NEWS
Fiction Contest : Third Jewel
Posted: Saturday, April 15, 2000
I'm going to pretend I never heard that."
There was a prolonged silence on the line, and for an instant L.T. imagined that Denham Peck's feelings had been hurt by his tone ... but just for an instant.
That's like expecting ice to take offense if you imply that it's cold, L.T. thought.
"Look," Peck finally said. "It was just a suggestion."
"First," L.T. replied, "I won't have you trying to dictate my colt's schedule. The race in Nairobi is too close. Second, to 'suggest' that I run Rime Or Reason and not really try with him ... that's incredibly callous, even for WorldWideRacing. So you can take your under-the-table 'appearance fee' and ..."
L.T. swallowed the balance of his retort. He had long ago resolved never to let Peck rile him, and that determination was especially important now.
After all, it's not every day that you got to go for the Triple Crown.
"Please," Peck said, "you misunderstand WWR's position. We're just thinking about what's best for racing. If you win the Belmont today, imagine the goodwill an appearance in the East African Cup would generate ... and you could still make the Travers."
What's best for WorldWideRacing, you mean, L.T. wanted to blurt out. At first, WWR had looked to be an ally, a white knight. What happened?
Peck seemed to take his silence as tacit acceptance.
"Good, good. I'll see you at the conference," he said before disconnecting.
Let him think what he will for now.
L.T. glanced at the dark vid-screen above his dresser. The call had jolted him from a fitful sleep, and he hadn't had a chance to check the clock before Peck had started in.
"Time?" he asked aloud, and the screen came alive in soft, glowing green: 5:07 AM - 08 Jun 2019.
Geez ... doesn't he ever sleep?
L.T. shifted to the edge of his bed and sat with his eyes closed.
"Today is for you, Nicholas," he whispered, as always.
Inevitably, when he spoke with Denham Peck, L.T. was reminded of Nicholas-both so persistent, both so hardheaded. Nicholas had spoken incessantly of his dreams to work with horses. Despite that, L.T. had been proud of himself for being a "good parent," as he railroaded his ever-more-distant son toward college instead.
L.T. shook his head, struggling to keep the painful memories at bay.
Why is it, when you finally realize you weren't listening, it's always too late?
He moved to the kitchen and requested the room to put through a call to his assistant. He had been tempted to spend the night with Rime Or Reason but had opted to get what meager rest he could before the world went crazy. Anyway, the colt was in good hands; Cole Robertson was the best horseman he knew.
The speaker beeped twice and the operator's ever-cheery voice filled the room.
"Good morning, WorldWideRacing."
"Morning, Mary," L.T. said. "Can you connect me? I think we're on Lot 81 this time."
"Mr. Barnes, hello! Your colt was moved to 80 ... security and all. It'll take a few minutes to find Mr. Robertson ..."
Peck is always up to something, L.T. thought, still irked by the early call. Yesterday, it was that commercial he wanted my colt to do for WorldWideGaming. Why in the heck would I let my horse appear in a casino ad?
L.T. grabbed a container of OJ from the refrigerator. His practical side told him he should eat, but the flock of butterflies already astir in his midsection begged to differ. He flipped on WorldWideRacing, retrieved his copy of The Times from the printer tray, and then extended his arms overhead.
Forty-seven isn't old, he reassured himself, but his muscles were surely taking a little longer to stretch these days, and if they hadn't recently switched to a smaller font in the newspaper, his eyes were beginning to show their age as well.
The excited call of a track announcer caught his attention, and he glanced up to see the stretch duel of a claiming race from Tokyo WWR. The total handle figure in the corner of the screen leapt out at him: $131-million wagered around the globe, and that with most of the U.S. bettors still sound asleep.
It's gonna be a big day for the WWR bean counters. And the day of a lifetime for me.
L.T.'s mind flashed back to the '80s, to his youth spent working his father's farm-caring for horses, breaking them, and, most especially, riding to his heart's content. Like every boy reared around horses, he had fantasized about being the next Pincay or Shoemaker, and he smiled as he recalled long winter afternoons spent alone in the frigid barn, astride a bale of hay, pumping furiously as he rode Seattle Slew to yet another daydream victory.
