Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  John nodded knowingly. “So’s my father. Always chattering about goals and having a grand vision for your team, your club, your country—but as soon as you make the slightest mistake, he’s about as eloquent as an elephant on a unicycle.”

  Several seats down, John’s father snorted and said, “It’s a constant struggle between my alleged ineloquence and my son’s spastic attention span.”

  Monica giggled. “Is that true?”

  “Certainly not!” John exclaimed. “I’ve enough of an attention span to have competed at several international competitions, where I’ve won a number of medals and certificates. Of course, this is my first shot at becoming a Hero.”

  “Same here, except this season it will be my first time competing internationally—ever.”

  “Wow,” said Dean, the lanky gymnast sitting across from John and Monica. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” replied Monica, “but I guess since everyone thinks this will be the United States’ last term aboard Olympus, our athletic coordinators are betting a shakedown is just what our program needs. Whether or not it works, though…”

  John said, “You must feel a lot of pressure from your countryfolk.”

  “I don’t think it’s really sunk in all the way yet. You know, being here and on the team. I imagine that will change once the season begins and we start competing in front of an audience. I’m more worried about adjusting to my new coaches at the moment.”

  “If it’s any help, you looked great during practice.”

  Monica folded her arms. “Shouldn’t you have been focusing on your own routines?”

  Dean cooed; another of the boys wrapped his arm around John’s neck and ran his knuckles against his scalp.

  “It’s true what Coach Matusik says,” Dean chuckled. “John’s always letting his attention wander—that’s why his scores can always be tallied on one hand.”

  During a half-hearted attempt to wriggle free, John said, “It’s not my fault! She’s the one who looked so magnificent in that cute little American leotard of hers!”

  Monica felt herself blush. She liked the idea that he thought she looked “magnificent.” It wasn’t at all like when Pat hit on her with his desperate, blatant pickup lines disguised as careless humor—vain attempts to acquire a suitable mate before the supposed apocalypse. John seemed fun. Certainly he was hitting on her (something all boys did whenever they acted that certain way around girls), but she didn’t mind. It made her feel deliciously appreciated.

  After a moment, John’s father clapped his hands and ordained order.

  John’s teammate let him go. He re-situated his jacket and asked Monica, “Are you free on Sunday?”

  “Yeah,” replied Monica, recalling Tracie’s having mentioned that Sundays were recuperation days for athletes—no training allowed. “I can’t wait to visit the promenade belt. It’s a bit claustrophobic here without windows, if you ask me.”

  “Windows are always nice.” John glanced around the cafeteria. “Nicer than all these silly video screens. A view of Earth would be sublime.”

  “The station’s rotation would make you dizzy,” Monica said.

  “You know what’s making me dizzy right now?”

  Monica shook her head. “What?”

  “The way your coach is trying to burn a hole through your head from across the room.”

  Monica turned and looked at the U.S. table. Sure enough, Tracie was giving her The Eye. Lisa, Kristen, and Alana sat with heads bowed, shoulders slumped.

  “I’d better get back,” Monica said, standing.

  John stood, too. “Yes, you’d better.”

  “I enjoyed watching your wrestling skills.”

  “Always a pleasure.” John massaged the back of his neck. “See you on Sunday?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Sunday, then. Goodbye, Monica.”

  “Bye, John.”

  Back at her own table, Monica sat down and smiled smugly.

  Tracie cleared her throat. “Monica.”

  “Yes?”

  “Look at me.”

  Monica looked at her.

  “I don’t like you fraternizing with the enemy.”

  “They’re just being friendly.”

  “Perhaps,” said Tracie, “but don’t forget: they’re taking jobs from our workers, products from our store shelves, food from our children’s mouths.”

  “That’s competition stuff—in the gym. Or aren’t we allowed to be regular people during our lunch break?”

  The other girls’ eyes darted to and fro between Monica and Tracie.

