by Jesse Gordon
“You blow me away. You really do.”
“I’m interested in completing my term and getting on with my life, nothing more. I do what I’m told.”
“Then you’ll be a Patriot until the day you die.”
“Thanks for the sentiment.”
“You’re welcome,” said Hades. “Look, I was an athlete. Now I’m a coach. I’ve seen both sides. We were young in my day, but they told us the truth when we signed on as Patriots. Today…these girls don’t know any better. They think they’re here to compete for gold medals, ‘may the better athlete win’ and all that bullshit. The previous team at least had an ounce of experience. They knew it was a farce, and they had the gumption to walk away from it. My team, they haven’t the slightest clue that missing a skill combination or bungling a landing sends ripples throughout the economy—in real-time. They have no idea the number of big business players who are trading score sheets like their kids trade baseball cards. Corporations are born, empires are laid to waste, and our gymnasts think it’s done in some far-off manner—Congress tallying up the number of gold medals we’ve earned on Heroes’ Day and sending off a bill to China for goods and services due or something. Textbook propaganda.” Hades’ voice wavered. “Lord, what Monica must think of me, teaching her to fake her mistakes. Her scores are good enough to do some really meaningful things for our country, but instead they have me teaching her to play dumb.”
Tracie leaned back in her chair. “Again, I ask you: what do you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Hades. He stared at the tabletop for a moment. “Send Zor a message by not showing up for practice tomorrow morning?”
“What would be the point? Zor is a pencil-pusher. He follows orders like everyone else.”
“Well, I have to do something. I can’t see myself continuing like this much longer.”
“You want my advice?” Tracie rose from her seat. “Get a good night’s rest. Get through tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.”
Monica backed away from the lounge entrance, darted into the bathroom. She waited a few minutes before returning to her quarters and climbing back into bed, her heart pounding, her thoughts fluttering. Somehow it was reassuring to know Hades was going through the same emotional turmoil she was—not because he was suffering, but because it added validity to the whole thing. She now had a reason to feel the way she’d been feeling all these months, and it wasn’t merely because she couldn’t get along with her superiors. She may have had her suspicions before, but the truth was now confirmed: there was something deep and dark going on in the world of Patriot athletics. There was a reason the NPAA had scrapped their entire team and replaced it with a group of unknowns. Team USA was supposed to be perfect, their coach a god among men able to work magic in the gym. Seasoned athletes would know too much—so the NPAA had wiped the slate entirely clean. They’d tried to erase their mistake—but therein was an even bigger mistake, an ignorance of the gradual corrosion eating away at the Patriot System’s foundation. The world loved its sweethearts, and innocence was a potent weapon of war. Young, determined faces providing an analogy for the wants—a thriving pop culture, cheap electronics, readily-available fashion and beauty items—of an entire nation. The only problem was that as demand went up, and the legal competitive ages went down, the travesty became more and more obvious.
And I’m playing right along, Monica thought, bitter, disgusted with herself. All those years learning about the Patriot System in school, but not paying enough attention to really understand what it meant… A girl with international experience would have been exposed to too many alternate forms of media. She’d know too much, she’d be too much to handle, but little old me, they knew I’d been circling America’s cage for so long that I couldn’t possibly have known the truth. And if I did, I’d be too desperate to care. I’d look the other way if it guaranteed me a spot on the national team.
The clock read half past midnight. Monica’s head was spinning. What had Hades said about her scores not being put to good use? And the lottery? What was that about? How could it have just as easily been her or her teammates who might have been injured at the Onyx Cup?
God, she thought, rolling onto her side and forcing her eyes closed. I should have started eavesdropping months ago.
CHAPTER 38
Morning practice had little to do with gymnastics. Though she worked on her skills (and helped the girls work on theirs, too), Monica’s eyes were, at all times, on Hades and Tracie, looking for betrayed secrets, evidence of last night’s conversation. Signs she might have been missing all along. There was nothing. Not a hint. These were your average, everyday coaches, tireless, unrelenting, never without a comment or critique—and meanwhile, the knot in Monica’s stomach became so tight she was sure there was a giant invisible hand slowly squeezing the life out of her. (Thankfully, Olympus’ construction team had finished the Canadians’ gym; she didn’t have to bear training in the same room with John.)
The girls thought she was merely in one of her trademark moods, and so gave her a wide berth—which was exactly what she didn’t want: to be left alone as she stewed. But that’s how it was with teammates who were younger than you. It wasn’t in their nature to care about emotions that weren’t their own.
Consequently, they were hardly paying any attention when, five minutes into lunchtime, she slipped out of the cafeteria and headed back to the home stripe. Cross accompanied her, solemn and silent. She entered the lounge, waved on one of the smart screens. She lay on her favorite couch; she was tired, wired, feeling her strength pool in all the wrong places throughout her body—nervous energy with nowhere to go.
She wasn’t aware she’d dozed off until the motion of someone sitting beside her caused her to jolt awake.
It was John.
“Oh, kitten,” he said, smiling sadly. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink.”
Monica closed her eyes, pretending to be groggy.