He had made it on-track, even won his share of races, but the needle on the scale had taken to spinning too far to the right, the calendar pages falling away too quickly, and his dreams of riding a champion were dashed by the reality of his flesh. He had continued plugging along, nourished through hard times by the pride in Nicholas's eyes, and he had never really abandoned hope, until ... the night that Fate intervened-in the guise of a drunk driver-and Nicholas was taken from him.
He knew it wasn't his fault, but still his head rang incessantly with the echoes of his wife's melancholy, and the image of his son's mangled body seemed forever burned onto his retinas.
Five hollow years passed-his desire to go on often questioned-but through it all his love for the game had never diminished. And when computers changed the complexion of racing, he realized he was being offered a gift he could never have dared hope for-another chance to fulfill his childhood dreams.
But the game is different now. Maybe too different.
"L.T., good morning. How're the nerves?" his assistant asked, plucking him from his memories.
"No need for coffee this morning, that's for sure," L.T. replied, chuckling. "How's Rimer feeling?"
"He's perfect. I took him for another walk on the new surface; he seems to like the bounce in it."
"Yeah, it seems even more forgiving than the old."
"Ain't technology grand?" Cole kidded.
"I've got the obligatory round table on WWR this morning," L.T. said, "but I should be to you by 1 at the latest."
"If Peck limits the fibernet questions to a mere thousand, you will be."
"Well, I've got my stock answer ready-'Rime Or Reason will do the talking for both of us.' "
The receiver picked up a snort in the background.
"I'd say he agrees with you, boss."
These animals are amazing. In the face of so many changes, we need to remind ourselves that they are still made of horseflesh.
The net conference went well enough, L.T. thought as he left the set, though I could have done without the usual rehash of my botching the WorldCup Juvenile.
He had gotten into traffic trouble several times in the 37-horse field at EuroWestWWR the previous November and they had finished a well-beaten 11th, one of only three defeats handed Rime Or Reason as a two-year-old. At three, the colt had fleshed out and matured, and he came into the Belmont undefeated for the year, winning the Kentucky Derby by two lengths and the Preakness by a widening seven.
WWR was reaping a financial windfall with the potential for the first Triple Crown winner of the 21st century, and they were pushing the PR envelope. L.T. had gone along with most of their machinations, although at times it seemed the show was coming before the race itself.
L.T. spotted Denham Peck from afar, but despite his best efforts to sneak away, the vice president of WWR managed to corner him.
"My man ... big day for you today!" Peck said as he slapped L.T. heartily on the back.
L.T. detested the man's false camaraderie.
"And for you as well."
"Yes, indeed. We're projecting a ten today!"
L.T. did the mental math. Ten digits: they were expecting a billion dollars to be wagered on the race. The figure boggled his mind; Peck might just as well have been talking about Monopoly money.
"Needless to say," Peck continued, "we're all rooting for you. Would be a hell of a boost for the year's bottom line to have a Triple Crown winner."
"I'll try not to let you down."
Peck was too self-absorbed for the sarcasm to register. "L.T., I need you to do me a little favor," he said as they moved toward the paddock area.
"Denham, I'm a bit busy today," L.T. replied, softening his voice, hoping to unearth some yet-unseen vein of compassion.
"You won't even notice the camera. We're expecting ten-million new viewers today and we want to give them a behind-the-scenes peek at our game. What better way than to docu-vid the 'now' team in racing?"
"Look-I always play ball, always oblige. But not today. This is too important."
Peck leaned toward L.T., his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I hate to bring this up, but ... remember your contract."
L.T. recoiled as though physically struck.
"You wouldn't."
"Hey, bigger fish than Rime Or Reason have come up with an injury prerace."
L.T. choked back the anger bubbling up within. The contract. 'WWR requires complete cooperation from all horsemen in publicity matters. Infractions will result in suspensions of horseman and horse.'
Why do we all sign that damn thing?
Peck straightened and resumed matter-of-factly.
"We'll just follow you around and I'll educate the viewers. It'll be like we're not even there."
