Achilles choice

So look again. The Council’s dominance games have brought death and misery to hundreds of thousands of people. Killing one innocent to break that pattern still cannot be justified; but Mary Ling is no innocent. Her public strangling would buy the attention Jillian needed. The media would be hot to watch a hair-pulling match between two Olympic contenders. Especially if they were supposed to be fighting over a man, over Donny Crawford.

— Tell every secret: that was the flaw. They had cut her off from her data. Without Holly Lakein’s help she would have nothing. If she exposed Holly, Holly would die, too.

Jillian was almost relieved.

— Hold it. Let the media believe that she’d used her own data sources! Granted that the Council had silenced Beverly; but who would ever tell?

The wall pulsed, and buzzed gently.

This was actually getting to be fun; she didn’t appreciate the interruption. “Yes?” -

A man’s face appeared on the wall. She had never seen it before, but he was young, and pleasant, and officious. “Good morning. I’m Stewart Kaporov at Olympiad Central. Would you please report to our offices? There has been a slight irregularity.”

Too late. She’d never had a plan anyway.

For an instant she considered fleeing; but her face was known everywhere on Earth. She considered going as she was. Instead she took a quick shower, rinsed a mealy taste out of her mouth, and tried to do something nice with her hair.

Her whole body was beginning to cramp. She set out for the nearest subway entrance.

The streets were curiously deserted now, wistfully so. A few young men and women in silver blazers hustled here and there, and workmen were disassembling platforms and collapsing temporary scaffolding.

There was a nice, busy, alive sound in the air.

The subway was crowded. It must have been unbelievable during the games; it was the reason none of the contenders had tried it. An elderly gentleman offered her his seat; she refused with a smile.

The offices of Olympiad Central were in the Arts and Entertainments pavilion, and the guard at the front entrance recognized her and opened it at once, saying “Third floor, Miss Shomer.”

She nodded without speaking, walking straight to the elevators, giving him a clean shot at her back.

Nothing. She reached the elevator, and it bing ‘d and opened at once.

Where is Mary Ling, she wondered, right now?

The ride to the third floor was surprisingly uneventful. No cyanide, no sudden stall. No Ninjas dropping from the roof. A genuine smile curled her mouth at that image. She chuckled, a good sound.

Kaparov’s secretary ushered Jillian into a spacious office. A wall-wide vidscreen showed waves rolling peacefully in from the Aegean.

Kaporov entered, and stopped, and seemed to brace himself. He looked threatened, here in his own office. “Miss Shomer?”

“So far.”

“Ah — .. yes. Well. We have a… difficult situation here.”

“Yes.”

“I believe you know Miss Osa Grevstad.”

“Of course.”

“There was a… diplomatic problem. The papers which allowed her to compete on North American Agricorp were never completely validated. She has lost her position. Considering the fact that your loss to her in judo cost you five points, you are now in position for the gold as opposed to the silver.”

Jillian was frozen, couldn’t even react when he extended his hand. Just like that. Could it really be that simple? Could they..

Oh God. Osa? The ultraconfident, brutally skilled strangler had just been given the death sentence. Because of Jillian.

She couldn’t take the gold. And yet..

If she didn’t, and the judgment on Osa’s status had already been announced, what good would she have done?

Jillian extended a trembling hand.

“Congratulations,” he said.

Chapter 15

It took nearly forty-five minutes to push through the reporters and the crowds at Kennedy Airport. It was all a smiling, churning mob.

In twos and threes, the Olympians were hustled into cars. She caught sight of Donny talking to a phalanx of reporters. His smile seemed just as warm and sincere as ever. His gaze slid across her without stopping to focus.

She was ushered into a car with the Bulgarian Gilbert and Sullivan devotee. They waved at the crowd like newlyweds.

Once the car started moving, she closed her eyes and leaned back into her seat. The long-postponed fatigue came crashing down on her. Or else it was emo tional whiplash from the changes in her life… or jet lag… or the beginning of the death that comes with Boost.

In a few days there would be another operation. She would be one of the Linked then, part machine, and death would no longer be inevitable. Death would come when she lost a dominance game… whose rules she had better learn quickly.

The Bulgarian put his hand on Jillian’s arm. “Your name is Jillian?”

She turned.

“I am Jorge.”

His square face was too close; his elbows and knees occupied too much of the space. He was one of the runners, tall and attenuated. Folding him into the car had been awkward. Any second now he’d go Sproing! and pop through both doors.