James Van Pelt - Flying in the Heart of the Lafayette Escadrille

Spiridon Loues of Greece won the first marathon of the modern Olympics in 1896, completing the twenty-six and two-tenth miles course in two hours, fifty-eight minutes and fifty seconds. He averaged six minutes and forty-nine seconds per mile.

Time is distance to a runner, thought Waldemar as he sat in the company shuttle, waiting for his escort into Genotech. I’ve been here for twenty minutes. For me, that’s more than four miles.

Creighton, the company man, opened the shuttle’s door. “Sorry I’m late. We have to go through kind of a gauntlet here.”

A line of protesters shouted as Waldemar walked through Genotech’s front gates. “Humanity for humans!” one screamed, his young face twisted in hate. Another yelled, “Give God’s genes a chance!” Waldemar glanced over his shoulder at the waving placards. He thought it ironic that a few of the protesters were clearly enhanced, their lengthened or shortened limbs, their thickened or attenuated torsos reflecting manipulated genes.

But his eyes were drawn to softly rolling hills behind the crowd, velvet green with spring grass, lapsing one upon the other to the mountains beyond. He imagined himself training on their gentle slopes, the ground a cushion beneath his feet, each breath an infusion of sweetness and strength. The gate closed behind him.

“Idiots,” murmured Creighton, palming an access reader next to the door. “Noboby’s thought to look for rabble rouser DNA yet, but I bet if we analyzed a few of those Humans First folks we’d find one.” He smiled at Waldemar, as if to assure him it was a joke, his bland face purely unreadable, and his gray eyes a closed book.

“Aren’t they dangerous?”

“After that nastiness in France and the bombing at DeoxyRibo Industries last year, we’ve beefed up security. They’re a nuisance, nothing else. The athletic department is this way.” Creighton set a brisk pace down the wide, white hall. Lighting was indirect and discreet. After the freshness of spring outdoors, the air inside smelled processed and waxy. Not bad, but institutional. They passed door after door, numbered but otherwise unlabeled, each with its own palm panel.

“You’ll find the latest in training facilities on the campus. We own over a thousand acres behind this facility, plus we have sole access to several hundred square miles of federal land beyond that. Our people tell me there are more than five hundred miles of Duratrack trails for long distance training, plus, of course, the indoor and outdoor tracks. You’ll find at Genotech we’re serious about our enhanced marathoners.” His voice fell into the sing-song of a tour guide. “When our athletes are not training, we provide the best in-house education possible. Euthlos 4, for example, is completing an advanced program in Information Systems Engineering just as if he were in a real college on the outside. Of course, when he wins the Olympics he’ll have no time to work. Like our last champion, Euthlos 3, he’ll be touring as our goodwill ambassador.”

Creighton turned into a branching hallway, indistinguishable from the first. His beautifully polished dress shoes clicked rhythmically. Waldemar’s running flats made no noise at all. Creighton continued, “Most of this building is devoted to Business and Administration.” They walked up a short flight of stairs to a double wide door. Creighton palmed for access and they entered a room lined with vid-screens. A technician looked up from his display and nodded to them. “From here, we can monitor the trails to the edge of the training area, exactly fifty miles from here.”

He touched a button and a large screen revealed a small, gray brick building. “That’s Research and Development just down the hill behind us. All our athletes start there. The glass pyramid to its left…” He panned the view to the side. “… is Housing and Training, where you’ll be working, and the last building there contains the Med Labs.”

“When can I meet Euthlos 4?” asked Waldemar. Genotech had hidden the identity of their runner, like an industrial secret, as they did all of their athletes. They only competed once, at the Olympics, and they did very well.

“He doesn’t like the number. Remember that. Where is he?” said Creighton to the technician, who touched a button on the console in front of him. The screen flicked to a forest. A well-maintained trail wove through the trees and a long legged runner toiled up the path toward them. Waldemar had a glimpse of blonde hair and a determined look before the runner passed under the camera. The technician made an adjustment, and the vid revealed the back side of the runner winding his way out of sight.

“Six minutes and four seconds a mile right now,” said the tech. A row of numbers scrolled down the left side of the screen too fast for Waldemar to follow. The tech said, “He’s loafing again.”

Creighton took a pen out of his jacket and clicked it several times, then returned it without having written on anything. “Well,” he said, “I need to give you a tighter focus on your job with us.” He took the pen out again and clicked it once, as if in thought, then, decisively, jammed it back into his pocket. “I understand you’re fast.”

Waldemar blushed. “Oh, no, no. Not like Euthlos fast. I’m unenhanced.”

“You’re modest. They tell me that you hold the world record for unenhanced runners.”

“Yes, but who would know it? It’s minor league.”

“But you’re fast enough for training purposes. You can keep up at everything short of his race pace?”

Waldemar realized that Creighton was nervous about something, just like the minor Genotech administrator who’d contacted him a week ago with an offer of a two month contract for more med-chits than he could earn in ten years. They dickered, and Waldemar signed for a lifetime med package with all the gene enhanced therapies included, something only highly placed executives received. Since then, he’d been waiting for the down side. There had to be a gimmick. “I’ve done some running. What are you getting at?”

Creighton’s hand crept up toward his pen again, but it stopped before actually entering the coat. He studied the vid screen. “The Enhanced Olympics are a big deal for the Companies, but you have no idea how financially crucial they are. It’s more than just the pride of victory. Not just bragging rights. A victory in the Enhanced Olympics marathon will mean the difference in millions in new orders in the next four years. When a Genotech runner crosses that line first, it says to our customers that we are the cutting edge in genetic manipulation. The point is that industrial gene enhanced workers are at a premium, and the competition is cutthroat. Perception is everything. If the industries think we’re winners, that our technology is top of the heap, then we’ll get the contracts, millions and millions in long term contracts. The second they think we’re not the setting the standard…” He paused. “Well, we are the industrial leader. We have the edge. Euthlos is faster over distance than any man who ever lived… Faster than Euthlos 3.”

Waldemar leaned toward him. “Is it true? The rumors about sub four minute pace? Can he break an hour-forty?”

“Possibly.” Creighton’s hand crept into his jacket, and the pen clicked twice but didn’t come out. “On paper. We haven’t seen his best yet. That’s your job. We’ve designed the ultimate running body. Euthlos’ musculature, his tendon connections, his oxygen intake and lactic acid tolerance levels are off the chart. His body converts food into usable energy at the theoretical limit. He’s a beautiful machine. But his head’s not there yet. Lately he’s been… well, uncooperative.”