There had been rumblings among the horsemen about the power that WWR held over them, and a few had gone so far as to suggest some kind of action was warranted.
Maybe they're right, L.T. thought. But that's for another day and time.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile.
"Suit yourself," he said and resumed his original course. Despite Peck's assurances, he could readily hear the commentary begin behind him.
"In the paddock area the horses are outfitted and prepared for the race," Peck said, his words instantly translated into a hundred languages and fibernetted around the globe.
L.T.'s nervousness cinched up a notch as he entered the cavernous building. The countdown clock on the vid-screen overhead showed 25 minutes to post, less than a half-hour to what promised to be the crowning moment of his career.
I'm not going to let anything take away from the experience. Or anybody.
He glanced around the room, trying to imagine what a first-time viewer would make of the scene. Apart from the horses walking in an oval in the center of the floor, it looked about as far from a racing venue as was possible. The large bank of vid-screens suspended from the ceiling was all that kept the space from being completely empty, and the room's boundaries all glowed in a weird, monochromatic blue.
L.T. immediately picked Rime Or Reason out of the group, his colt's gray coat glistening like polished steel.
"The king has a court, I see," Cole Robertson kidded as L.T. approached.
"Court jesters, more like," L.T. muttered under his breath, but Cole heard him and laughed aloud.
L.T. ran a hand over his horse's flank. The muscles were like taut bands, their power unmistakable. The colt turned his head toward the sound of L.T.'s voice and L.T. shivered reflexively. Even after five years, he still got an unsettled feeling seeing a horse outfitted in VR-blinkers.
"You and me today, Rimer," L.T. said, and the colt gave one sharp nod as though in understanding. Behind them, the play-by-play droned on.
"... Don't worry that the horses appear blinded; they are all fit with our patented Virtual Reality blinkers. The room you see is actually one giant blue-screen stage. A computer plots the positions of all horses and people in the room, digitally erases what is unnecessary, and then projects the participants into a virtual paddock. ..."
L.T. craned back to look at the screen labeled 'Composite,' and saw himself beside Rime Or Reason in the tree-lined paddock at Belmont Park, ringed by a colorful crowd under a dazzling sky.
"Nineteen minutes," a voice announced.
L.T. could feel his hand trembling.
I envy Rimer. He doesn't have to worry, to remember. He just has to run.
"Good luck."
L.T. turned to the speaker and was met by the outstretched hand of Francisco Rodas, owner of Turn Me Loose. Rodas's colt had finished second in the Derby but then skipped the second leg of the Triple Crown, instead using a romp in the Kuala Lumpur Derby as a steppingstone to another shot at Rime Or Reason. Francisco's 17-year-old son, Scotty, stood by his side.
"And to you, Francisco," L.T. responded. "Should be a hell of a race." He turned to the boy. "Nice ride in the Novice Derby, Scotty. You're almost as good a tactician as your old man."
The boy's smile threatened to split seams, but Francisco quickly doused the compliment.
"He's too indecisive, I'm afraid. I don't think he'll ever make the grade as a rider."
Scotty opened his mouth to defend himself but instead turned away, eyes downcast. L.T. had seen Scotty ride in training races; the boy had talent. It seemed the only one who didn't see it was his own father.
I wish Francisco would realize what he's doing to the boy before it's too late. Nicholas was about Scotty's age when ...
L.T. looked away.
Did I dash his dreams without a second thought, as Francisco does Scotty's?
Despite his growing nervousness, L.T. found himself deeply moved, as always, by the bond among the horsemen. Several stopped by to wish him a good trip. "I'm gonna try to beat you, but if I can't, I hope you do it," one said. Another offered, "If you win, make sure they drape you with carnations you can actually smell!"
These were incredible people, linked by their love for the animals and the competition. That part had never changed, no matter how strange the game had become. And no matter how cold.
He felt a hand on his elbow and found Peck once again at his side.
"Mr. Barnes, tell our viewers how you are feeling right now. Nervous?"
L.T. blinked incredulously.
Even Peck should know better than to interrupt here.
"A little," L.T. said, and then spun abruptly back to his horse.
"Riders up!" a voice called out, and L.T.'s butterflies flew unhindered. Cole Robertson lashed a BugBoy onto the saddle of Rime Or Reason.