  Tracie leaned forward. “Monica, dear, this isn’t little old Waukesha County anymore, and you’re not here just to earn a few extra ameros for your club. You’re a Patriot now—act like one. I don’t want you wandering off like that again. Do you understand?”

  Monica frowned. “Yes, Coach Tracie.”

  “Now,” said Tracie, “all of us are to sit quietly and wait for lunch to be over. Are we clear?”

  The girls nodded.

  Monica’s stomach grumbled.

  She wished she’d eaten John’s roll.

  CHAPTER 18

  On Earth, classes at Hamilton had been a necessary evil. On Olympus, school time offered a welcome (and Tracie-free!) reprieve, as Mr. McDonald, the instructor, was just about the only person in uniform who wasn’t on the clock, uptight, or generally stressed-out—though this might have had something to do with the fact that his classroom was mostly empty, save for Monica and her teammates. (Normally the girls’ Patriot team had twenty to thirty athletes on its roster going into a new season, but as recent events had shown, Monica’s team was anything but normal.)

  “I like a small group,” McDonald said once he’d taken roll and gotten the girls to arrange their chairs in a circle near the head of the room. “You get a good give and take this way.”

  For the majority of their class time, he had the team work through a collection of general worksheets, covering mathematics, English, and science. The last twenty minutes were devoted to current events, and began with a question:

  “Why did that group of extremists stage the Alabama Massacre?”

  “Because they’re crazy,” said Kristen, raising her hand.

  Lisa chuckled softly.

  “But they were Mexican,” said McDonald. “They were our neighbors, part of the North American Union. Why would they turn on their own?”

  “Lots of people hurt each other,” said Lisa. “It doesn’t matter if they’re NAU members or not.”

  McDonald considered. “Then terrorists—or in this case political extremists—do what they do simply to do it?”

  Monica raised her hand. “Terrorists act on behalf of their benefactors. The people who employed the radicals behind the Massacre don’t consider the NAU as ‘their own.’ They see the Global Ranking System as a U.S.-instigated movement dictating to the United Nations who gets what. They cling to outdated values and traditions, most of which serve the self instead of the whole. So, naturally, they feel it’s futile to attempt to find a solution to their problems via council talks. They use their own drastic measures to dictate terms to the government via the media.”

  “Said terms being…?”

  “Forcing others to concede to their wishes through the use of violence.”

  McDonald nodded. “That’s an interesting perspective. How did you come up with it?”

  Monica shrugged and said, “There was a political commentary piece on the news.”

  “Do you think it was accurate?”

  “I think people can disagree, and they can sometimes show their dissatisfaction in a violent or unorthodox way. An ‘act now, think later’ kind of thing.”

  “Maybe they’re just trying to feed their families,” said Alana.

  “Go on,” McDonald said.

  Alana swallowed as everyone looked at her. “Well, the NAU has only been around for a few decades. Many sectors are still adjusting to the re
percussions. I mean, it’s basically large-scale tribalism, getting the protection of, say, a unified military, or a one-size-fits-all monetary system, at the expense of a certain amount of autonomy. Mexico has long been a source of labor, but when our Patriots consistently failed to get our grants renewed, we were forced to turn over more and more of what we produced—using Mexican factories and laborers—to competing nations. We produce for other countries, and NAU workers are tired of it. They want the ability to enjoy the fruits of their labor.”

  McDonald nodded. “It’s all about leverage, isn’t it? Dominance. The human leveraging paradigm dictates that, regardless of age, race, or social status, humans have a baseline instinct to leverage themselves over others. In previous times, we exercised leverage through out and out warfare. Now, industrialized nations agree not to bomb each other unless it’s within the context of the GRS. Military force is still necessary, but only in situations where people don’t play fair. The lot of you being competitive athletes, you should understand the concept of leverage. You agree to abide by, say, the Code of Points in exchange for a chance at a cash prize, a certificate, a medal.”

