Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  Physically, she was in the best shape of her life. Hades and Tracie had relaxed their weight restrictions, allowing Monica to add several pounds of valuable muscle to her physique. The result was a self-assurance in her grip, a certainty to her step—the promise that she was now tempered and toned and able to execute any of her skills or combinations with complete ease.

  All that was left was the defining moment in which to prove herself.

  The fans started arriving on Olympus shortly before the Heroes’ Day festivities began. By the time Day One commenced, there was no hotel left unbooked, no restaurant or cafe not filled to capacity. Everyone in Monica’s home stripe gathered in the lounge to watch the opening ceremonies. On the screen, legions of contortionists clad in Spandex, face paint, and bearing colorful ribbons and batons, orchestrated with their bodies what a 100-strong symphony wrought in a series of spectacular movements. Upon the climax, the celebrity runner, an Austrian track and field star (and former Hero), carried the Olympic flame up the grand staircase and set the cauldron ablaze. Everyone in the room (on-screen as well) cheered so loudly Monica was sure her hearing was permanently damaged.

  On the eve of the gymnastics events, the Sardinias arrived. With Tracie’s permission, Monica left the cafeteria during lunch to pay her family a brief visit in the promenade belt. She met them in the lobby of their hotel.

  Chris was all smiles as he launched himself into her arms. “Wow!” he cried. “Look how long your hair is!”

  “And look how spiky yours is!” Monica laughed, stooped to kiss his cheek.

  He scowled and ducked away.

  Mike and Sharon stepped in and exchanged hugs with her.

  “It’s been too long,” Monica said.

  “Sure has,” said Mike. “Nine months.”

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Sharon asked. “Can you believe the NPAA is putting us up for the duration of the competition? I can’t wait to visit the rest of the promenade—it’s absolutely gigantic!”

  “Yup,” said Monica.

  “You know I’m going to take 1,001 pictures. Heck, 2,001!”

  “You’re acting like a tourist, dear,” said Mike.

  Chris tugged on Monica’s arm. “When are you gonna come see the new house?”

  “After Heroes’ Day.”

  “You’re going to love it!” Sharon assured her. “I think you’ll like Milwaukee, too. The school is really good. Nice teachers, and they got new computers this year.”

  Monica smiled and generally tried to look as enthusiastic as possible. She’d forgotten about the new house, the new town, and was suddenly doubtful about the idea of leaving Sussex behind. Was our old neighborhood so decrepit that the NPAA refused to find us a house there? Or is it just cooler to be a Patriot from Milwaukee than it is to be from Sussex?

  Her parents sat with her and talked for the remainder of the hour. She didn’t really listen; their unabashed enthusiasm was enviable, but it wasn’t hers to share. She was relieved when it was time to go.

  Sharon hugged her again. “See you tomorrow, then. During the preliminaries?”

  “Sure thing. Tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, sweetheart. We’ll be cheering you on.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Hades was arguing with someone over the phone:

  “They’re not ‘just kids,’ goddamnit! They’re Patriots, and they’ve been working their asses off since November! No…no, I’m not saying that. I understand, but regardless, I—yes…yes, sir.” He put his cell phone away and looked at the girls. “Fuck.”

  One word said it all.

  Still, Monica asked, “What’s wrong?”

  The lounge was noisy; a dozen teams were waiting for their transports to take them to the Olympic Arena. Monica had been taking photos with her teammates, but now she followed Hades out into the corridor.

  He leaned in close, said, “We’re going to miss Heroes’ Day. Commander Zor wants us to bow out today with an accident on the balance beam. I’m sorry.”

  “But…but how come—”

  “I don’t know.” He looked bitter. “Some corporation struck a deal somewhere or something. These things happen.”

  “Not on Heroes’ Day!”

  “Let them have their travesty, Monica. In a few days we’ll be out of here. We won’t have to put up with this shit anymore.”

