by Mike Resnick
One of the officials walked over and offered him a modified T-pack, for it was well known that Olympians spoke no language not native to their home worlds. He shook his head, and the official shrugged and walked away.
Another Emran began speaking through a microphone, and the loudspeaker system produced a series of tinny echoes from all across the stadium. There were rabid cheers, and Tinsmith knew they had announced the name of the homeworld champion. A moment later came the jeers, as he heard his own name hideously mispronounced.
Then the course of the race was mapped—thrice around the massive stadium on a rocky track—and finally the ground rules were read.
A coin was flipped for the inside position. Tinsmith disdained to call it, but the Emran did, and lost. Tinsmith walked over to his place on the starting line.
As he stood there, crouching, awaiting the start of the race, he glanced over at the Emran and studied him briefly. He was humanoid enough so that Tinsmith could see the awful tension and concentration painted vividly on his already-sweating face.
And why not? He was carrying a pretty big load on his shoulders, too. He was the fleetest speedster of a race of speedsters. The Emran, aware of Tinsmith’s gaze, looked at him and worked his mouth into what passed for a smile. Tinsmith stared coldly back at him, expressionless.
He had nothing against this being, nor any of his past opponents, just as Iskad had nothing against all the beings he had destroyed with his muscle, just as the brilliant Kobernykov had nothing against the hundreds of beings he had defeated at the gamesboards. He didn’t want to cause this opponent the shame of defeat before this vast audience of his peers.
But Olympians had no choice but to win. If any Olympian, anywhere, lost, the myth they were building about Man’s invincibility would be shattered, and they would be just one more race of talented competitors on the gamefields of the galaxy. And that, he knew, was unacceptable. More than that, it was unthinkable.
It was not for the adulation of Man that the Olympians competed.
That was a side benefit, and an occasionally bothersome one. They lived only to hear the jeers of the other races when they stepped onto the field, a little less vocal at each successive event, and to hear them diminish throughout a contest until there was a respectful silence, perhaps mixed with awe, at the conclusion. The awe was not for the individual Olympian, but the race he represented, which was as it should be.
There was no time for further reflection, for the race began and the Emran sprinted out to a quick lead. Tinsmith tried briefly to keep up with him, then fell into stride, his long, lean legs eating up the ground with an effortless pace. For the first quarter mile he breathed through his nostrils, testing the efficacy of the stimulants; then, satisfied, he resumed his normal method of breathing, one gulp of air to every three strides.
Far ahead of him the Emran was increasing his lead, pulling out by first two hundred, then three hundred yards. The Olympian paid no attention to him. Hailey had told him what the Emran could and couldn’t do, and he knew his own capabilities.
If Hailey’s information was right, he’d be pulling up to the Emran in about eleven minutes. And if Hailey was wrong . . .
He shook his head. Hailey was never wrong.
The crowd was cheering, screaming the name of its champion, and across the galaxy 500 billion viewers watched as the Olympian fell so far behind that the video picture couldn’t accommodate both runners. And every single one of them, Tinsmith knew, human and nonhuman alike, was asking himself the same question: Could this be the day? Could this be the day that an Olympian would finally lose? Everyone but Hailey, who sat quietly in his box, stopwatch in hand, nodding his head. The kid was going well, was obeying orders to a T. The first half in 1:49, the mile in 3:40. He picked up his binoculars, saw that his charge was showing no signs of strain or fatigue, and leaned back, content.
At the end of the second mile the Emran’s lead had not diminished, and even the handful of humans in the stadium sensed an impending upset. But then, slowly, inexorably, Tinsmith began closing the gap. After three miles, he was once again only two hundred yards behind, and as they turned up the backstretch for the final time, he had narrowed the Emran’s advantage to one hundred and fifty yards.
And there the margin stayed, as first the Emran and then, more than twenty seconds later, Tinsmith hit the far turn. The Olympian peered ahead through the dust after the flying bronzed figure ahead of him.
Something was wrong! The Emran should be coming back to him by now, should be feeling the strain of that torrid early pace on those heavy, burly legs, should be shorter of stride and breath.
But he wasn’t. His legs were still eating up the ground, still keeping that margin between them.
Tinsmith knew then that he couldn’t wait any longer, that the homestretch was too late, that his body, already beginning to feel the strain, would have to respond right now. There would be no breather for him, no tired opponent to pass at his leisure, if he was to attain the anonymity of victory, the knowledge that he was just another addition to an immense list of triumphs, rather than the last Olympian.
He spurted forward, spurred on more by fear than desire. His legs ached, the soles of his feet burned, his breath came in short, painful gasps.
Into the homestretch he raced, his body screaming for relief, his mind trying to blot out the agony. Now he was within seventy yards of the Emran, now fifty. The Emran heard the yells of the crowd, knew the Olympian was making a run at him, and forced his own tortured legs to maintain the pace.
On and on the two raced, each carrying a world on his shoulders. Tinsmith was still eating into the Emran’s margin, but he was running out of racetrack. He looked up, his vision blurred, and willing the spots away from his eyes he focused on the finish wire. It hung across the track, a mere two hundred yards distant.
