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Achille's Choice Version 1.0

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

ACHILLES' CHOICE

(Scanner's Note: Fuck you.)

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49 West 24th Street

New York, N.Y. 10010

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Niven, Larry.

Achilles' choice I Larry Niven, Steven Barnes ; illustrated by Boris

Vallejo.

p. cm.

'A Tom Doherty Associates book."

ISBN 0-312-85099-9

I. Barnes, Steven. II. Vallejo, Boris. III. Title PS3564.19A63 1991

813' .54-dc2O 90-48782

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

First edition: March 1991

0987654321

ACHILLES' CHOICE

Chapter I

Jillian Shomer ran along the north edge of the quarry, toward a distant, silent ocean, into the

dawning sun.

Her breath vibrated in her mastoid process, made sharp rasping sounds in her Comnet ear link. In

her own very informed opinion, she sounded ragged and undisciplined.

Hot fudge sundaes are a basic food group. The words were etched in acid, her self-

appraisal as merciless as the grade.

She unclipped the plastic bottle at her side, and sipped shallowly. Thin, faintly sweet,

with a briny edge. The drink was custom-formulated from analysis of her own sweat, a nutrient

solution composed chiefly of water and long-chain glucose polymers, with a few electrolyte

minerals judiciously added. Jillian thought the sweat tasted better.

The air would heat soon. Morning chills burned off quickly of late, unusual for

Pennsylvania in late March. April and May would be hot.

She squeezed the bottle closed with her teeth, and pushed onward. Halfway through now.

Sean Vorhaus would be meeting her for the last two miles of the run. With the first tickle of

fatigue her mind, ordinarily the most orderly of instruments, began to wander. She focused, and

continued to dictate.

"Beverly: note. Mind seeks patterns. Predictions. Wrong here. Old math . . . says

weather's chaotic. Initial conditions. Disease, money, whatever. Try crime. Greek poets, storm. .

. metaphor for personal change. Proposal-"

She panted, and wiped away the trickle of sweat oozing from beneath her terry-cloth

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headband. Her breathing normalized swiftly, and she continued.

"-use fractals, predict-global sociopolitical patterns. Determine where chaos rules human

life-"

Funny how concise these notes always were. When she was running, she couldn't spare the

breath! An athlete training at a reasonable level should still be able to talk . . . and unable to

sing; who was it tried that? And Beverly would edit out the gasping.

In print it would come out more like, "Although the human mind functions so as to seek

patterns and predictability within chaos, the peculiar mathematics of my chosen field suggest that

the only pattern ultimately discernible in weather is chaos itself. Weather is very sensitive to

initial conditions, as is disease con-

trol, the relative value of currency, and whatever else I can come up with. This approach might be

used to reduce crime rates. But note: the Greek poets used storms as metaphors for drastic changes

in human existence. Proposal: although currently considered impractical, I believe that fractals

can be used to predict global sociopolitical patterns. The trick is to determine the degree to

which chaos itself is a controlling factor in human life-"

The path split and she automatically chose the high road. The old mine lay at the feet of

the Allegheny mountains, and had once been a source of coal and natural gas.

Energy sources and environmental concerns had shifted drastically in the last hundred

years. Thanks to the Council, there were probably forty billion tons of coal in the Pennsylvania

earth that would never be harvested. How many tons of smog did that translate into? How many

square miles of soot-stained lung tissue?

The deserted mine was an atavistic eyesore, a raw, mile-wide slash. Long ago, men had

ripped coal from the earth, made it bleed black, carted away its flesh to heat homes and

industrial furnaces. Today the Council had decreed cleaner sources: solar satellites, geothermal

stations, fusion reactors.

The strip mine lay before Jillian, around her, a barren womb. Its grueling inclines and

sudden, twisty depths were a challenge to mind and body, an ideal preparation for the rigors to

come.

So lost in reverie was Jillian that she failed to hear Sean's familiar rhythmic stride

until he was ten feet away.

