by Jesse Gordon
The rotations were molten, especially now that the early part of the season was out of the way, and the Olympic hopefuls had been replaced by the gold medalists. In the preliminary exercises, Monica was allowed to perform without any fake-outs, a necessary strategy considering the skill and temperament demonstrated by many of the NAU’s opponents—namely China, whose girls seemed able to turn any situation into an advantage.
Hades reminded Monica of this early on. As such, her floor routine was heavy on the butt wiggles and pelvic thrusts, the winks and kisses—eye candy to accompany the goods. No, it wasn’t her style; yes, it pleased the judges across the board and earned her a score that would almost certainly carry her into the finals.
As she prepared for the uneven bars:
“How hard can you make a giant look?” asked Hades.
“I can add a little hesitation on the rotation,” Monica replied, adjusting her grips. “Maybe put a little uncertainty in there…though we never practiced fake-outs on the bars.”
“I know.” Hades looked thoughtful for a moment. “But I think we need a little improvisation.”
“Is that what the voice on the other end of the phone line told you?”
“That’s none of your business,” Hades said.
“I’m only kidding—”
“Focus.”
Monica frowned. Lighten up, she thought, and stepped beneath the high bar, oriented herself appropriately, tapping into the mind-body rhythm, feeling the bounce in the material beneath her feet, smelling the odor of sweat and chalk dust, tuning out the expectant silence coming from those watching her—
—and then bam! The flow was suddenly disrupted.
It was difficult to keep track of what was happening. One instant Monica was tensing up, hopping off the podium and reaching for the bar; the next Hades was diving towards her, clasping her around the waist, lifting, lunging, tearing her away as a cacophony of screams and shouts exploded all around.
“Gunfire!” he cried, and bore her to the floor.
Tompkins was there in an instant. With a small fleet of men surrounding her, Monica (along with Hades) was rushed off the podium and guided towards the nearest exit. She caught only glimpses here and there along the way: a stream of medics rushing in, a spattering of blood across one of the vault runways, an athlete laying flat on her back—then she was out, away, being directed through the corridors with Lisa and Autumn haphazardly following along, asking what had happened.
“The competition is over,” Monica breathed, panting, stumbling between nightmare and reality.
Someone had been shot.
* * *
Contrary to Monica’s preliminary assumptions, she and her teammates weren’t taken back to their hotel room, but were shuttled back to Olympus instead. There, they were allowed to quickly shower and change into their street clothes before being called into their quarters for an emergency meeting with Hades, Tracie, and Linda.
“Oh, my little darlings,” said Linda, pacing. “How traumatic this must be for you!”
“But I didn’t see anything,” complained Kristen, as if she’d missed the good part in a movie.
“Yeah,” piped Lisa. “Does anyone know what happened?”
Monica started to explain what she’d seen, but Tracie cut her off.
“Someone—an athlete, yes—was injured, but the authorities need to look into it. They need us to do our job so they can do theirs. It’s important that we don’t trip any false alarms. Our responsibility is to prepare for the next meet, and not to spend our time spreading rumors, so please, don’t talk about this with anyone.”
Monica snuck a glance at Hades who, for the moment, looked nothing like the tyrannical super-foe she’d come to know during her time aboard Olympus. He stood leaning against the bulkhead, arms folded, face cheerless, eyes opaque. He’s more of a pawn than I am, she thought. Holy shit, why didn’t I see it before? He’s about to burst into tears…
Autumn raised her hand. “Can we at least call our parents to let them know we’re all right?”
Linda nodded. “Of course, sweetie. Just remember: we don’t want to upset them, we want to reassure them. Do you think you can handle that?”
The girls nodded their heads.
“Splendid.” Linda stepped towards the door. “Now, if you ladies will follow me, there’s a transport waiting.”
Monica filed out of the room along with the others. Tompkins, Kim, and Cross were waiting at the stripe entrance. For once Monica didn’t mind them being there.
In the promenade belt (the home stripe computer terminals were still, suspiciously, having messenger problems), the team found an Internet cafe. Linda ordered everyone tea and muffins; the guards waited near the entrance, nervous, edgy.
Monica parked herself at one of the terminals and dialed her parents, who looked immensely relieved to see her alive and well.
“Oh, Monica!” exclaimed Sharon. “Thank goodness! We were watching the videocasts—we didn’t know what to think!”
“What happened?” asked Mike. “We heard there was an explosion?”
Off-screen, Tracie looked at Monica warningly.
“I…I can’t say right now,” said Monica. She became aware of a tremor in her voice, and compensated by clearing her throat. “I mean…I don’t know. They got us out of there so fast. I’m okay, though. All of us are. We’re back on Olympus.”
Sharon frowned, hugging Mike. “I don’t like this. I want her home right now.”
“Relax, hon,” said Mike. “It’s all right. Monica, is there anyone there we can talk to? Your coaches? An administrator?”
Nodding, Monica stepped away from the terminal, allowed Linda to take her place. She sipped her tea and watched with mild appreciation as her parents were expertly reassured that everything was under control, that Team USA was as safe as could be, ready for practice first thing tomorrow morning.
