Robert Reed - The Tournament.pdf

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ROBERT REED
THE TOURNAMENT
The round of 1 048 576 The Net calls everyone it selects. That's the rule.
Always at five in the afternoon, Eastern Double-Daylight Time. Always on the
Friday before June's first Monday, the bulk of the month reserved for little
else. More than a million phones sing out at once, their owners picking up as
one, nervously hoping to hear the Net's cool, unruffled voice giving them the
glorious news. Another Tournament is at hand! The best of our citizens will be
pitted against each other, in a myriad of contests, the single-elimination
adventure culminating in honor, wealth and an incandescent and genuinely
deserved fame.
Some contestants like being with friends when the call comes. Not me. Bette
claims I'm scared of being embarrassed by a silent phone. Maybe so. But I
think
it's because my first call was a surprise, coming when I was a kid -barely
eighteen-- and expecting nothing. I'm at least as superstitious as the next
idiot, I'll admit it. And I was alone that first time as well as every time
since. This is my seventeenth Tournament; I like my atmosphere of anxious
solitude, thank you. And I won't change one damned thing.
Five o'clock. My phone sings, and my hands shake. Opening the line, I watch my
viewing wall fill with the Net's milk-on-jade symbol, and the expected voice
says, "Hello, Mr. Avery Masters. You are ranked 20,008 in the national pool,
forty-seventh in your district. Congratulations, sir. Details will follow, and
as always, the best of luck to you."
"Thanks," I manage, breaking into a smile. Forty-seventh is my best local
ranking ever, but in truth, I'd hoped for better. My training has been going
great; all my qualifying tests are up. But then again, who's to bitch?
Positive
thoughts, positive results. That's what coaches tell you. With that in mind, I
brighten my smile, reading about Monday's opponent.
Ms. June Harryman -- a district legend. She's deep in her eighties, both hips
plastic and a carbon rod fused to a regenerated spine. She's made fifty-one
appearances in the Tournament, including its very first year, and while she
never finishes high, she's always there, always full of pluck, always
garnering
local praise and national mention.
No, I think, I can't ignore the lady.
Don't look past tomorrow, coaches tell you. Even if tomorrow isn't for three
days.
Our morning event is a 10K race, and the Net has given Ms. Harryman a
twenty-five minute head start. That's a brutal lead, I'm thinking. It's
probably
as much for her hips as her age. Then comes our afternoon game--some kind of
puzzle; that's all I'm told-- and in the evening, in a tiny studio not ten
minutes from my apartment, we'll go toe-to-toe in U.S. geography.
I bet the old gal knows a lot of geography. What could be worse, I'm thinking,
than being knocked out in the opening round by some low-rank half-artificial
grandmother?
 
When the phone rings again, I mute it. It's probably Bette calling to
congratulate me, then tease me about my opponent. Except I'm not in the mood
to
be teased. Just to feel confident, I start naming state capitals. And I forget
Guam's, which puts me into a panic. I'm taking a refresher course when Bette
arrives -- a breasty, big-hipped woman strolling into my apartment without
sound. I barely notice her as she turns through dozens of sports channels,
finally finding what she wants on the Net and cranking up the volume until my
ears hurt.
"According to friends," says a well-groomed reporter, "she felt chest pains as
she reached for the phone. It was five o'clock exactly." A lean, white-haired
woman hovers over his shoulder. Ms. June Harryman. "An artificial heart is
being
implanted --"
"What?" I cry out.
"-- with Ms. Harryman's long-term prospects deemed excellent."
"Didn't you know?" Bette's round face smiles, thoroughly amused. "Hasn't it
told
you?"
It means the Net, which has to know. The Net handles emergency calls, controls
every autodoc, and identifies consequences in an instant. Of course it knows.
A light blinks on my console. Punching the button, I hear:
"Mr. Masters, you have a bye for next Monday." Infinitely patient and
incapable
of amusement, the voice gives no sign of being impressed with my remarkable
luck. "Enjoy your weekend, sir. And we'll see you on Tuesday morning." 524 288
Reach the first round, and you're guaranteed a few dollars. It doesn't pay for
a
cheap treadmill or two hours of forced hypnosis, but it's a wage, and for some
people it's all they want. The illusion of being professional, that sort of
thing.
Payoffs accelerate slowly at first; you need to get out of the first week
before
you earn a living wage. Win your district -- my goal of goals--and you'll have
a
comfortable life. But then come the regionals and the authentic wealth. And if
you can defeat all twenty of your opponents -- one of us does that trick every
year-- the Net awards you a billion dollars, tax-free, then transmits to you
every congratulation from every one of your forgotten cousins.
Bette says the Tournament is silly. She says that a happy, wealth y nation
needs
better obsessions. But I don't take her teasing too seriously; I'm naturally
confident and self-assured, I hope. And besides, she lets me tease her in
turn.
I like telling her she's one of those stuffy souls who pretend outrage,
knowing
they lack the talents needed to win. "Poor Bette," [ say, 'without mercy.
"Poor,
poor Bette."
 