"... Those weird, spider-like contraptions you see are electronic jockeys," Peck reported. "Each can replicate the actions of a human jockey and each weighs precisely 126 pounds, making the conditions exquisitely fair for all."
The horses circled twice more for the audience and then were led through a set of tall double doors, proceeding down a short corridor that emptied onto another immense set.
As they moved, L.T. studied his colt, absorbing his body language, beginning his immersion into the zone where he and his horse became of one purpose ... and was yanked back into the show by the grating voice of Denham Peck.
"... Here we have another stage, an electronic wonder. Note the row of treadmills facing the far wall, and the elevated platform behind each. The horses are each positioned on a mill, where our computer will measure their running speed and move them on Belmont Park's virtual track accordingly. The VR-blinkers will present to each horse precisely the view that it would see during an actual race. The riders are also fitted with VR helmets and they pilot their mounts from the platforms, using the BugBoys to control their charge's speed, direction, and effort. Each horse's health is constantly monitored as well. WWR presents the ultimate combination of competition and safety, eliminating the need for the near-empty mausoleums that were real-life racetracks ten years ago."
L.T. waited for the sales pitch to conclude and then nudged Beck toward the exit.
"You'll have to excuse us now," he said.
Peck uttered a quick segue. Once the vid-cam blinked "off-line," he turned to glare icily at L.T.
"You don't run this show," Peck said, his volume rising. "If I want to follow you around with a vid-cam stuck up your butt, I damn well will. I'm in charge."
Several heads turned at the disturbance.
"Once you pass through there you aren't," L.T. responded, angrily nodding toward the entrance.
"Bull! You're too full of yourself, Barnes. You'd better carefully consider your next move. We're back on in 20 seconds and I damn well am going to ask you more questions."
Peck raised his voice louder still, obviously aiming to ensure his message carried to all ears on the set.
"You work for WWR! Period! And don't think you're going to get any special consideration just because you go around in a damn wheelchair!"
L.T. stared at Peck, trying to smother the blaze flaring in his chest. The nearby horsemen looked on in shock.
As a vid-cam operator counted down from three, L.T. turned his back and wheeled away. Peck's commentary resumed but the man's voice faded and, on glancing at the overhead screen, L.T. saw he had left the set for the control booth.
Cole helped with the straps on the VR-helmet as L.T. took his position behind Rime Or Reason. The colt was walking leisurely on his tread, pricking his ears right and left as his eyes told him he was entering the track surface at Belmont.
"He's all yours," Cole said, flicking the switch that sent images streaming to L.T.'s helmet. "Have a good trip."
L.T. clucked to his colt as they were announced in the post parade, sending Rime Or Reason into a canter, checking his response to voice and reins. The BugBoy seemed to be working perfectly, and the colt was eager to go about his task.
Nicholas used to get so excited when I rode broken-down claimers. Imagine what he would think now.
L.T. glanced left, at the VR-tote. He and Rimer were 5-to-2 favorites in the bulky field, and the weight of all that confidence nestled on L.T.'s shoulders. A sharp edge of terror sliced at his already frayed nerves as the immensity of what he was about to attempt hit him square on.
The Triple Crown. I'll never walk again, and here I am riding Rimer for the Triple Crown.
Rime Or Reason warmed up beautifully, snorting and arching his neck, omnipotent. The periphery of L.T.'s vision faded away as his senses focused.
Forty years of work, 40 years of preparation-of a true love reserved only for his family and for this-had brought him to the threshold.
The VR-view went red, indicating one minute to post, and L.T.'s entire world collapsed into the intervals between ticks of the clock. He soothed his mount, preparing him for the transition to the virtual gate.
He was vaguely aware of a voice announcing, "It is now post time." The VR went blank for three seconds and then all 28 entrants were magically enclosed in their gate stalls. L.T. ran the entire race in his mind in fast-forward-feeling the rush of the break, choreographing every movement in Rime Or Reason's performance, sensing the poles flash by, tasting the final surge to victory.
This is for you, Nicholas.