“Look at her wheel and deal.”
Monica turned slightly, found that Lisa was standing beside her.
“I never realized how dangerous this could be.”
“Neither did I,” said Monica.
“People hate us, don’t they? They want to take away America’s points. They want to kill us. I see why being here counts towards our military service. It’s like being on a battlefield.”
Isn’t it? Monica thought, knowing Lisa had come to her, the team captain, for some kind of solace—but she had none to give. Moreover, it was taking considerable effort to keep her hands from shaking. “I’m sure it was an accident. Someone drunk, rowdy.”
Lisa looked doubtful. “But you said you saw someone get shot.”
“I said…” Monica bit her lip. “That’s what it looked like. I wasn’t…I mean…” She swallowed. She wasn’t sure what she’d seen or heard. Blood, an injured athlete, a loud bang that may or may not have been caused by gunfire. “I don’t know.”
Jackie came over.
“They’re not talking,” she said, and nodded at Tompkins’ men. “They don’t want to upset us. As if we’re little kids!”
“Coach Tracie is nuts, then,” said Lisa. “She doesn’t want us to talk about what we don’t know!”
“And tomorrow morning,” said Jackie, “we’re just supposed to go to practice like nothing’s happened!”
Kristen joined them. And after her, Autumn and Britney. They swapped conspiracy theories while Monica, hiding behind her cup, listened and formulated a couple of her own. After a few minutes, Linda called her back to her terminal.
“That Linda’s a very nice person,” said Sharon as Monica took her seat. “I’m glad she’s with you and the girls.”
“Yeah,” said Monica. “She’s…unique.”
“Are you going to manage up there?”
“Sure.”
Sharon frowned, still looking like she wanted her on the next shuttle home. “If you say so—but please call us as soon as you hear something, okay?”
“I will.”
“
Your father and I think it’s commendable what you’re doing for your country and your community. We love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
* * *
Hades gave the girls the rest of the afternoon off. While the others defaulted to painting their toenails or listening to their music players (and since John’s team had yet to return to the station), Monica made use of her time doing research. Sitting in the lounge, she used her notebook to search for news bits regarding the Onyx Cup incident. To her surprise, there was very little information available—which was suspicious considering the number of camera crews that had been present.
Did Hades and Tracie get to everyone? she wondered. Or did I imagine it as worse than it really was? Unless they’re all in this together. Not willing—not allowed—to broadcast the truth. If there was a truth to begin with. So far, it was only the fans who were feeding the buzz. Monica couldn’t join any of the chat rooms, but she could view the transcripts.
The one for #herofanz was interesting:
chalkdust_brat: I think it’s a stunt.
islandtumbler: You think that about everything.
chalkdust_brat: No, really, I do.
islandtumbler: You think they killed an athlete for publicity?
chalkdust_brat: No, but that’s what they want you to think. Get everyone riled up. Patriotic. I bet you lunch at Mickey D’s tomorrow that big bad China gets the blame.
islandtumbler: Why China?
chalkdust_brat: Because that’s who we’re at war with. We act all friendly with them in the spirit of the game, but the media doesn’t want us to forget that they’re trying to screw us over with outrageous manufacturing prices. A couple of Americans or American allies offed by Chinese radicals will certainly get the rest of us in an ass-kicking mood in time for Heroes’ Day.
islandtumbler: Why you gotta diss the sport by talking about evil politicians pushing buttons in smoke-filled rooms like that?
chalkdust_brat: It’s true. Just look at that Sardinia girl. So obvious.
islandtumbler: Don’t you go bad-mouthing my little Monica, now.
chalkdust_brat: Watch her routines this season. Check her scores. Then check the world market conditions. Soy prices go one way, her scores are adjusted. Biofuel prices go another and she aces everything. They make it look as random as possible, but if you’re careful you can spot the patterns.
islandtumbler: That’s like football or baseball. The endorsement whores. Gymnastics is about the presentation—not the enforcement. As much as the military tries, they can’t spoil it for the rest of us. Monica knows that. You can see it in her routines. I have the sneaky feeling she doesn’t just say “yes” to everything her coaches tell her.
chalkdust_brat: You’re such a fanboy.
islandtumbler: I’m conscious of my own healthy obsession, yes.
Monica read a few more lines, but the rest of the conversation devolved into a heated debate concerning gymnasts’ legs and butts. She wondered, though, if chalkdust_brat had a point, wondered if he’d noticed any of the in-meet phone calls or if he was aware of the whole notion of fake-outs. If there was a direct connection—
“Hey, kitten.”
Monica looked up. John was standing over her. From the looks of him, he’d just stepped off the shuttle. “The NAU is calling all its teams back to Olympus. Something about a lock-down.”
Shutting off her notebook, Monica left the couch and slipped into his arms. He kissed her on the forehead, smiled a moment. It was the most miserable smile she’d ever seen.
“What is it?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.
“I…I don’t know how to tell you this, but…I haven’t slept at all in five months, haven’t eaten like I’m supposed to. I always feel sick.”