He was thirty yards farther from it than the Emran.
He was going to lose. He knew it, felt in every throbbing muscle, every bone-shattering stride. When they spoke of the Olympians in future years, on worlds not yet discovered, he would be the one they’d name. The one who Lost.
“No!” he screamed. “No! Not me! "
His pace increased. He was not running after the Emran any longer, he was running from every human, living or yet to be born, in the galaxy.
“NO! "
He was still screaming when he crossed the finish line five yards ahead of his opponent.
He wanted to collapse, to let his abused body melt and become one with the dirt and the stone on the floor of the stadium.
But he couldn’t. Not yet, not until he was back in the dressing room.
He was vaguely aware of one of Hailey’s assistants breaking through the cordon of police and officials racing up to support him, but he brushed him away with a sweep of his long, sweat-soaked arm. Someone else came up with a jug of water.
Later he’d take it, later he’d pour quarts and gallons into his dry, rasping throat. But not now. Not in front of them.
The fire in his lungs was beginning to diminish, to be replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. Suddenly he remembered the cameras.
He swallowed once, then drew himself up to his full height. He glanced calmly, disdainfully, at the throng of reporters, then turned and began the slow, painful trek to the dressing room.
Hailey moved as if to accompany him, then stopped. Another of Hailey’s aides began to walk after him, but the trainer grabbed his arm and held him back. Hailey understood.
Olympians walked alone.
8. THE BARRISTERS
. . . As the Olympians fought for Man on the fields of honor, so, in a far more meaningful way, did the barristers fight for Man in the courts of law. The problems were both new and immense, for a million alien worlds with a corresponding set of mores, laws, and statutes were the battlefields, and as often as not the lawbreakers had not the slightest notion that they were violating planetary ordinances. In many cases the laws were simply incomprehensible, total
ly meaningless to someone raised in a human culture; but even then, Man looked after his own, and, however hopeless the case, one or more barristers were sent in to defend their errant brother.
Perhaps no other barrister during the period of the Democracy achieved quite the measure of fame that Ivor Khalinov did. Born at the huge complex on Caliban, he grew to maturity on that incredible world prior to . . .
—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement
. . . Khalinov (2399-2484 G.E.) came to prominence as a result of a number of admittedly brilliant cases in the courts of Lodin XI, Binder VI, and Canphor VII, worlds where no Man had ever won a decision before.
Unquestionably possessed of one of the greatest legal minds of his era, Khalinov’s courtroom and pretrial tactics were nonetheless . . .
—Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8
“Son,” said Khalinov, peering out from beneath his gray, bushy eyebrows, “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you: I’d much rather be prosecuting this case than defending it."
“Thanks a lot,” said the blond youth glumly.
“Oh, I didn’t say I wouldn’t take the case,” said Khalinov. “Your parents are paying me far more than you’re worth. More than anyone’s worth, really. I just remarked that I don’t think the odds are in our favor."
“You’ve bucked the odds before,” said the youth, almost pleadingly. “That closing argument of yours in the blasphemy case on Lodin XI is still required reading in every school in the Deluros system."
“Well, not quite every school.” Khalinov smiled. “But be that as it may, your case is a little different from blasphemy through ignorance of local custom. You are charged with killing fifty-seven sentient entities on the planet Atria XVI. Admittedly it was an involuntary action, compounded by carelessness, and it could not possibly be construed as malicious. But the fact remains that you did indeed cause their deaths."
“But . . ."
“Furthermore, Atria XVI has no plea-bargaining. Manslaughter, murder three, involuntary homicide—none of these terms exist in Atrian law. You either killed them or you didn’t, regardless of circumstances. And son, you killed them."
“Then why defend me at all?"
“Aside from the money, you mean?” asked Khalinov. “I guess it’s because I still believe that every man has the right to a defense—and on Atria XVI, you need a good defense about as much as any man I ever knew. You know, the simple act of resisting arrest and returning here to Deluros VIII merits the equivalent of a life sentence. You knew we’d extradite you, didn’t you?"
“I wasn’t thinking,” said the youth. “I just couldn’t believe what was happening. What’s the penalty if I’m convicted, Mr. Khalinov?"
“There’s only one penalty for murder in the Atrian system,” said Khalinov. “Death by heat."
The youth’s body seemed to shrink into itself. “I kind of guessed that."
“Don’t give up the ship just yet, son,” said Khalinov. “All the odds mean is that we’ll have to fight a little harder.” He pressed a button on his desk, and four armed guards came in. He nodded to them, then turned back to the boy. “They’ll be taking you to Komornos, a moon of Atria V, to await trial. I’ve got your preliminary hearing and bill of indictment here, along with transcripts of our interviews, so unless something comes up, I won’t be seeing you until the trial."
As the youth was led out, Khalinov pressed two more buttons to summon his junior partners, Kominsky and Braque. Neither of them ever saw the inside of a courtroom if it was possible to avoid it, for neither had anything approximating Khalinov’s eloquence, but that didn’t mean they were drawing their salaries for nothing.