  “Only now it’s the GRS,” said Lisa. “Countries playing by certain rules to earn goods and services in return.”

  “But not all countries agree with the GRS,” said Alana. “The problem is that each nation has its own definition of ‘what’s fair.’”

  “That’s true,” said McDonald. “Do you think Heroes’ Day is fair?”

  Alana looked flustered. “Well, I…of course I do. I was just trying to show the other side of the coin.”

  “Do you think it’s fair that the United States controls Olympus?”

  Lisa raised her hand. “Somebody has to. Why not us? We built it.”

  “How about you, Monica?” McDonald asked. “Do you think the Global Ranking System is an even-handed method of allocating resources?”

  “I think it’s fair to allocate according to rank, yes.”

  “Is it fair that rank sometimes supersedes need, say in those nations with large portions of the populace living below the poverty line? Where Patriot eligibility is spotty at best?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Even though it’s sometimes necessary to use military force?”

  Monica squirmed somewhat. “It’s better to use military force to ensure people make good on their promises rather than using military force to dictate those promises in the first place.”

  “Go on.”

  “Um…” Monica trailed off, grasping at mental straws. She found Greg Keene’s office lecture coming back to her. “We restrict the fighting, the competing, to the sports arenas. The scores are turned over to the lawmakers. Then the lawmakers get together and go over who and what goes where, with the military acting as support. Back in the old days, all the fighting was done in trenches, out in the field. Today it’s…it’s more civilized.”

  McDonald leaned back in his chair, smiled strangely as he stared off into space. “Civilized illusions, eh?”

  Monica and her teammates looked at each other, a silent poll being held as to who should be the one to ask for clarification. It didn’t matter, though, because just as Lisa was raising her hand, the end-of-session bell rang.

  Time to get back to the training room.

  * * *

  The girls were back in the gym by 15:00. Afternoon practice was much the same as morning practice, with Hades and Tracie barking and yelling, continuing their tyrannical assessment of the girls’ skills. Monica’s routines were doubly hard because she knew Tracie was keeping an eye on her, looking for the tendency towards insubordination she’d shown in the cafeteria. As such, she took extra care to make sure she performed above and beyond expectation, and this meant pushing herself, ignoring cramps, aches, suppressing mental blocks.

  When quitting time came, she was thoroughly exhausted. Wordlessly, she shuffled along behind her teammates as she waited at the edge of the podium to have her various scrapes and sprains tended to (Jackie and Britney were, not surprisingly, swept away by Hades to have their showers and recuperation time elsewhere). Tracie didn’t say much as she worked the girls over with her med kit, deftly discerning between genuine injury and necessary microtrauma. At one point, when Alana started sobbing during a tendon repair, Monica watched in disbelief as Tracie took her in her arms, smoothed her hair.

  “It’s okay. It’s almost over,” she whispered. “You’re doing well.”

  Amazed, amused, Monica thought to herself, So, Coach Tracie, despite the robot exterior, you are capable of acting like a human being from time to time.

  She exchanged knowing glances with Lisa—then the moment was past, Alana’s injuries repaired, Tracie straightening, sobering, nodding for the next girl in line.

  * * *

  Back in their home stripe, the girls showered, had dinner, then retired to their quarters. Monica tossed her uniform and workout gear into the clothing sanitizer, then lay on her bunk. She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of her roommates’ winding down for the night as the day’s events flitted through her mind. Eventually, someone turned off the lights, and all was quiet, save for the muffled hum of the station’s air filtration system, the sound of sheets rustling, settling against bare skin, breath slowing, someone’s sniffling—

  —Alana’s muffled sobbing.

  Moving quietly, Monica got out of bed, grasped the frame of Alana’s bunk and hoisted herself up. She shook Alana’s shoulder. “You okay?” At first, Alana tried to make like she’d just come awake—but Monica knew better. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Alana, hiccuping inadvertently. “I was fine last night.”

  “That was last night.”

