Achilles choice

From pictures in various scientific magazines she recognized faces: a discus thrower who specialized in underwater telecommunications. The article said his spine had been prosthetically restructured to allow greater torque. A regional lightweight women’s power lifting champion with microprocessors implanted in the motor end plates of muscles in thighs and back. Her doctoral thesis had been immediately classified by World Security.

All looked to be between eighteen and thirty-two.

Andrea Kelly was still speaking. Her high, reedy voice barely needed amplification. “Everyone here understands the stakes. You have made serious decisions, sacrifices, lost jobs and friends, separated yourselves from family for the sake of our quest.” She paused.

Two seats down from Jillian, a blond, wiry lightweight wrestler muttered “Our quest? What you mean we, white man?” A black man next to the wrestler highfived him, and there was a wave of nasty laughter.

“Three or four of you still have unresolved issues. This might be a good opportunity to discuss them.”

A massive arm was raised on the other side of the room, and Dr. Kelly gave its owner the floor. Jeff Tompkins stood. He was wearing a cut-off shirt, and his musculature was even more pronounced. His upper arms and shoulders were a grotesque relief-map of veins and muscular striation. “I’m Jeff Tompkins.”

“Hi, Jeff.”

“Aum… Doc Kelly. A lot of us have already made our decision about Boost. I just want it out on the floor for the ones who haven’t. Sometimes people Boost even when they don’t have to. I throw the hammer, so I need the speed and power. But if you’re not in a pure power sport, what are the chances of a gold or silver without the Boosting?”

“And just why do you care, Jeff?”

He looked at her with undisguised contempt. “You get your data whether we live or not. We’re not 1-lab rats you can use up and throw away. Like I said-I made my choice. I don’t regret it. But for some of the others, it’s the wrong damned choice.”

Dr. Kelly tried to smile, and finally arranged her features in an expression of dignified neutrality. “The choice is more problematic for those of you who do not compete in a linear skill. In other words: how fast do you run, how high do you jump, how much can you lift? Those of you in gymnastics, wrestling, or fencing cannot just look at the record tapes and compare your performances with those of past gold and silver medalists. There’s a gray zone.

“Most of your lives you’ve been surrounded by less gifted intellects, less developed bodies. If you have been involved in sports where strategy and skill are more important than simple speed or strength, you may question the value of Boosting.

“Let me answer your implicit question as explicitly as I can. If un-Boosted, regardless of whatever other modifications you may have made to your mus des, nervous system, or skeletal structure, you will be competing with Olympians who have a fifteen to twenty percent advantage over you in both the physical and psychological realms.”

The young man fidgeted, shifting from side to side in a manner reminiscent of a small child. Finally, he said, “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to hear.” And he sat down.

There was a ripple of sound. One of the wrestlers stagewhispered “Buck-buck-buckawwk!” and somebody halfheartedly shushed him.

Jillian stood.

“Doctor,” she said. “As long as the floor is open, I have a question, too. The point of the Olympiad is to select the best. Why confine the definition of ‘best’ to those willing to risk death or disablement within nine years? That has always troubled me.”

Andrea Kelly’s eyes bored into her. “Well, ah…Jillian… You’re the newest one here, and of course this discussion has come up several times before. The Olympiad is for those with enough confidence in their own abilities to risk everything. That peculiar, Uncoachable capacity for confidence produces champions. Enables a human being to put everything on the line. That’s one definition of a ‘warrior,’ isn’t it? Well, we don’t have wars anymore. But some people still need, and want, to test themselves against the very best.” She smiled brilliantly. “Confusion aside, I know you’re one of those people, or you wouldn’t be here, Jillian. To those who will risk much, much will be given.”

Dr. Kelly seemed to expect applause, and waited for it. After a pause there was a polite smattering, but she was clearly uncomfortable.

Jillian waited until even that small accolade had died. “I see,” she said, and sat down.

Dr. Kelly nervously scratched an ear, looking out at a group which was unexpectedly still. The room seemed to grow warmer. She cleared her throat. “Tomorrow,” she offered, “our special guest will be Donny Crawford.”

There was a murmur of recognition and approval from the audience. Jillian’s reaction was instantaneous, and visceral.