I make a fair living with these June competitions. Then for the rest of my
year
I'm in training, always preparing, always working my body and mind into shape
for next year's shot at immortality.
After Tuesday's competition, Bette calls to congratulate me.
"Did you watch?" I ask.
"No," she lies. "I just saw your name posted, that's all."
It was my first day of real competition, and I'm already among the last
quarter
million contestants. Today's opponent was a man-child, a giant built of muscle
and sinew, and for the morning's contest I was the one awarded handicap
points.
That's how the Net keeps things interesting. It has files on our body types,
muscle types, age and general physiology, and the formulas it uses have served
well for half a century. Even with my handicap points, I was behind at
lunchtime, the man-child lifting a mountain of iron over his bony brow. But in
the afternoon, sitting in a VR booth, I piloted my biplane in combat, downing
dozens of enemy craft and taking a healthy lead into this evening.
Bette tells me, "I didn't know you were such an expert in algebra."
"So you watched, did you?"
"Me? Never." Her face covers my wall; she doesn't bother softening it with a
vanity program. "That was pretty cocky of you, telling that kid to lift
quadratic equations for a change."
"You did see it," I shout.
She says, "Never."
She tells me, "I just hear the gossip, that's all."
I yawn, then say, "Bette, you know the rules."
"You need your rest. I know." But before she vanishes, she says, "I just
wanted
to tell you, I've got a feeling about this year."
"What feeling?" I ask, trying not to seem too curious.
A wink, an amused grin. Then she says, "Never mind." She waves me off, saying,
"You need sleep, and never mind." 262 144
I wake from a dream where I'm throwing basketballs in neat arcs, each one
dropping through a hoop tinier than a bracelet.
Some competitors pay big money for implanted dreams.
This dream is genuine, which makes it feel like an omen.
Wednesday's opponent is a smallish woman, not quite young, and she shoots from
Xs made by the Net, her marks closer to the hoop than mine. As is fair. Early
on, either because of nerves or simple bad luck, she misses a string of free
throws, then more distant shots. Then we play some one-on-one, weights on my
 