  Alana sat up somewhat and rubbed her eyes. Her tear-stained cheeks glistened in the glow of the night light. “You know how you sort of think random thoughts as you fall asleep?”

  “I’m always practicing tumbling passes in my head.”

  “Me too!” Alana smiled, then quickly frowned again. “Tonight I was thinking of Mr. McDonald’s class and how we had that political discussion.”

  “Oh, yeah. The little round table thingie. You sure made an impression.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure. You sounded smart.”

  A laugh escaped Alana’s lips. “Maybe to you, but to Mr. McDonald…I think he was trying to get to know us more than he was trying to teach those last twenty minutes.”

  “Naturally.”

  “No, I mean, like, he was feeling us up.”

  “Feeling us up?”

  “No!” Alana hissed, and giggled again. “I don’t mean it that way. I mean…” She bit her lip, thinking for a moment. “He wanted to see how patriotic we were. A test, maybe, for new recruits—I must have sounded like a hypercritic.”

  “You did not,” Monica said. “You were looking at the big picture, playing devil’s advocate, but you’re still an American. He knows who you’re loyal to.”

  Alana looked like she was struggling to maintain her smile. “It didn’t help that Coach Hades called me a ‘sabotage artist.’”

  It was true: During afternoon practice, Monica (and everyone else within earshot) had heard the ruckus as Hades had blatantly exploited one of Alana’s mistakes by insinuating her desire to intentionally bring down her team’s average.

  “That was rough,” Monica whispered.

  “He’s not like I expected,” Alana said. “He’s…he’s mean.”

  Tell me about it, Monica thought. She’d had her own epiphanies upon first meeting her shiny new coach. The idea of training under Darren Hades had been a novelty, but realistically, he was young for a coach. Volatile. Inexperienced, perhaps—just what the NPAA wanted in their bid to stir things up. A loose cannon coaching a team full of untried Patriots. “Some coaches are tough, strict—but that’s okay, because they’re just trying to motivate you to be the best you can be.”

  Alana started crying again.
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br />   Monica sighed, slipped beside her and cuddled her in her arms. “It’s your first day—it’s his first day, too. A new team, new rules. And it’s not like your coach back home never yelled at you on a bad day, right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “It’ll get better.”

  Alana wiped her face, looked at Monica. “You’re lucky. He never yells at you.”

  “Coach Tracie yells at me,” Monica said, thinking about it for a moment, unable to recall a single instance where Hades had raised his voice to her. “She didn’t like the way I answered the reporters’ questions at yesterday’s press conference. As for Coach Hades…to be honest, Alana, I don’t think he cares enough about me to waste his voice. He hardly paid any attention to me today.”

  “You’re probably better off that way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Really,” said Alana. “I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, all the press releases say how Hades was put in charge of the team because of his performance during Heroes’ Day, but wouldn’t it have made more sense to have put his trainers in charge? After all, aren’t they the ones who designed his winning routines?”

  Good point, Monica thought, though at the moment she was too tired to think much about it. “Who knows why the higher-ups do what they do? It’s just different being a Patriot. Everyone’s probably got a lot on their minds—the NPAA probably yells at our coaches as much as our coaches yell at us.”

  “I’d love to see Coach Hades getting chewed out.”

  “Maybe it will happen if we’re patient,” Monica said, and left Alana’s bunk.

  On the way down, Alana caught her by the wrist, whispered, “Thanks, Monica. I’m glad you’re our team captain. Our Big Sister.”

  “Glad I could be of assistance.”

  Monica returned to her bunk and pulled the sheets up to her chin—and was surprised to find herself shivering, considering: Is that what I really am here? A Big Sister? She wondered what it would have been like for Alana had she not made the team, had she not been there to provide a shoulder to cry on—she hoped she’d handled the situation properly, both now and throughout her first day training as a Patriot, escaping injury, dodging Hades’ eagle eye, and stoking Tracie’s temper at every turn.