“I know you hate me,” John continued. “I know I’m a terrible person and there’s nothing I can do or say to take back the bad things I’ve done. I just…” He paused a moment before resting his hand on Monica’s calf. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“You’ve already apologized,” whispered Monica.
“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please believe me.”
“Now you’re being redundant.”
“So I am. But you must believe me—I don’t want us to end this way.”
Christ, is he going to do this every freaking day? Monica wondered, caught between hatred and sympathy. She understood that John had been abused by the system, and that he was hurt, confused, undoubtedly waiting to be reprimanded for not living up to his superiors’ expectations—but she was hurt, too. Remembering that moment in the spa room, she knew she’d come so close to fulfilling his assignment for him.
She pushed him away, sitting up and tucking herself against the opposite end of the couch. How could he understand? Even if he was being sincere, she wasn’t ready to take him back. It was too hard to tell what was meaningful and what was for show. Everything had been distorted. Her life, her career, her love; everything was a well-crafted lie.
“Kitten—”
“Don’t call me that,” Monica said, cutting him off. “I’m not your pet.” She turned away, facing the video screen. “Please, go.”
John didn’t say anything. The only sign of his leaving was the shifting of the couch cushion, the sound of footsteps receding from the room. Monica looked away from the screen only after she was sure he was gone. Cross was waiting patiently beside the entrance.
Enjoying the free show, you perv? she thought.
Cross continued to look straight ahead, eyes unblinking.
Monica watched him for a few minutes, not really looking at him, but rather using him as a backdrop as she pictured John in her mind’s eye. He’d looked so miserable a moment ago. She had to wonder why—for her benefit? To placate he
r for the duration here aboard Olympus before he returned to Earth and sought out his real girlfriend, someone to whom he could apply his various charms without worrying about the Canadian gymnastics office’s timetable? Or was he in love with her? Was he hurting as much as she was?
And what about me? Do I really not want to see him ever again?
Ugh!
There was too much going through her head. A short circuit was unavoidable—and, vast as it was, Olympus was making her claustrophobic. She returned to her quarters and packed her bags. Then she sat at the edge of her bunk, waited until Tracie and the girls returned from lunch to pick up their school things.
“There you are,” whispered Autumn, leaning in close as she reached for her notebook. “Coach Tracie’s pissed. Are you ready for class?”
“I’m not going,” Monica responded, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Autumn backed away, joined Lisa and Kristen on the other side of the room.
Tracie narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she said, “I need to talk to Monica alone. The rest of you will go directly to Mr. McDonald’s room. Mr. Cross will escort you there.”
The girls left quietly.
“All right,” said Tracie, once the door slid shut. “What’s the problem?”
“I want out,” said Monica. “I can’t take anymore. I’m through.”
“You’re giving up, just like that?”
“Don’t pull any of that reverse psychology bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady—”
“And it’s not just like that. I’ve been here since November. I’ve put up with the madness for long enough—too long.”
“And school? Practice? Your obligation to your country?”
Monica stood, stamped her foot on the floor. “I want out of this madhouse, you hear? Out!”
Tracie moved toward her—and Monica, incredulous at her own automatic reactions, dodged out of the way, started hurling blankets, tossing pillows, knocking the computer monitor off the desk. Despite her petite frame, it took a stout effort on Tracie’s part to get her settled. She wriggled, pushed, shoved, and at last collapsed onto the floor, gripping her ankles and gritting her teeth.
“Out,” she rasped.
* * *
The infirmary walls were white and sterile. Monica lay on her cot and studied the details of an unexciting watercolor painting through heavy-lidded eyes. A nurse had given her something to help her relax.
Funny, she thought. All this time…thinking it was the others who were emotionally unstable…and here I’m the one strung out on meds.
In the next room, Hades, Tracie, Linda, and an Olympus doctor discussed the situation:
“What do we have?”
“Mental breakdown, no doubt caused by the stress of being an international competitor.”
“Yesterday’s fiasco wasn’t any help.”
“It was a catalyst, surely.”
“That’s it, then. We call her parents, send her home.”
“Now wait a minute…let’s consider our options—”
“What options? She tore her room apart.”
“It’s just stress. We’ve seen it before in athletes of this caliber. We’ll see it again. Everyone has their limits; the Onyx incident was hers. All she needs is time to recuperate emotionally. She’s a trooper.”
“But do we have the time?”
“We’ll make the time, damn it. We’ll do everything we can before the press gets wind.”
“The Band-Aid method. Don’t you think that’s gotten us in enough trouble already?”
“Look, Darren. It’s too late in the season to have another team member drop out. We have our alternates at the ready, but that’s not the point, is it? Losing our team captain would be a PR nightmare—we don’t need that.”
“Let’s take it a step at a time. We’re heading into spring break—we can cite an injury, something that would require some time planetside for therapy.”
“Where do you propose we send her?”
“I need to spend a week in San Francisco. I can put her up in one of the Patriot suites there. I’ll insist on guards and an adjoining room, of course.”
“What do we tell the rest of the team?”
