what shall we do until then?”

  Until then, I could play the ingenuous lover, but not the experienced whore! Here I was an ordinary woman who had had a few men before. I couldn’t show my tricks.

  Thus we left it at two nice fucks with a few position changes, which he might consider creative. I was happy with his member staying hard and his restraint until I was ready. In short, it was quite nice.

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Seven

  See Hawaii and die. Here ended the path of life of the Dragon technician and Ironwoman Johanna Meier. Here, I left not only my bicycle behind, but my entire life. As Sara Schmidt, I left Hawaii, as any passenger by the initials J.M. would have been suspicious.

  At the airport I kept to my successful approach—I was the inconspicuous Mrs. Anybody. My hair was shorter than before, but significantly longer than the one of a corpse shaven only three days ago. My eye color didn’t match, I left fingerprints for those who might check them, and my body posture also suggested a different woman from the athlete. I looked like me, just alike enough to make any observer discard me. If I’d been member of the Cartel, I’d have observed the airport for a while for someone looking like Johanna Meier.

  Upon arrival, I had to fear the same even more—Frankfurt was too dangerous. To be easily traceable from the passenger lists as Sara Schmidt was not an option. So I missed my connecting flight in L.A. and booked a new flight to Washington, D.C., where I purchased a ticket to London. In London, the trace of Sara Schmidt disappeared.

  As Josephine Meyer, I began my new life there. The ferry carried me to Calais, from where I continued by train—no more passenger lists.

  Practically, I had to start from scratch. I had no certificates, no education records, and if I didn’t want to have the Cartel on my heels within a week, I couldn’t return to my old profession and old habits. Prostitution was as much out of the question as Dragon technology. I’d never again run an Ironman or even a marathon. I didn’t know yet whether I’d resume gambling. The only main occupation left was the thief. Nobody except Ronnie knew about it, and if he hadn’t told the Cartel yet, he probably wouldn’t do it later—particularly if he considered me dead. I had to take that chance.

  I also had to get rid of my Hessian accent, so I relocated my efforts to the coast. The rich moneybags in Hamburg would be a worthwhile target.

  The straightforward way in which I had approached my passing hadn’t left me much time for thoughts on the thereafter. So I arrived in Germany, retrieved my changed Phoebe from her hideout, and began successful burglaries along the northern German coast.

  This life had its quirks. I owned a new, falsified ID by the name of Josephine Meyer, and this name and the biometrical data were registered in Wiesbaden, but beyond that, I didn’t exist. No birth certificate, no school records, no education, no driver’s license. If I ran into a police checkpoint, I’d be in trouble.

  I hadn’t kept Phoebe’s license plate, either. Ronnie might wonder what happened with the car after my death. It simply wouldn’t show up again. Okay, I had procured another license plate, but it wasn’t registered—another issue.

  I partially evaded the problem by finally leaving Germany.

  That is, I basically had nothing left. Without name, without home, without past, I was sitting on the ruins of my fo
rmer life. I was in search of a meaning of my existence, and the only meaning I could come up with was that of a master thief. Accordingly, I chose more challenging targets.

  First successes soon cropped up. I explored my targets thoroughly, but inconspicuously. I worked diligently and calmly, cancelled a mission if the situation required it and stuck to my principle to only steal money or easy-to-replace items, most importantly no recognizable valuables. So far it had worked out.

  Part Fourteen—Dungeon

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Eight

  It didn’t pay to stare into the darkness of my cell, so I kept my eyes closed and listened. Nothing stirred near my cell. There were only few clear perceptions. First—the pain in my ribcage that slowly faded. The healing made good progress. Second—the smell of my own excrements from the bucket at the foot of my bunk. Third—the unpleasant feeling of reclining on the same bunk. Fourth—the cold of this uncomfortable cellar, trying to penetrate my body.

  I had elaborately pondered why I was here. Now I should consider how I’d leave. I couldn’t depend for long on one cheese sandwich and two bottles of water.

  I wasn’t at all up for a visit to the large playroom with all the interesting torture devices, so I couldn’t stay until the landlord’s arrival. How soon would he return? Originally, he shouldn’t return before the painters were finished in the tower, but how would he react when he learned about a visitor? Moreover, about a visitor for his playroom?

  No, I didn’t want to know that. According to my research, he couldn’t arrive until the next evening, and by then, I’d be miles away. It was time to leave this inhospitable place. Bart had kindly told me what I needed to know—if I made noises down here, they wouldn’t hear me, neither my cries nor the short crack of a broken lock.