Sean Vorhaus was taller than she, and broader through the chest, with a longer stride. But

he was a sprinter, with a sprinter's power in his upper body. Jillian was built to run miles, not

meters. Her other physical discipline added the torso muscle that made them an obvious social item

around Pennsylvania Tech.

Sean's ruddy face glistened with sweat as he came abreast of her. They managed a quick,

bumping kiss without breaking stride.

Ah, the glories of coordination.

"How's the hip this morning?" he asked.

"No more 'click click.'

"Any word from Beverly?" He pointed to her Comnet. The Council might try to reach her now,

she supposed . . . but she didn't expect any contact before noon. Even so, it was comforting to

know that whenever or wherever the call came, whatever the answer was, she would know.

Their footsteps seemed to merge. "You know how I feel, Jill.''

She nodded. The grade steepened. They took a seventy-degree sprint up a ridge of ash and

shattered stone, breathlessly matching strides, Behind them the morning sun had cast a slender

silvery wedge on the western rim of the quarry.

Day was here. Almost certainly their last together. No matter what the Council's decision,

things could never be the same between them. Sean could never again be coach and mentor. Probably

not lover. Perhaps not even friend.

A chill swept her, and she focused on the steady rolling stroke of sole against rock.

The incline leveled out. Jillian's breathing normalized swiftly. The dark, stony earth

turned beneath her shoe, but she didn't stumble. Her ankles were strong. By both nature and

nurture, her entire body was as durable and flexible as copper wire. She compensated, caught her

balance, and ran on.

Sean brushed a lick of brown hair back from his forehead. "In a couple of hours. . . you

won't be mine anymore."

I never was.

The thought reached her lips, but went no further.

Sean saw the tension of restraint, misinterpreted its meaning, and hushed what he thought

would be a cloying endearment. "Let's"-he huffed for air-"not kid each other. Not now. You'll make

the team. And you're going for the gold. Even . . . if you come back to Penn Tech, you'll be

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different. Linked. Just want you to know"-he puffed, sucking wind as she picked the pace up-

"wouldn't have missed this for the world. All of this-"

She tried to speak again.

"Bullshit," he said amiably. "Save breath. Need it. Race you to the bikes."

He broke into a run. As always, she dredged up strength from somewhere in her reserves to

follow him, match him. And as always, especially now, on this last of their days together, she was

careful not to pass him.

There were classes scheduled at Pennsylvania Technical University, but no one expected

Jillian Shomer to attend them. Not today.

She would wait for the word. Yes, or no. Go or stay.

Arm in arm they returned to her dorm room. They took a hot, leisurely shower together,

sluicing away the perspiration, soaping each other's bodies lavishly. Her long hard biceps femoris

muscles tingled as the warm pulsing water dissolved knots of tension.

And as they showered, Jillian's multifunction personal data Simulacrum Beverly analyzed

her run. As always, Bev's critique was merciless and precise. As always, it was given in a

cunningly programmed Southern lilt.

"-compensating for the grade, your stride altered to twenty-three inches."

Jillian waited for the carefully crafted sounds of disapproval.

"Tsk, tsk, Jill. Is this the best you can do? We both know that twenty-five"-Beverly

pronounced the number twenny-fahve-"is optimum for your height and present weight."

Sean chortled. "Bev slays me."

"Energy," Jillian called, spitting water.

"Energy metabolism appears adequate . . ." A pregnant pause. "But you made a little

mistake, honey."

"And what was that?"

"When you tinkled this morning, I got a urine sample-"

Jillian grimaced, and whispered to Sean: "Remind me to disconnect the toilet monitor."

"Hah!"

"-and it looks to me like you snuck in a little snack since yesterday."

"Me? Me? How could you say such a thing?"

"Sugar," Bev said reprovingly. "Based on alkaloid content and protein chromatography, the

contraband was most likely a hot fudge sundae."

"Guilty as charged. Bravo, Beverly."

"Jillian, dear child, your nutritional profile is solid enough to survive an occasional

dalliance, but don't expect me to applaud."

Jillian toweled off as she left the shower, and watched as a holographic scan of her body

appeared in the air before her. Pools of color-coded glitter swirled in the image, displaying

circulation and muscle tension.