  Crestfallen, she peered into the lounge. The girls were posing for another picture. They’d been so cheerful all morning, waking without complaint, collecting their things and hitting the showers. Tracie had met them back at their quarters, and had brought with her the new leotards, which sported a surprisingly robust blend of red, white, and blue—a break from the usual silver-and-white motif. Everything had looked so promising.

  This sucks! Monica thought, the misgivings that she’d carefully suppressed since April now flaring with a vengeance.

  “The others should know,” she said.

  “I’ll tell them on the way in.” Hades shook his head. “It’s a damned shame.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you, I don’t know—but if this is how we get out of it, if this is how America finally lets go of its twenty-year economic experiment, then so be it. I’m game.”

  Tompkins approached from down the corridor. “Your transport is waiting, sir.”

  Hades thanked him. He said to Monica, “Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  As the team rode to the Olympic Arena, Hades took notes on his laptop and discussed his game plan. The girls listened, widening their eyes when he got to the part about Monica taking a serious fall on the balance beam. They’d obviously tallied up the conservative difficulty values in their heads and come to the conclusion that their overall placement would more than likely be somewhere outside the winners’ circle.

  In other words, the United States would not advance past the team-qualifying round.

  “We’re not even going to try to win?” snorted Jackie.

  We were never supposed to win, Monica thought. You should have known that when Coach Hades tried to teach you the fake-outs.

  “We’re going to try,” replied Hades. “However, just because the outcome isn’t likely to be in our favor doesn’t mean you can give anything less than 110%.”

  “Let me keep the extra twist in my beam dismount, then,” pleaded Jackie. “That would raise my base score enough to—”

  Hades held up his hand. “We’ve been given our orders.”

  The other girls (all but Autumn, who wore an almost smug “I told you so” look on her face) complained in silence, their expressions conveying disappointment and confusion—even Tracie looked bummed out, which was no small feat considering she never looked anything.

  They reached the arena, Monica, Jackie, Britney, Lisa, Kristen, and Autumn filing into the locker room, making room for themselves among the other athletes. The hum of an excited and expectant crowd could be heard echoing down the corridors.

  Jackie approached Monica after spending several minutes in a huddle with the rest of the team.

  “What do you think of Coach Hades’ instructions?” she asked.

  “They’re lame,” said Monica.

  “I agree. What do you think we should do?”

  “I’m going to do what’s expected of me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “We could…you know, do the unexpected.”

  The thought had occurred to Monica, though she’d hate to have to compete on Day Two enduring not only Hades’ wrath but Zor’s (and whomever else had ordained America’s downfall) as well. And the legal repercussions…perhaps Hades was right. Perhaps it was time for the States to bow out. “Honestly, at this point, I don’t think I want to stay around for the whole four days anyway.”

  “That might be your feeling,” said Jackie in a distasteful manner, “but it’s not ours.”

  “Oh, so you’re speaking for the whole group now?”

  “Well, we
certainly don’t look at it the same way as you. I know I want a medal. Several would be nice.”

  Monica nibbled on a fingernail. “You’ll only get in trouble if you deviate from the plan.”

  “Like you haven’t gotten in trouble a dozen times since coming to Olympus, being disagreeable with the media people, giving Darren a hard time in the training room, sleeping with John.”

  “I didn’t sleep with him,” Monica clarified.

  “Oh, come on. You two spent all your free time necking in the lounge. You could barely keep your hands out of his pants—”

  “We broke up.”

  “Oh.” Jackie blinked, a moment’s uncertainty crossing her face. “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

  With that, Monica stepped away, waited alone for the team’s cue call. When it came, she lined up with the girls, met Hades, Tracie, and their posse of security guards and cameramen out in the corridor. There were dubious looks all around, but, as with their previous meets, when it was time for the march-in, Team USA was a picture of prosperity.

