Mike Resnick - Birthright

Far ahead of him the Emran was increasing his lead, pulling out by first two hundred, then three hundred yards. The Olympian paid no attention to him. Hailey had told him what the Emran could and couldn't do, and he knew his own capabilities. If Hailey's information was right, he'd be pulling up to the Emran in about eleven minutes. And if Hailey was wrong... He shook his head. Hailey was never wrong. The crowd was cheering, screaming the name of its champion, and across the galaxy 500 billion viewers watched as the Olympian fell so far behind that the video picture couldn't accommodate both runners. And every single one of them, Tinsmith knew, human and nonhuman alike, was asking himself the same question: Could this be the day? Could this be the day that an Olympian would finally lose? Everyone but Hailey, who sat quietly in his box, stopwatch in hand, nodding his head. The kid was going well, was obeying orders to a T. The first half in 1:49, the mile in 3:40. He picked up his binoculars, saw that his charge was showing no signs of strain or fatigue, and leaned back, content. At the end of the second mile the Emran's lead had not diminished, and even the handful of humans in the stadium sensed an impending upset. But then, slowly, inexorably, Tinsmith began closing the gap. After three miles, he was once again only two hundred yards behind, and as they turned up the backstretch for the final time, he had narrowed the Emran's advantage to one hundred and fifty yards. And there the margin stayed, as first the Emran and then, more than twenty seconds later, Tinsmith hit the far turn. The Olympian peered ahead through the dust after the flying bronzed figure ahead of him. Something was wrong! The Emran should be coming back to him by now, should be feeling the strain of that torrid early pace on those heavy, burly legs, should be shorter of stride and breath. But he wasn't. His legs were still eating up the ground, still keeping that margin between them. Tinsmith knew then that he couldn't wait any longer, that the homestretch was too late, that his body, already beginning to feel the strain, would have to respond right now. There would be no breather for him, no tired opponent to pass at his leisure, if he was to attain the anonymity of victory, the knowledge

that he was just another addition to an immense list of triumphs, rather than the last Olympian.

He spurted forward, spurred on more by fear than desire. His legs ached, the soles of his feet burned, his breath came in short, painful gasps. Into the homestretch he raced, his body screaming for relief, his mind trying to blot out the agony. Now he was within seventy yards of the Emran, now fifty. The Emran heard the yells of the crowd, knew the Olympian was making a run at him, and forced his own tortured legs to maintain the pace. On and on the two raced, each carrying a world on his shoulders. Tinsmith was still eating into the Emran's margin, but he was running out of racetrack. He looked up, his vision blurred, and willing the spots away from his eyes he focused on the finish wire. It hung across the track, a mere two hundred yards distant.

He was thirty yards farther from it than the Emran. He was going to lose. He knew it, felt in every throbbing muscle, every bone-shattering stride. When they spoke of the Olympians in future years, on worlds not yet discovered, he would be the one they'd name. The one who Lost.

“No!” he screamed. “ No! Not me! ” His pace increased. He was not running after the Emran any longer, he was running from every human, living or yet to be born, in the galaxy. “ NO! ”

He was still screaming when he crossed the finish line five yards ahead of his opponent. He wanted to collapse, to let his abused body melt and become one with the dirt and the stone on the floor of the stadium. But he couldn't. Not yet, not until he was back in the dressing room. He was vaguely aware of one of Hailey's assistants breaking through the cordon of police and officials racing up to support him, but he brushed him away with a sweep of his long, sweat-soaked arm. Someone else came up with a jug of water. Later he'd take it, later he'd pour quarts and gallons into his dry, rasping throat. But not now. Not in front of them . The fire in his lungs was beginning to diminish, to be replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. Suddenly he remembered the cameras. He swallowed once, then drew himself up to his full height. He glanced calmly, disdainfully, at the throng of reporters, then turned and began the slow, painful trek to the dressing room. Hailey moved as if to accompany him, then stopped. Another of Hailey's aides began to walk after him, but the trainer grabbed his arm and held him back. Hailey understood. Olympians walked alone.

8: THE BARRISTERS

...As the Olympians fought for Man on the fields of honor, so, in a far more meaningful way, did the barristers fight for Man in the courts of law. The problems were both new and immense, for a million alien worlds with a corresponding set of mores, laws, and statutes were the battlefields, and as often as

not the lawbreakers had not the slightest notion that they were violating planetary ordinances. In many

cases the laws were simply incomprehensible, totally meaningless to someone raised in a human culture; but even then, Man looked after his own, and, however hopeless the case, one or more barristers were sent in to defend their errant brother. Perhaps no other barrister during the period of the Democracy achieved quite the measure of fame that Ivor Khalinov did. Born at the huge complex on Caliban, he grew to maturity on that incredible world prior to... — Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Khalinov (2399-2484 G.E.) came to prominence as a result of a number of admittedly brilliant cases in the courts of Lodin XI, Binder VI, and Canphor VII, worlds where no Man had ever won a decision before. Unquestionably possessed of one of the greatest legal minds of his era, Khalinov's courtroom and pretrial tactics were nonetheless... —Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8

“Son,” said Khalinov, peering out from beneath his gray, bushy eyebrows, “I'm going to be perfectly honest with you: I'd much rather be prosecuting this case than defending it.” “Thanks a lot,” said the blond youth glumly. “Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't take the case,” said Khalinov. “Your parents are paying me far more than you're worth. More than anyone's worth, really. I just remarked that I don't think the odds are in our favor.”

“You've bucked the odds before,” said the youth, almost pleadingly. “That closing argument of yours in the blasphemy case on Lodin XI is still required reading in every school in the Deluros system.” “Well, not quite every school.” Khalinov smiled. “But be that as it may, your case is a little different from blasphemy through ignorance of local custom. You are charged with killing fifty-seven sentient entities on the planet Atria XVI. Admittedly it was an involuntary action, compounded by carelessness, and it could not possibly be construed as malicious. But the fact remains that you did indeed cause their deaths.” “But...”

“Furthermore, Atria XVI has no plea-bargaining. Manslaughter, murder three, involuntary homicide—none of these terms exist in Atrian law. You either killed them or you didn't, regardless of circumstances. And son, you killed them.” “Then why defend me at all?”

“Aside from the money, you mean?” asked Khalinov. “I guess it's because I still believe that every man has the right to a defense—and on Atria XVI, you need a good defense about as much as any man I ever knew. You know, the simple act of resisting arrest and returning here to Deluros VIII merits the equivalent of a life sentence. You knew we'd extradite you, didn't you?” “I wasn't thinking,” said the youth. “I just couldn't believe what was happening. What's the penalty if I'm convicted, Mr. Khalinov?”