She lay stomach-down on her bed, eyes on the shimmering image. Sean knelt beside her.

His fingers were magical, easing knots of tension from places so tight they hadn't had

room to scream. She rolled over, and her towel fell away.

At the age of twenty-three, Jillian Shomer still seemed to have baby fat along her jaw,

unless she bit down hard to reveal the muscle protecting her neck. Her face, framed by short

blonde hair, was too strongly angular to be sheerly decorative, softened only by eyes which were

oak-brown with flecks of emerald. She might have been considered plain, except when smiling or

talking. In much the same way, her body was too solidly muscled, her subcutaneous fat pared too

finely for any classically feminine image. But when she was in motion . .

Ah, that was quite a different thing. In motion, Jillian was liquid light, a symphony of

power and grace, and ordinary standards simply didn't apply.

"Ultrasound analysis reveals a weakness in the left Achilles tendon, which is caused by

tension in the right hip flexor."

"Suggestion?"

"Twofold. First, postpone your plyometric speed drills while we run institute

rehabilitative lateral gastrocnemius exercise."

"Fine. And the second?"

Beverly paused, almost shyly. "Well, I'd recommend some form of massage to help your hips

relax, honey. Maybe that big burly hunk of a man has some suggestions."

Sean guffawed, rolled her and scooped her into his arms. "Cheating!" he said. "That's what

she always prescribes."

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"We think alike is all. Right, Bev?"

"Humph. A Southern lady doesn't watch such goings-on."

"In that case, switch off."

"Have fun, children."

Sean and Jillian laughed together, and then quieted. How could they make this seem casual?

Everything they said or did had a ring of finality to it.

"I don't want to look at the clock," she whispered.

He smiled. "What do you want?"

"Just hold me. 'Gird up thy loins now like a man...'"

"Huh?"

"Job thirty-eight, verse three."

"Pretty randy for a Bible verse." He brushed her lips with his, then nuzzled the nape of

her neck until her breathing grew deep and ragged. "And what did it say after that?"

Her voice was thick, and swallowing was an effort. "Something about 'laying the

foundations of the Earth.'

"Ambitious."

She pressed herself against him. "Just hold me until they call. I don't want to think.

I'll go crazy if I think."

He was good that way. They were good for each other, that way. For Jillian, he was the

only one who had ever been able to stop the madness, stop the daydreaming, the endless carousel of

thought.

Then why couldn't I belong to him?

Because I don 't belong to myself.

For Sean, the future meant a position on the board of Penn Tech, tenure, publication,

precious Comnet access time.

For her, the stakes were the whole world. So they held each other until the wall rang,

beckoning her back to reality. And safely cocooned in Sean's wiry arms, she heard the news she

needed, feared, the words she hoped for.

When the glorious rows of Olympians marched in Athens, Jillian Shomer could well be among

them.

And sometime between now and then, she would have to make a terrible decision.

Life. Death. Victory.

"Achilles' choice," Sean whispered.

And for the last time, they made love.

The being that called himself Saturn sat in his Void, a spider crouched in the midst of an

infinite web, with strands that reached into every aspect of communication and information

retrieval on Earth. Jillian Shomer's name slid past his awareness, barely noted. She was one of

thousands of finalists from all over the world. Many of them would make it to Athens. Few would

live to great age.

He couldn't afford to care, and didn't. In a few seconds he scanned the entirety of her

academic and athletic career, calculated the odds against her, and filed her away with the file

flagged.

She really hadn't much of a chance. He would watch her esthetic event, though. Her concept

was appealing, one that he might have tried himself, long ago, in another life.

Chapter 2

Sean's fingers touched her shoulders, the taste of his kiss still warm on her mouth. His eyes had

left her face, were focused on the line of gleaming tube cars behind her. A pleasantly synthesized

voice sang out the current stream of departures and arrivals for Pittsburgh Central.

