"Niven, Larry & Barnes, Steven - Achilles Choice 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

"You must be Jillian Shomer. Fractals and judo?"
"And fell-running."
A dark hand was extended to her. It was strong, and hard with callus. "I'm Holly Lakein. Molecular biology and the balance beam. Chess. Do you play?"
"Not really."
"Oh." She grinned, and waved a hand at the
computer table. A visual field projected a chess set composed of simple geometric shapes. When Holly's finger brushed a bishop, it skittered across the board to the next square. "Just reexamining Anderssen- Dufresne, 1852. Berlin. What they call the 'Evergreen' game. I think I've found a new response to the Queen Sacrifice that won the game."
Jillian smiled politely. "That must be very exciting."
"Yeah . . . well . . ." Holly shrugged. "Hell with it." She motioned toward a frame bunk on the far side of the room. "That one okay?"
"Sure." Jillian tossed her rucksack down on the bed, and watched under her arm as Holly floated to a closet, pulled down sheets and blankets, and tossed them to Jillian with a flip of her wrists.
Holly's economical perfection of movement was captivating, even applied to so mundane a task. Every joint seemed to be an oiled ball bearing; every exquisitely toned muscle moved in perfect sequence.
"When did you have it done?"
Holly grinned again. "Forty days ago. The Boost is peaking now, and will plane for the next month. Then we'll crank it up again. Hoping to hit Everest just about Athens."
"Aren't you scared?"
"Of course," Holly said. "But then again, my research is on the reversal or stabilization of the process itself."
"You mean . . . without Linking? I didn't think that was possible."
"Ask Abner."
The room was arched loftily. The light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filtering down from the ceiling like a spray of moondust. Through the wall-wide windows Jillian could see the Rocky Mountains, their reality less vivid than a train station mural.
An irritatingly thin voice brought her attention back to the front of the room. The voice belonged to a tanned, slender woman whose sad eyes and pouchy cheeks reminded Jillian of a shaved housecat. "For those of you who don't know, I'm Dr. Andrea Kelly, your liaison with the Rocky Mountain Sports Medicine Facility. I would like to welcome all of you to the North American corporate and national training camp for the Eleventh Olympiad."
There was a polite smattering of applause. Jillian looked out over competitors nearest her, recognizing few of them. Most were faces without names. A few were faces and events.
There, sitting in a cluster on the left side of the room, was the track squad. Powerful but lean, they seemed as nervously alert as antelope in dry season. She tried to guess their modifications: artificial knee joints? Synthetic hemoglobin?
Near them were the power lifters, recognizable from their gigantic deltoids and the enormous sweep of the lats. The other Olympians avoided them. These monsters were Boosted, and on them the Boost had worked its most extreme miracle. Muscle and bone had thickened to a simian density. Their hands knotted and unknotted compulsively, and a palpable air of leashed aggression hung in the air about them.
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 stage-whispered "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.
The honey-gold perfection of his body in motion, dismounting from the uneven parallel bars. The deceptively boyish manner which masked a startling clarity of thought. The dark blue of his eyes as he accepted the gold in memory of those who had died in its pursuit.
She remembered him as he stood four years ago, straight and tall before a Council-appointed panel, carefully explaining the mathematical model for worldwide air traffic control. He had revolutionized consumer aeronautics with that one talk. He had competed in four events, won three gold and one silver. She guessed that maybe fifty million female viewers would have had a baby with him then and there.
Why be sexist? Probably ten million men had considered it, too.
Donald Crawford had made it. He was one of the few whose gamble had paid off. Those fifteen to twenty per Olympiad were paraded before the public once or twice a year, with great ceremony.
Those who failed to make it at their first Olympiad smiled bravely and trained like fiends. Those who failed a second time . .
Like Abner?