Once he realized the potential, he’d simulated runs on not only the historic Boston course but also every Olympic marathon. He’d simulated a run on Mars, and one on the moon, but the lowered gravities were too realistic and nauseated him.
In his fifth session in the egg, he asked the technician to set up a two man race from the 490 BC battlefield of Marathon to Athens. The technician, an older man whom Euthlos had introduced affectionately as “Dr. Pops,” looked up the parameters of the program and said, “It’s not quite twenty-three miles. Real hot too.”
“I know,” said Waldemar, “and I don’t want to win the race. I just want to run with him.”
When the egg closed, Waldemar wiggled more comfortably into the harness. Then, the familiar sensory confusion as the program kicked it, and soon, he was running down a dusty trail, following a young Greek, no more than sixteen, wearing nothing but a belt. The Greek boy started too fast in the afternoon heat, clearly overjoyed. Behind him, Waldemar knew, the Athenians were celebrating their victory over the Persians. From his studies, Waldemar knew not only was he the messenger carrying news of the Greek victory, he also carried a warning, which explained his haste. The Persians would be coming. One loss would not deter the Persian king, Darius I. No, the Greek runner had motivation to hurry.
They passed a well. On the hills around them, olive trees drooped dispiritedly, but Waldemar knew there would be irrigation water. “Hydrate!” he wanted to shout. However, the program didn’t respond to words, and Pheidippides, the first marathoner, was doomed to run the distance without a drink, to die at the end after announcing, “Rejoice! We conquer!”
Waldemar ran the whole way with him, marveling at the determination, feeling incredibly parched himself, even though a part of him knew his thirst was simulated. In the last miles, the boy staggered, weaving from side to side; falling down, but pushing himself up and back into a broken stride that stumbled into a run. As the sad ending played itself out, Waldemar found himself crying. Athen’s stone walls faded away. He was back in the egg, sobbing.
When the egg cracked open, Euthlos, looking concerned, stood beside Dr. Pops. “You did the Greek one, didn’t you?” Euthlos asked.
Waldemar could only nod. Euthlos put his hand on Waldemar’s arm and gave it an understanding squeeze as he helped the technician extract Waldemar from the egg.
Carlos Lopes of Portugal set the Olympic record with a two hour, nine minute and twenty-one second marathon in 1984. He averaged four minutes and fifty-six seconds per mile.
A week later, Creighton sat behind his solid black desk, scowling at the papers in his hands.
“He’s going too damn slow. The designers say he’s capable of three-fifty-two miles anytime he wants to pop one, and that he can sustain a pace eight to twelve seconds slower than that indefinitely.” He slapped the papers down. “You’re supposed to get him to perform, but I don’t see it in this. A little bit at the end. That’s all.”
Waldemar sat in the barely padded chair in front of the desk. His legs felt pleasantly wooden after the day’s workout. Six miles from where the Genotech copter had dropped them on the far edge of the training area, where the hills were particularly steep and good for strength work, Euthlos had veered off the Duratrack pathway, then took a half mile long trail that ended on a rocky bend in a tiny stream. They’d taken their shoes off and soaked their feet in the iron cold water for twenty minutes. “No vid-eyes here,” said Euthlos after the water had turned Waldemar’s feet numb. “They watch me all the time, you know. Not just while I’m training. In my room. During classes. They monitor my communications in and out.”
“So what do you do?” The reminder of the vids made Waldemar uncomfortable. Creighton irritated him, and he felt no loyalty to him or Genotech, but Creighton would know they’d broken the training routine, vid or no vid, and any deviation would come up in their daily debriefing.
Euthlos smiled like a little kid. Waldemar was struck again by how boyish the man seemed sometimes, and it was hard to remember that he was twenty-two. “Oh, they aren’t as diligent as they think. Right now, the trainers see us on the trail rapping out some five-twenties.”
“You jimmied the system.”
“A man needs a hobby. I know something about vids, yes. It’s electronic sleight of hand, like this.” He picked a rock out of the stream and shook the water off it. “Watch,” he said, and he wrapped his fingers around it and turned the hand over. Then he brought his other hand beside it so he held two fists, knuckles up to Waldemar. “Which hand is it in?”
Waldemar blinked. “You haven’t moved it. It’s there.” He pointed.
Euthlos grinned and said, “Are you sure?” He turned the fist over and opened it. Water dampened his palm, but the rock was gone. “See, sleight of hand.”
Euthlos glanced at his watch. “Come on. I’ve got an appointment.”
Waldemar put on his shoes and followed the long-legged runner back to the course. They ran for a few minutes, then Euthlos cut off the Duratrack again and led them to the edge of a small clearing. Pines towered around it sighing in the morning breeze.
“Stay here,” he said, and trotted on alone into the middle. From the shadows on the other side, something stirred. A young woman wearing camouflage pants and a tan jacket stepped into the sun, where the slanting light set her short blonde hair aglow, like a halo. She smiled. Euthlos covered the distance in three lengthy strides and embraced her.
For a long time they stood, wrapped in each other, until, embarrassed, Waldemar retreated up the trail to the Duratrack. Finally, Euthlos joined him, out of breath and happy.
“There’s lots of things Genotech doesn’t know about me,” he said, and they resumed the workout.
After a few minutes, Waldemar asked, “Who is she?”
“She’s pretty, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but who is she?”
“I started corresponding with her two years ago. She’s from Humans First.”
Waldemar sucked in a breath. “Ouch. They’re terrorists! They hate gene manipulation. This doesn’t seem like a match made in heaven.”
Euthlos laughed sardonically. “They don’t blame the enhanced for being enhanced. Some of Humans First are enhanced. Besides, it’s much more than hate. What makes you think I’m a gene-change patriot?”
They followed the track around a weathered mound of granite, and then climbed sharply for a quarter of a mile. Euthlos said, “Tell you what. Let’s try something different. I’ll take the right fork ahead, and you take the left. They both end at our pick up point, but my course is about a mile longer. You’ll have four miles left and I’ll have a little over five. First one to the copter buys the other one a beer.”
“They won’t let you have one.”
“Well, a spicy vegetable drink then.”
“You’re on.”
The trail forked. Waldemar blinked on his visor and picked up the pace. The orange readout showed his first mile at four-thirty, while Euthlos clocked a four-seventeen. If they held that average, Waldemar would beat him by more than eight seconds. Euthlos’ readouts flickered, then went blank. He was out of the visor’s range, and Waldemar concentrated too much on the curves in the path to pay attention any longer.