shoes, and I blow past her just the same, getting out to a fantastic lead.
She's
so demoralized that she doesn't even finish the afternoon's puzzle, throwing
its
plastic pieces across the gym floor, then stalking off in tears.
I want to tell her, "The Net notices. That isn't going to help next year's
ranking doing that crap."
I want to say, "Play hard and face the consequences." But instead I
concentrate
on my puzzle, finishing it in half the allotted time. It's a geometric wonder
full of shifting rainbows, and I take it to the nearest robot, placing it on
the
offered hand as the sexless voice says, "Your opponent has withdrawn, Mr.
Masters. Thank you, sir, and until tomorrow . . . . " 131 072
We race diamond-frame bicycles in the morning, my opponent given a substantial
head start, and after fifty kilometers of hills, wind and a sudden rainstorm,
I
finish just twenty meters behind her, in a virtual draw.
In the afternoon we navigate VR landers over a cratered landscape, two hours
of
hovering and repeated hard landings leaving us even closer in the standings.
My opponent is new to the district. She's smart, tough and capable of a
withering stare. Tonight's contest is natural history, and as I take my
podium,
one hand fiddling with my buzzer, I glance her way and show a weak smile,
claiming "You'll win. Easily."
"Shut up," she advises.
She says, "I know all the tricks, son."
Old enough to be my mother, yet made of sterner stuff, and I have to admire
her.
I win by points in the end -- by almost nothing -- and receive a fair amount
of
local coverage as a consequence. ("Early round dramatics!" That kind of
thing.)
But what's memorable for me is my opponent's whispered offer to see me later.
"After you lose, darling boy." Romantically? I wonder. And she laughs, saying,
"Hot wet sloppy fun," and giving me a lecherous wink.
I'm polite in my refusal and secretly intrigued.
Later, lying awake in bed, I wonder if her offer is genuine. Or was she
attempting some kind of trick with my spirit, in revenge? 65 536
Friday, and I'm fuzzy. Stale. Half-dead.
Marksmanship is the morning's hell -- rifles, shotguns, bows and arrows,
homemade spears -- and I end up deep in a hole. My opponent is a child, barely
twenty and lucky to have made it this far into the Tournament. We play a board
game in the afternoon, my strategies crippled by his wild maneuvers, and
finally, with a ragged attempt at being the good sport, I concede defeat to
the
little shit.
 
In order to live for the year on my winnings, I need to make it to the second
Monday.
This Tournament looks like a bust.
But the kid comes from an enclave of fundamentalists, and he hasn't any grip
on
things as non-Christian as Chinese history. Standing behind my podium, I field
questions generated by the Net. I buzz first, then answer. Buzz, and answer.
And
answer. And answer. Before we've left the Ming Dynasty, I've pulled into a
comfortable lead. And then I stop buzzing letting the boy have his stabs,
inexperience giving him penalty points and allowing me to take whatever
leftovers are easiest.
Arriving home, flush with victory, I find Bette waiting, all smiles. "He
almost
caught you in the Mao years."
"Did not," I say.
"What's it matter either way?" Bette has no competitive spark, unless it's her
fierce desire not to compete. "Let me take you out for a drink. It's the
weekend
now. Isn't one little drink legal?"
I feel lucky and at ease with myself. It's not the three beers that make me
drunk. It's everything. And later, out of sheer joy, I coax Bette into my bed,
using her round, unexcellent body until both of us seem happy. This isn't our
first time; we're modem friends, meaning everything is possible. But
afterward,
in the dark, I start making mental preparations for next week, part of me
wondering how I can coax Bette into leaving me, giving me solitude and the
chance to recoup.
As if reading my mind, she rises, dresses and goes.
Then I sleep without dreams, crossing a great black portion of my weekend in a
limp leap. * * * 32 768
Monday again.
Friday's fuzziness is gone. I'm sharp, smooth and self-assured, pounding at
white balls pitched by human-shaped, Net-piloted robots, driving them toward a
distant fence, then over it. Never, not even when hitting VR balls in my own
bedroom, have I been this good for so long. And the handful of
spectators--other
people's families, mostly--seems caught up in the show, breaking into applause
and stomping their feet.
The afternoon's puzzle is a knot begging to be untied. My fingers are magical,
touching and tugging accomplishing the feat in what seems like an instant.
Without effort, almost.
The night's subject is geology -- rocks to be named; tectonics to be
described--
and of course I win there, too. Afterwards, I can't even recall my opponent's
face. A man, I know. Of my age, I'm almost sure. But his name and every other
shred of identity have fallen away, lost. 16 384
 

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