  From afar, the athletes shone in proud formation, the United States, China, Japan, Russia, Romania, Great Britain—the best of the best, tried and true, small and petite, sleek and muscular. Everything was orchestrated with painstaking care, music, lighting, and stage cues synchronized against a backdrop of boisterous fanfare welling and ebbing with the formal introductions of the teams.

  Monica felt ridiculous as she stripped off her warm-up suit and stretched, preparing for her first exercise. The girls ahead of her knew their stuff, and executed their routines with daunting accuracy. Surely the fans would notice the drop in the U.S. team’s sportsmanship; surely they would wonder where her missing skills had gone—but when she stepped onto the podium, lined up, waited for the judges to signal her, anything untoward fell away like an unnecessary skin, an extra layer of clothing. It had to. Else her rhythm would not have been so steady, her posture not so straight, her grip not so firm. She nailed her bars routine, much to the American fans’ delight. No doubt they assumed she was just getting warmed up, saving the best for last.

  If only they knew this is as good as it’s going to get, she thought, hopping into Hades’ arms and, for the sake of the cameras, pretending to be pleased with herself.

  Despite Jackie’s righteous attitude in the locker room, neither she nor her teammates did anything “unexpected” during their exercises. Kristen suffered some slight hesitation on one of her flyovers, and Britney bounced a tad out of bounds during one of her tumbling passes, but there really wasn’t any genuine excitement until it came time for Monica’s beam routine, which had been arranged at the end of the rotation. That’s when the ardent looks on the girls’ faces quadrupled in intensity. You can nudge us over, they read. You can earn us the points we need.

  “Go, Monica, go!” they shouted in unison.

  It would be so easy, she thought, betraying not a single emotion as she listened to Hades’ last-minute instructions. She’d cataloged the other teams’ mistakes, and she knew she had enough of the advanced skills in her to keep the U.S. in the running. They’d be at the bottom of the rankings, right at the cutoff point, but they’d advance to Day Two. It’s almost as if they’re egging us on, daring us to step over the line! And maybe they were. Maybe one of their moles had discovered the Americans’ plan of losing to win, and were improvising, making it harder.

  She waited for the judges to give her the go-ahead. To her right, she spotted Tracie and the girls standing together—half of them had their fingers in their mouths; Tracie was biting her lip. These weren’t meet jitters; it was fear, dread, silent prayers being expedited: Please, God, don’t let Monica screw us over.

  It was ludicrous. Her athlete’s temperament told her to do her best. Her training—her orders—mandated that she deviate from her natural programming. She was torn between opposite instincts.

  One of the judges signaled her. She breathed deeply, sprinted towards the beam, mounted, oriented herself with a few alluring dance elements. She executed her first tumbling pass. I’m going to be sick, she thought, though her motions were fluid and self-assured as her powerful legs carried her across the beam. She pivoted, rotating several times, going into a scale.

  You can do this, she thought without thinking, and performed an impressive aerial, losing sight of the beam for a moment, coming back down, her feet alighting firmly.

  You’re here as a competitor. There’s no other way—there never will be.

  She went into a squat turn—

  Hades could be wrong.

  —straightened, executed a front tuck—

  I could be wrong.

  —landed, performed a second series of dance elements. This brought her to her final tumbling pass.

  If you don’t do it now, you’ll never know.

  She lined up, narrowing her eyesight along the length of the beam, disregarding everything else.

  What’s it going to be?

  She launched herself across the beam again, performed her pass, followed by the dismount, a beautiful full-twisting double back—she landed it perfectly. Knees together, back straight, arms outstretched. Perfect poise and execution. The NAU spectators’ cheers were deafening as she presented, waved, and hustled off the podium to where Hades, now open-mouthed, was standing. She thrust herself into his arms, smiling, crying, whispering into his ear as the cameras loomed close: “I couldn’t help myself—I had to do it, Coach Hades.”

  Hades reacted slowly, as if drugged (those watching the live footage no doubt thought he was pleasantly stunned that one of his star athletes had come through in the end). “What was that, Monica?”