Kominsky, an Orthodox Jew in an age when almost every other religion had atrophied from lack of interest, knew more about nonhuman criminal law than Khalinov could ever hope to learn, while Braque, a former governor of Praesepe III, was the man who handled the miles upon miles of red tape that magically appeared every time a human stood trial on an alien world. There were other partners and assistants as well, twenty-seven of them to be exact, but most were concerned with corporate law and interstellar commerce, vital fields but totally devoid of the type of publicity that surrounded Khalinov’s more famous cases.
“I hear we’ve got a real stinker this time,” said Braque, pulling out a long yellow legal pad. (Some customs never changed.)
“If I were a betting man,” said Khalinov “and were feeling extremely conservative, I’d offer five million to one that our boy is tried, convicted, sentenced, and executed inside of three hours."
“What did he do?” asked Kominsky.
“He sneezed."
“Then what?” asked Braque.
“Then he resisted arrest and fled to Deluros VIII."
“That’s all?"
“Yep."
“You’re pulling my leg,” said Braque.
“Am I?"
“Not necessarily,” said Kominsky, his eyes alight with interest. “Where did this happen?"
“Atria XVI."
“A methane world?"
Khalinov nodded. “The damned fool had his T-pack off."
Kominsky nodded grimly, but Braque just looked puzzled. “I don’t see the problem,” he said.
“The problem,” said Khalinov, “is simply this: the Atrians are a crystalline race methane-breathers living at an awfully cold temperature. Young Heinrich Krantz—yes, the Commander’s son—was there as a military aide on a trading mission. I don’t know if he was drunk or sober, but, for whatever reason, he voluntarily or involuntarily—he swears it was the latter—turned off his T-pack while walking down a major Atrian thoroughfare. And then, with nothing to blot out or muffle the sound, he sneezed."
“So?” asked Braque.
“So fifty-seven Atrians shattered like so much fine crystal,” said Khalinov. “Then, when confronted with the civilian police, he panicked and decided to come back here."
“How did he get away?” asked Braque.
“He threatened to remove one of his protective gloves. The heat of his body would have killed every Atrian within two hundred feet of him. He’d have died too, of course, but that doesn’t help his case any. So they let him go, radioed ahead, and we took him into custody the second he landed. I’ve spent the better part of two weeks cajoling and threatening Henderson over at Extradition, but it’s no go: we can’t keep him. Seems we’re cultivating the Atrians’ friendship, so he’s got to stand trial."
“Won’t you look cute, though,” said Kominsky, “standing there in fifty pounds of protective covering and having all those delightful histrionics come out so soft and tinkling through your T-pack."
“Don’t remind me,” said Khalinov, wincing. “Anyway, the trial is set for three weeks from now."
“The Atrians don’t waste any time, do they?” said Braque.
“They seem to like their justice swift and sure,” said Kominsky with a grimace.
“Indeed they do,” agreed Khalinov. “Which means that we’ve got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in.” He turned to Braque. “I want you to arrange accommodations for the three of us, half a dozen reporters—not all friendly—and at least two cameramen. If they need any equipment to muffle the heat and noise of their cameras, or even the scratching of their pens, see that it’s supplied. Also, if I need any special outfit to enable me to stalk around the courtroom or stamp a foot or anything like that, get me two sets of it. Then find out the political situation there and if we can offer a couple of gifts to the lord high mufti without offending anyone else. Figure out what an animated chandelier would like and get something appropriate. If possible, have us stay on Komornos; it’ll probably be more comfortable for us, and we won’t have to worry about accidentally shattering any more Atrians. Finally, find out what form their visual media take and hunt me up a couple of experts in it."
He dismissed Braque with a wave of his hand, then turned his attention to Kominsky. “Okay,” he said. “Fill me i
n."
“It may come as a shock to you, Ivor,” said Kominsky, “but even I don’t have fingertip data on every race in the galaxy."
“Then tell me what you can about methane-breathers in general before you run off to the library, or wherever it is you run off to when you’re trying to convince me you’re a genius."
“In general,” began Kominsky, “about ninety percent of all methane-breathing races are crystalline. They’re extremely sensitive to sound and heat, but beyond those two forces they’re just about unkillable. If you could hit the average methane-breather with the force of a small grenade but without the accompanying heat, he probably wouldn’t even feel it. Another interesting point is that since they are virtually indestructible, most methane beings are extremely long-lived, usually surviving thousands of years. This tends to make them pretty placid and contemplative, which is one of the reasons they haven’t accomplished a hell of a lot—in human terms, anyway. Also, due to their physiology and the mental attitude that accompanies an eons-long life span, very few methane races are at all advanced technologically. There’s never been much research done on their ESPer qualities, but I’d assume they’re a little higher than average in telepathy and almost at the bottom of the scale in all other such talents.
“Being basically static in their social outlook and mobility, I imagine that their penal codes would be both simple and very stark. They’d have little experience with lawbreakers, almost no misdemeanors, and would rid their society of felons swiftly and efficiently.
“Of course,” he concluded with a smile, “none of the above may apply to this particular race of methane-breathers."