She circled his waist, crushing herself against the hard bands of muscle. She fought to

absorb him, impress him upon her memory: ice-blue eyes, thin firm mouth, black hair, Apollonian

torso. A scent tinged with musk and fresh citrus. His heart pounded its languid rhythm, and hers

sped to match it.

"We'll see each other again," he said finally.

"It won't be the same." Damn it, she had promised herself she wouldn't snivel.

"It never is." He tilted her chin up. "And who is it that taught me that?"

She managed a smile, went up to tiptoe, pressing her mouth against his again, lips parted,

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sealing their goodbye with a ferocity that shocked her.

Then she stepped back and, without another word, entered the nearest car on the Denver

platform. She found a seat and threaded her ticket through the chair arm. The door closed behind

her. The line of windowless cars slid forward, like the first moment of a roller coaster ride,

down and down and down.

Part of her had expected the royal treatment, brass bands and ticker tape and a chorus of

hallelujahs to wish her bon voyage. She felt utterly alone.

No one understood the isolation of total discipline. For ten years there had been little

social life, less free time.

Only the endless, grinding cycle of training and research. Ultimately, it had pushed even Sean to

the outside.

At least she had Beverly. Beverly's personality core resided in an optical wafer in her

wallet. She knew she was indulging her paranoia, but it was a conscious indulgence. Once in Denver

she could hook back into Beverly's main banks through Comnet. . . but she had heard horror

stories, and never traveled without a core. Beverly had been her cybernetic nursemaid, childhood

friend, study partner, confidante, and lab assistant. Ultimately, Beverly had been the only

shoulder for Jillian to cry on when her mother died eleven years ago.

She would not risk Beverly.

As she flashed within the earth, as weightless as a lost ghost, she felt that aloneness

more starkly. She seemed to be passing over an invisible meridian. More than time and distance

were being traversed here. And if she made the wrong decision.

She squeezed her eyelids shut, and tried not to think for the rest of her seventy-minute

ride. The train fell through the bowels of the earth at nearly orbital speed. Its silence was

broken only by the thunder of her heartbeat as it returned, stroke by slow stroke, to its resting

pace of forty-six beats a minute.

The Denver station was a honeycomb of concrete and stainless steel, so like the Pittsburgh

depot that it was disorienting. The price of standardization. Transportation had built the depot,

and the Council liked uniformity.

She looked out across the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Only strangers were to be

seen, but in an odd way, they were family. In whatever city, whatever country, at whatever craft

they toiled, more than at any other period in history, the citizens of Earth were one united

people. These folk had never known the specter of war. Famine and pestilence were distant memories

for most of them. These were the children of a new time, the first generation with the power to

make a perfect world.

Most specifically, a world in which friction between its component parts was being reduced

to something approaching zero.

By the time the Council had formed, less than 30

percent of American adults were registered to vote, and less than 45 percent of those used the

privilege. The nations of Earth were dying institutions, impotent relics of a more primitive age.

And who really cared?

A cardboard placard held by pale slender fingers caught her attention. It said: JILLIAN.

She squirmed her way through the crowd.

The man holding the placard was thin-marathonthin, his posture like a question mark, his

facial bones too prominent. An age ago his bright boyish good looks had reached through a TV set

to capture a young Jillian's heart. There wasn't much left of that. He had huge hands, their skin

stretched so tight that they seemed amphibian. She pretended not to notice.

Booster-induced acromegaly. Within months he would be an utter grotesque. If he lived that

long.

A thick belt around his waist was the only prosthetic system she could see. A

microprocessing system in the belt performed millions of operations per second, communicating with

implants in the owner's liver, pancreas, spine, heart, and brain. The massively invasive technique

could slow, but not halt, the inevitable deterioration.

His mouth was unexpectedly warm and friendly. His eyes, gray-green, invited her to share a

world filled with mischievous secrets. "Jillian Shomer?"

"Abner Warren Collifax?" Both were unnecessary questions.

He offered an arm. She took it, found it disconcertingly skeletal. "Come on. Your luggage

is coded through already. It should be down the chute and in the car by the time we get there."

"Privilege?"

"You're one of the elite, and don't you forget it. I can guarantee you no one else will."

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