The Prize Beyond Gold
a science fiction story
by Ian Creasey
"The Prize Beyond Gold" copyright 2010 by Ian Creasey, first published in Asimov's Science Fiction (December 2010)
Cover illustration copyright 2011 by S P Wilcock
Table of Contents
The Prize Beyond Gold
Afterword
About the Author
The Prize Beyond Gold
Three days before the race, when Delroy had finished warming down from a training run, his coach summoned him for a talk. Delroy could tell it was something big. Michito's job — assisted by his Enhanced empathy — was to become exquisitely sensitive to his athlete's mood, so as to help get the best out of him. The attunement sometimes became mutual, and Delroy now discerned a rare eagerness in Michito's almost-natural face.
"The weather forecast for race day has reached certainty," said Michito. "Temperature: perfect. Humidity: perfect. Wind speed: just below the permissible maximum. Wind direction —"
"Perfect?" said Delroy.
"Behind you all the way." Michito grinned in delight. "It's the final star in the constellation. You're in great shape, the weather will be ideal, we're two thousand metres above sea level" — Michito made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the many other factors affecting performance — "and it all adds up to one thing."
"I'm going to win?" Delroy didn't understand Michito's glee: the weather would be the same for all the runners.
"Yes, but never mind that. Forget winning — you have a chance at the record!"
Michito paused to let it sink in. Records were something that athletes and coaches normally never discussed, because they'd stood so long that they were effectively unbeatable. The record for the men's 100 metres had remained at 8.341 seconds for the past seventy years.
A pulse of exhilaration surged through Delroy. His posture stiffened, as if already preparing for the starting gun. "Really? The world record?"
"Yes, the one and only. The prize beyond gold."
Michito's excitement spilled out, infecting Delroy, whose own excitement blazed in return and stoked a feedback loop. They were practically getting high on it. Indeed, this giddy rush was as close to getting high as Delroy had ever experienced. In his entire life he'd never once taken any kind of drug. The rules were strict on that, as on so many other things.
Abruptly, Michito reverted to his habitual seriousness. "A chance, I said. A real chance. But only if everything's as smooth as an angel's feather. We need absolute perfection. There can be no deviations, no distractions."
This was standard rhetoric for any important race. Yet Michito's demeanour indicated something beyond the usual rigorous regime.
"I think it would be best if you stayed here at the training ground," Michito went on, "instead of going back to the villa tonight. This is a more controlled environment, with much less risk —"
"What could possibly happen to me?"
"I want to keep you away from other people, and it's easier to do that here. You'll be in purdah, seeing no-one except your coaching team. I know it'll be frustrating, but it's only three days."
Delroy grimaced, though he didn't argue. Michito knew what was best. Aside from the usual health and attractiveness tweaks, Michito's main Enhancement was an uncanny empathy that let him predict Delroy's responses, and thus determine the optimum conditions for success. If he felt purdah was necessary, then it must be necessary. It was only another line in the script Delroy had been following all his life.
The script had two phases, as familiar as his two legs. Sometimes, when he rehearsed stride patterns out on the track, the script echoed in his head with every step: left, right; left, right — race, train; race, train....
Michito said, "This is bigger than any medal. The Olympics are like a moon that's always in the sky, waxing every four years; but the record is a comet that blazes just once across the heavens, before disappearing forever. This could be the only time in your career when all the right circumstances combine: the chance might never come again.
"Yet if we can predict this opportunity, then so can other people. Now that the weather's finalised, everyone knows you have a shot at the record. Journalists will be swarming like hornets. It's the biggest sports story of the decade — and it goes beyond sports...."
Michito's voice trailed off, but Delroy knew what he implied. Athletics records could only be set by standard, unenhanced humans — the so-called Ancestral Model. Since in most respects the Standards had long been surpassed by their Enhanced progeny, any new achievement by a Standard human was a major event, embraced by the Natural Life movement as evidence that the old model wasn't entirely obsolete.
"And there's one more thing we need to watch out for," Michito said, pausing to emphasise his next word. "Sabotage. Not everyone will want you to break that record. We can't take the risk of anyone getting to you. I've already arranged extra security here."
Sabotage? It sounded unlikely. Was that a real danger, or just a phantom invoked to persuade Delroy to accept the purdah?
That was the problem with having a coach solely focused on making you perform. You never knew whether anything he said was true, or simply the lie with the maximum calculated motivational value.
Still, the truth didn't matter. Only the record mattered.