“Oh, John…”
She moved with him to the far end of the lounge. They sat together, and John let it all out in hushed, earnest tones:
“Pheromones in my body spray. I never had to act the right way or say the right things. They told me I was guaranteed a spot on the national team. I…I was to distract you. They knew the States were investing in some ‘special training’ for one of their top girls. Once they figured out it was you, they told me I was to become your friend. I was, if you let me…I was to do other things as well. It would be a boon to us if the U.S. team captain was removed from the roster due to, say, an unfortunate accident or…or an unexpected pregnancy—I thought I was serving my community. Yellowknife is a frigid little town. My sponsors got desperate. They promised Gymnastics Canada that they had an athlete who would do the things all the others had refused to do. I went along with it because…because it was unreal to me. The Patriot world was a videocast fantasy. I didn’t know any better. Now I do…and I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry, Monica…”
Eventually he ran out of steam and simply hung his head, sobbing softly.
Monica didn’t know what to say. How were you supposed to respond when someone you loved told you to your face that he’d been trying to screw you over as part of an assignment? She recalled her first Sunday aboard Olympus, sitting up in the oak tree with John…how he’d reacted when she’d mentioned his being a secret weapon—she’d assumed his discomfort had been due to his wanting to ask her out, but now she realized it had been something else entirely.
When she could finally manage words, she quietly asked, “Would you have raped me?”
John’s face became ashen. “No! Of course not! I mean, the sponsors, they always stressed the ‘by any means possible’ part, but I wouldn’t have done it—”
“In the spa room,” Monica interrupted. “That night of the party—if I hadn’t broken it off would you have gone all the way with me?”
John tried unsuccessfully to hold her hand. “I wouldn’t have done it. Not…not for the reasons they wanted me to—”
Monica jerked out of her seat, stood on wobbly legs, felt herself shudder in disbelief that friendly, amiable John Matusik had orders to seek out, befriend, and fuck an opposing team member. Or worse. It was disgusting.
“Monica—”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’ve been hanging around with me as an assignment.”
“I’d rather be disqualified forever.” John stood and smiled wanly. “I’d rather die than hurt you.”
There was a chill creeping up Monica’s spine. Besides John and herself, the lounge was empty. Here, alone with this saboteur-boy, taller than she, with his gymnast’s build—he could have his way with her right now if he wanted. There was no telling when the security guards might next happen by.
She started towards the exit.
John followed her. “Monica, please…”
“I have to think this over,” she said.
She grabbed her notebook and ran from the room.
CHAPTER 37
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Monica spent the first hour in bed sobbing with her face pressed into her pillow (the other girls either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and so kept away). The second hour she merely lay on her back and stared at the ceiling as the tears dried on her cheeks. There were so many unanswered questions; her brain refused to allow her rest until she found some answers. But where to look? And what was she looking for?
She glanced at the alarm clock.
23:37.
She grabbed socks and sweatpants from her cubby, left her bunk.
Autumn stirred, cleared her throat. “Monica? Is that you?”
Monica cursed under her breath and quickly slipped into her clothes. “Go back to sleep.”
“What are you doing?”
“I have to go to the bathroom. Go back to sleep.”
Autumn mumbled something, half asleep, and rolled over onto her side.
Out in the corridor, Monica’s socked feet made no noise against the floor. At first she headed towards the bathroom—but changed course when she heard familiar voices drifting out from the lounge area a few doors down. Upon reaching the entrance, s
he crouched and peeked inside. Hades and Tracie, both dressed down for the night, were seated at one of the tables and were talking—talking.
“What do you want me to say?” Tracie asked. “There’s a threat, of course there is. Our people are dealing with it.”
“There have always been threats,” said Hades, “but this is the first time anyone’s actually gotten hurt.”
“People are always getting hurt. We’re at war.”
“You know what I mean. The whole point of Patriot athletics is to put a friendly facade on the Global Ranking System—what happens when the casualties start appearing in our arenas and stadiums instead of out on the front lines?”
“You want to take them to task?” Tracie folded her arms. “Is that what you want to do? Spend the next ten years of your life in court spouting conspiracy theories at the NPAA—while in the meantime they’ve simply found another coach, another team to carry on right where we left off?”
Hades kneaded his temples. “I’m simply tired of the lies. If we win, we’re screwed because we’re reinforcing the stereotype. If we lose, we’re screwed because it means the Patriot System doesn’t work. Either way I’m supposed to shrug it off, wake up tomorrow morning and have practice with the girls as if everything’s peachy—I can’t. I can’t, Brenda. That poor girl…it could just as easily have been Jackie, or Britney. Or, God forbid, Monica.”
“We were told there would be a lottery. You do your time. We all do.”
“I already did mine—sixteen years ago. Zor knew that, but he found a loophole anyway.
Tracie sighed wearily. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. Our girls might hear.”
“Let them hear,” said Hades. “It won’t make any difference in the end.”
“Alas, we’re not at the end. We’re in the middle. Have you been drinking?”