  “Stage words,” she reminded him. Then, loud enough for the cameras to hear, she started recounting the details of her routine—superficial fluff for the media hounds to lap up as the rest of the team, thrilled by her breach of protocol, surrounded her—

  —she didn’t have long to savor her victory. One moment the cameras were rushing at her, a dozen reporters’ questions ringing in her ears, the next she was jolted out of her skin as a deafening explosion rang out across the arena.

  Zeus was toppling over.

  The team fell to the floor, debris raining down, dust filling the air. Alarms sounded; people were yelling, screaming. Hades said something, but Monica couldn’t make out any of his words. Momentarily she was on her feet again, and Tracie grabbed her by the arm, hauled her away. She was trying to gather the other members of the team as well, but there seemed to be a miscommunication between herself and Tompkins’ men, many of whom were dazed or injured. Beside the podium, which now had a large chunk of scorched stonework resting at its center, Hades was helping to cradle an injured cameraman. Smoke filled the air.

  “Get the girls out of here!” he yelled. “Someone call a medic!”

  Tracie nodded. Kim had Lisa and Britney with him. Cross…Monica wasn’t sure, but she thought she recognized him as one of three individuals laying bloodied beneath a collapsed camera boom.

  “Everyone together,” rasped Tracie, gathering Monica, Jackie, Autumn, and Kristen.

  “What about our bags?” wheezed Jackie.

  “Worry about that later. We need to get out of here before we suffocate.”

  Kim started towards the nearest exit. Tracie’s group followed close behind. Unfortunately, by the time they’d navigated their way around the podium and judges’ tables, the doors were clogged with the frenzied bodies of those trying to get out. Athletes, judges, news folk, and spectators were pushing and shoving, coughing and covering their mouths with their shirtsleeves. Try as she might, Monica couldn’t help but get separated from the others, and was actually lifted up off her feet. Worse, she was being squeezed to death, her breath coming in gasps, her legs kicking, flexing, toes stretching and trying to feel for the floor below—

  —a hand grabbed her own, clenched it tightly, pulling.

  “Monica!”

  She cr
aned her neck. John was beside her. Elbowing his way forward, he slid his other arm around her midsection, and with superhuman strength hoisted her up and partially out of the melee so that she was able to climb on peoples’ arms and shoulders to the edge of the corridor. There was a door—John kicked it open and thrust her inside, where it was dark, quiet, the terrible rumble of people outside muffled by a miniature forest of mops, brooms, and hoses.

  He slammed the door, fumbled for the light switch. “You’ll get trampled to death out there.”

  “How did you find me?” Monica asked, swallowing hard, suddenly shaking all over. God, please let my family be okay—

  “I was sitting front row,” John said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Of course, I had my eye on you for the whole rotation. I escaped the stands as soon as I saw you being herded toward the exit.”

  Monica wrapped her arms around him, held him tight. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “We’ll wait a few minutes—there’s more air in here than there is out there.” He gestured at the cooling vent above.

  “Okay.” Monica cleared her throat, loosened her grip somewhat and looked down at herself. How ridiculous she must have looked in her torn leotard, with her hair disheveled, a tangled mess. “Some hero I am.”

  “You were magnificent.”

  No, no! she thought, several heavy regrets converging on her conscience. I should have just done my part and gone home. I missed the point entirely! America was trying to wean itself from the Patriot System. We were supposed to lose our slot aboard Olympus. My win will keep us locked in for another four years! Of course, there were other scores, others sports to take into account, but that didn’t matter because at the moment she was certain her beam routine had been the crux of a deep-seeded agreement that had ended up in disaster. She’d fucked up big time. “Oh, what have I done, John?”

  “You haven’t done anything—”

  “I was supposed to go down on the balance beam. Those were my orders and I disobeyed—and now everything’s fallen apart.”