“We’ll tell them what we usually tell them: butkus.”
“Now, Darren—”
“They don’t need to know specifics. A family matter. Keep it simple.”
“Simple. That’ll be the day.”
CHAPTER 39
A “Patriot suite,” though it may have sounded ritzy, was simply a pre-paid apartment or hotel for Patriot elites. Monica’s was one of the nicer suites, offering room service, premium videofeeds, high-speed Internet access, and a terrific view of the bay.
The idea was simple: she was to spend the next week swimming, sunbathing, soaking in the spa, getting massages, going shopping, having her hair done, eating at fine restaurants—the works. Linda had the whole thing planned out, and though it was a good start, getting away from the grind and all, the context felt entirely wrong.
“When do we go back?” she asked on her first afternoon browsing the East Cedar mega mall.
“We just got here,” replied Linda, spooning strawberry frozen yogurt into her mouth. “The entire afternoon awaits!” She savored her treat a moment, then clamped the spoon between her teeth as she reached for her camera.
Snap-snap.
God, help me, thought Monica. A week being babysat by Linda Baimbridge—the plan must be to drive me back into Hades’ arms by way of endless shopping sprees and chronic photographing. “I was just thinking of the team. I hope I don’t get too far behind in practice.”
“My darling Monica, they’re on their spring break, too. You won’t miss a thing. This is your time, okay?” Linda checked her wristwatch. “Oh! We’d better get to the theater if we’re going to make the one o’clock showing of Fear Stomping!”
Monica ran after her (the Olympus-appointed bodyguard—casually dressed for the outing—brought up the rear), appreciative of what she was trying to do, but painfully aware that the result was totally artificial. Her world was still being carefully guarded, her actions scripted, the plot points revealing only that which was pleasant or pretty.
That was why, during a cheesy love scene, she took her backpack with her when she slipped out of the theater to use the restroom. The bodyguard followed, of course, and Monica smiled politely at him, promising that she would only be a minute.
She entered the ladies’ room, which was conveniently empty. Immediately her avenue of escape presented itself in the form of an open casement window built into the rear wall. Too small for an adult to squeeze through, it was just right for an eighty-pound acrobat. Monica used a wastebasket for leverage, climbed up, peered outside. She was on the second floor, so there was something of a drop—though her main concern was being seen, as she would be exiting into an auxiliary entrance to the open-air portion of the mall. Still, it beat the alternative.
Her fear of heights not withstanding, she waited a moment until the coast was clear, then, trying not to pay too much attention to the ground below, she climbed out, nimbly made her way across the narrow ledge to a drainage pipe, which she used as a makeshift ladder all the way down. Once grounded, she did a quick 360° turn to make sure no one was watching.
Success!
She adjusted her backpack, calmly strolled off the lot. She hopped on one of the trolleys and went sight-seeing around the city—a real city, with the real sun up above, the real breeze in her hair. Monica remembered the breezes on Olympus as being unimpressive, products of a structured mini-world. Here, the elements mingled freely. Here was organic humanity, a bustling nerve center. The people passing her on the streets wore whatever they felt like, they gossiped, giggled, swore. Most who glanced her way did so in passing, as if she was merely an average teenage girl making her way home from school. There were a few double-takes, a few sparks of recognition, but no one approached her to ask if she knew she looke
d just like Monica Sardinia, that Patriot girl from the videocasts. She was unexpectedly delighted by the relative anonymity afforded her.
Inevitably, though, she started to notice the patterns. Police passed at regular intervals, turning, trying not to look conspicuous—but Monica knew they were watching her. Not stopping her, but…watching. They knew who she was, they had her tag on their radar, but they’d been told not to interfere.
Or something like that.
As an experiment, she decided to try getting a room for the night—not that she had any intention of using it—or did she? It didn’t matter, though. There was no way she’d succeed. But she had to give it a try.
She found a discount motel several blocks outside Chinatown. It was a dumpy-looking place, with a stained “Patriots Welcome!” sign hung out front.
She entered the lobby, strode up to the desk. “I’d like a room,” she said.
The clerk, a red-haired man in his thirties, nodded and pulled out his reader as if he had unsupervised thirteen-year-olds checking in everyday. He scanned her tag. “Just you?”
“Just me.”
“Not to pry or anything, but you look a tad younger than eighteen…” The clerk chuckled, trailed off as he examined Monica’s information on his computer screen. Her Patriot status must have surprised him (or perhaps she’d been flagged in a provocative manner), because he did a double-take, looking from his screen to her face and back to his screen again. Amazingly, he nodded after a moment and said, “My mistake, Ms. Sardinia. How long will you be staying with us?”
Monica thought fast—she hadn’t expected such an easy consent. “Just the night, thanks.” She leaned forward subtly, wondering exactly what was showing up in her file. Evidently the credit union hadn’t placed a freeze on her account—unless the clerk was playing along until the police arrived.
He worked at his console a moment, then smiled at Monica. “Single bed, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Room 201, upstairs. Check out time is noon. If you need anything, give us a call.”
