Larry Niven - Achilles choice

Jillian shut the unit down.

She scanned the room, and thought it small but comfortable. All of her clothing was stored away, chairs and tables rearranged, and it was starting to feel like home. With Beverly now installed, Jillian felt she was ready.

“What are you thinking?” Holly asked.

“I don’t know. Boost, maybe. It sounds so good.”

“And costs so much. For about eight years you’re a superman. It’s probably twice as good as any other ergonometric technique. Or any combination of techniques, for that matter. Then, surprise! Your own body eats you.”

“But you Boosted anyway, Holly.”

“Yeah, but I’m looking for loopholes. It’s a mug’s game for the rest of you. Cancer, epilepsy, acromegaly. You get just two chances to go for gold, Jillian. Achilles didn’t get much of a choice.”

Holly returned to her chess game. Jillian sank down into her chair, and listened to her thoughts for a minute. She had not yet Boosted. She’d have to choose soon.

The tale was told to three billion TV sets during every Olympiad. The gods had offered Achilles a short, glorious life, or a long dull one. He chose glory.

Behind her, Holly screamed “Mate!”

While she immersed herself in her morning workout, Jillian watched the others in the gym. Their bodies had that telltale Boosted angularity. Jillian walked out onto the mat, her new judo gi crisp and just a little scratchy against her skin. Her black belt was knotted carefully, the white threads pale beneath the frayed surface. A worn black belt implied that the practitioner was more experienced.

She remembered when she first earned her dan ranking, and the evenings she had rubbed her new, starchy belt against cement, dipped it in bleach, sliced it shallowly with razors, trying to prematurely age her symbol of rank. She found the memory embarrassing, not funny. Poor strategy. Strive to be underestimated! What had old Sun Tsu said? “At the beginning, be as coy and frightened as a maiden. Then when the enemy gives you an opening, rush in and crush him.”

Abner approached her with the same oddly disconnected movement he had displayed at the train station, like a puppet suspended from rubber bands instead of strings. Sometimes it was hard to believe he had been one of the top judo players in the world.

“Are we ready to work today?”

“Let’s get to it.”

He gave her a swift visual inspection, and nodded curtly. Abner led her out onto a mat sandwiched with pressure sensors. The air shimmered with an I/O field, recording all actions as well as projecting whatever illusions might be necessary to evoke maximum performance.

Her opponent might have been a human being, so carefully was its appearance crafted. One could barely see the third leg, a slender stalk that projected to the rear to maintain balance. Its face was robotically neutral.

Jillian touched it, felt the balance. She inspected the fingers and hands, noting the hydraulics, the servomotors, the magnetic locks that would cling to the layer of foil in her gi.

With the slightest of hissing sounds, it bowed to her.

She giggled.

“Worked on a Grappler Twelve before?” Abner asked.

“No, but we had a Nine available to us at P. Tech.”

“The Grappler Twelve has faster reflexes, and a better grip-you’re webbed up under your gi? Otherwise it won’t really be able to grasp you.”

“Yes. We can do a check.”

“We’re going to be evaluating you for strength, balance, and coordination. Speed and endurance will be checked later, against a live opponent.”

“Ready,” Jillian said.

Balanced on its skeletal third leg, the Grappler moved in. Jillian extended her hands, and they gripped each other’s sleeves, the Grappler’s magnetic fingertips locking to the foil layer of her gi. The webbing that cocooned her body and attached it to the inside of the gi worked perfectly: the Twelve’s grip was much more convincing than a Nine.

Jillian pivoted, slid her hip inside, and performed a perfect ogoshi hip throw. The Grappler flew over her back and crashed into the mat. Its legs contracted and extended, gyros whirred. It righted itself in less than two seconds, and was back.

This time Jillian used a deashiharai foot sweep. The Grappler did a clever little dance, and came very close to reversing the move.

She lowered her hips, dropping her center of mass. The Grappler suddenly went top-heavy, easy to upend and smash into the mat.

She was enjoying herself.

Abner watched, no hint of clownishness on his face, no laughter in his eyes as he watched the vectors play out in holographic display.

The test went on and on. Throwing, being thrown, coming to grips and taking the Grappler to the mat. There the robot was weak on technique, but compensated with awesome leverage.

Pushing herself now, she tied it up in a succession of mat holds and chokes, and forced it to beep submission three times.

At the end of an hour, Jillian was sopping wet, and blowing for air.

“Very good,” Abner said blandly. “Now I think it’s time for a human opponent.”

“What?”

He smiled evilly. “The Grappler is decent for a readout or a warm-up, but there’s nothing like a little honest human flesh.”

Jillian was still gasping as he led her to another mat. A very blond woman two inches shorter than Jillian waited there. “I want you to meet Osa Grevstad. She’s going to work with you today.”

Although shorter, Osa was heavier through the shoulders. They probably weighed the same.

Her hair, cut short, did little to offset the butchiness of her overall appearance: hard, springy muscle, heavy bone structure, a level of energy so high she seemed to vibrate. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, a frequent symptom of Boost.

Osa’s face tightened as she smiled. There was humor but no warmth there. “You are the American who does not need Boost. We will see.”

Jillian glared at Abner, not appreciating this at all.

The two women bowed and circled each other, moving into position. Their fingers sought grips on the gi sleeves as their hips twitched in feint, and they catstepped for position. Osa’s hands changed positions as lightly as butterflies.

Abner’s right, she had to admit. There’s nothing like human flesh.

Osa spun tightly and went into ogoshi hip-throw position. Halfway into position she dropped lower, extended her leg to scythe Jillian’s knees.

Jillian somersaulted into the throw, curled into a ball except for the hand that gripped Osa’s shoulder and the foot that tucked into the blonde’s gut. As Jillian hit the mat her own momentum heaved Osa up in a devastating tomoenage stomach throw. Osa flipped like a gymnast, but landed on the balls of her feet in perfect balance. She grinned, and said “Meow.”

Jillian had never seen anyone move that fast, but controlled her awe: she also noticed that Osa’s reflexes were slightly faster than her coordination. Sometimes Boost changes things too quickly. And that fact Jillian could use to her advantage.

The two women circled each other. Osa smiled. “You’re very good, for one so timid.”

“I detect an accent.”

Jillian feinted a hip throw. Osa stiff-armed her back. “Yes. Born in Sweden, but I am Agricorp, not national!” she said proudly. “There were too many Judoka in Scandinavia.”

“Somebody pulled some strings?”

Osa danced to the left, then right, almost catching Jillian in a foot sweep as she adjusted position. “Transferred my union files to a fishery in Seattle. It was easy to make the North American team. Your judo is not so good as ours.”

Jillian started to protest, and suddenly Osa was gone, had disappeared under her, and Jillian was swinging in an explosively tight arc into the mat. She slapped hard, still had the breath jarred out of her. Then Osa was on her, grinding Jillian’s face and chest into the mat, cranking her arms back, going for the pin.