off to the right? Broken, shattered: something in the darkness. Jillian stepped quietly to it, bent, watching her fingers tremble as she reached.
Half of Jeff Tompkins’s palace was still perfect, a study in ivory. Half was stove in as if by a sudden, terrible effort, one of those moments of madness which, once done, cannot be undone.
Even partly crushed, the model was exquisite, a monument to his persistence and skill. But it hadn’t been good enough. In the end, Jeff’s castle had been not of ivory, but of sand.
A silver girl took the model from her hands and waved a wordless Jillian away from the scene.
Back in her room she watched the Olympics closing down. She was too heavy and limp to move. From beyond her window machine noises ebbed and flowed as helicopters, boats, and skimmers arrived to take the losers away.
A nebula of fireworks exploded above the coliseum. Jillian heard their distant thunder, could see the brief bright promise of their flame wavering through a sheen of tears.
For hours she sat there, until the fireworks died and the stadium emptied, and the spectators began their long exodus. The room was illuminated only by yellow-orange streetlights and the distant glow of the Athens cityscape. Intermittently, limos cruised or floatcars drifted past her window, their headlights piercing her shadows.
She flexed her hands in the darkness.
The door swung open, and Holly stood there, hipshot and gently mocking, resplendent in frilly pink chiffon that plunged and gathered and teased, and contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
She pirouetted, and the dark waters of Jillian’s grief grew shallow. “Poetry,” Jillian croaked, and managed a smile.
Holly took Jillian in her arms, comforting, and finally Jillian let go in great whooping sobs. Holly stroked the back of her head.
“Do you want me to stay here with you?” Holly whispered. “All you have to do is say the word—”
“How do you do it?” Jillian’s voice was low and hoarse. “You lost, and you act like you won.”
“I’ve got four years to try again, and I’ve got insurance,” Holly answered, as kindly as she could. “I believe in myself.”
“You may be the smartest person here.” Jillian sniffed. “You go to that party tonight. Whoop it up for both of us.”
“A promise.” Holly smiled. “And another one: if I make it, we’ll both make it, lady. Remember that.”
Jillian started to protest, to say something about honor, and chances taken, and perhaps something trite about dice rolling as they may. Holly hushed her.
“Trust me, Jillian. And listen: you’re not Linked, but you’ve earned more Comnet time. We can help each other, Jillian. We’re going to help each other, understand?”
“All right. Now, get out of here, go to the party. Enjoy yourself.”
They hugged again, more fiercely this time, and then Holly left.
The city was settling down to sleep, gradually deflating after two weeks of media gluttony. Reflected in the glass was a woman Jillian didn’t know, a woman who had abandoned everything familiar, and had nowhere left to turn.
For the thousandth time, she inserted the plastic chip into its slot, saw the error message appear, and knew just how big a fool she had been.
Took the card out, tenderly tucking it back into her purse.
It was seven steps to the bathroom. She had measured them. Eventually she would need to know the distance to the medicine cabinet.
There were pain tabs and sleeping tabs in there. Just peel back the protective strip and press the adhesive edge onto a pulse point. One was enough to ensure a sound night’s sleep. Ultimately she would increase the dosage until even Abner’s deep, devouring pain floated away from her, leaving her in soothing oblivion.
She felt the play of webbed muscles in her forearms, sensed the strength and inhuman precision of her every motion. Being human hadn’t been enough. Today she was stronger, faster, better than she had ever been in her life. It still hadn’t been enough. God damn it, it hadn’t been enough.
She’d be twenty-seven by the next Olympiad. How could she take a gold in judo? Or even place as highly as she had this time? She was over the hill for competition. She was walking around, dead.
She pushed against the window, felt its slight bend, guessed at its thickness.
There. She felt the exact angle to push. She could rip it right out of its track. Could shatter it. She and the shards of glass could go tumbling down to the pavement below, down into the night place where Beverly waited.
It would be sin. And she shouldn’t have blasphemed.
Jillian offered a quick prayer for forgiveness, then slammed her palm against the glass plate.
There were questions left unanswered.
Abner had left a hint.
She didn’t need anything elaborate to access public files. She used the building’s computer. What was it that Abner had said? Check the records?
The 2044 Olympiad?
Nothing classified there.
She quickly found herself skimming through fouryear-old images, stopping whenever something interesting occurred. There was the usual scattering of “Classified” notices. She wished she could have borrowed Holly’s Void. From a Void, she might have figured out ways past the security blocks, and any information she got would be absorbed much faster. But this would get her there.
She sorted for Abner, and his records came up on the screen swiftly. His judo wins were famous, and she had studied them a thousand times. It was still startling to see him at the peak of his physical prowess, a wiry streak of quicksilver. He’d made a decent showing in fellrunning, a bronze, and in Arts his recital of original poetry had won an ovation, if not a gold.
His last category had been abstract sociology, similar to her own. His paper had explored the emergence of a pseudomatriarchal leadership structure in the American prison systems.
She scanned for Pushkin’s name.
And found it, but his paper was on-the rebirth of Keynesian economics.
Confused now, she called up the list of competitors and—
Donny Crawford’s name jumped out at her. The subject of his paper?
Classified.
Donny had taken the gold, of course. Abner had lied. He’d given her a clue, then backed off when he realized she could get in trouble. Donny Crawford excelled at everything he touched. He had taken gold in one athletic event, and two academic categories. One of his papers had been implemented. One hidden.
She doubled back to social theory, and scanned to be sure she had missed nothing. She hadn’t. Donny Crawford was the only choice.
Jillian turned off the console, and stood.
Well.
She hadn’t wanted to go to the party, but maybe there was something for her to do there after all.
The main ballroom of the Arts and Entertainments pavilion was thinning out. A few couples still swayed to live music, a few conversations still percolated around the refreshment tables.
She attached herself to a group of revelers. They slapped her on the back, got her drinks, called her a hell of a good sport, and were too drunk to look carefully at her eyes, to notice that she wasn’t drinking at all.
To see that her eyes rarely strayed far from Donny. He was still there, smiling and nodding and officially congenial. And Mary Ling was standing so close to him, taking every marginally discreet opportunity to rub against him, marking off her territory.
Jillian gritted her teeth, searched the room, and found Holly dancing with a knot of pleasantly inebriated Olympians. All had placed, none had won gold or silver.
They weren’t really dancing in partners. They were a group, moving in intense rhythm, tribal rhythm perhaps, trying to lose their emotional pain in a cocktail of endorphins and alcohol.
Holly waved a glassy hello, and went into an even more violent gyration.