He could see his colt coiling beneath him, anticipating the bell. Suddenly his helmet echoed with the sound of the vet's buzzer, and the horses were instantly back behind the gate.
He assumed that one of the other riders had sensed a problem and triggered the halt and so was startled to see the vet standing beside Rime Or Reason, eyeing the colt.
"What's up, Cal?" L.T. asked.
"Sorry, L.T.," the vet said, almost in a whisper. "Computer says he doesn't scan sound."
"What?" L.T. was too stunned to argue.
Could that be right? Have I missed something in all the excitement?
"I'm real sorry, but I have to scratch him," Cal said into space, unable to look at L.T.
"But he seems ..." L.T. stopped in midsentence. He yanked off his VR-helmet and turned toward the control room window. "Peck!"
At Peck's command of, "Loop 'em," the composite screen went into a clip of the horses endlessly circling behind the gate.
"You're vetted, Barnes," Peck said. "The med-scanner is picking up a problem in his left hind. Nothing too serious, fortunately."
"You can't do this!" L.T. said. The other riders had removed their helmets and were gathering around, perplexed.
"What's up?" Francisco Rodas asked.
Peck preempted any reply from L.T.
"Rime Or Reason is a vet's scratch. We'll have a five-minute delay for the bettors. Everyone return to your positions."
A murmur went up among the horsemen; the injury would improve all their chances immensely.
"L.T.?" Francisco asked, disregarding the explanation.
"There's nothing wrong with Rimer."
Cal had undone the colt's blinkers and BugBoy and Rime Or Reason stood quietly on the tread, awaiting direction. The chatter died away, the horsemen unsure of what to do.
"Return to your horses," Peck repeated brusquely, waving them back.
"This ain't right," someone yelled, eliciting nods of agreement. "We've got to do something."
"I appreciate that," L.T. said, "but this is between Peck and me."
"Not anymore," Francisco said as he pushed his way through the group, returning to his horse. He began to undo his colt's equipment, and the others followed his lead.
"What the hell are you all doing?" Peck said. "There's $7-million in purse money on the line!"
They ignored him.
"You all know the score," Peck said. "You have nowhere to go. WWR is racing."
"My colt has a problem in his left hind. I'm scratching him," Francisco said, and one by one the others echoed the withdrawal.
"No one leaves this set," Peck said, spitting out the words like a spoiled child.
L.T. scanned the room, and his eyes stopped on an emergency exit. He wheeled over to the door, threw the bolt, and pushed it open.
"You're through, Barnes!" Peck screamed over the alarm.
L.T. led Rime Or Reason down the central aisle and out into the afternoon, with the others closing ranks behind him. Soon the horses were idling among the vehicles in the studio parking lot.
L.T. waved to get the attention of the entire group.
"I want to thank you all for supporting me back there."
"It was just a matter of time," one said, to a chorus of endorsements. "They've been stealing our souls bit by bit."
Francisco grinned at L.T.
"Actually, it was a lucky break for you, Barnes."
"Oh, I don't quite see it that way," L.T. said, laughing. He touched his rival lightly on the arm. "Francisco ... thanks."
"Wouldn't have been any satisfaction in winning if you didn't run."
The horsemen's support personnel hurried around the corner of the building, led by Cole and Scotty.
"They've locked the stable building," Cole said. "They're demanding everyone go back in immediately."
"Demanding, huh?" L.T. said. "That sounds about right."
"What now? Where are we going to take the horses?" Francisco asked, eyeing their surroundings.
"Why not keep them outside?" Scotty suggested.
"Don't be dense," Francisco said. "There are no facilities for them other than the indoor stables."
Give the boy a break, L.T. thought. As his eyes flicked from father to son and to the group around them, a crazy, wonderful idea took form in his mind.
"Scotty is right. Let's keep them outside," he said.
The others gaped at him as though he had gone mad.
"Where?" Cole asked.
"It's a beautiful weekend afternoon, the traffic will be light. Let's take them for a walk. We can head across to the park and take the bike path down to the beach. It's only about a mile."
Francisco considered him briefly, and suddenly his eyes brightened.
"The beach," he said. "Of course."
Before they had gone halfway to the main gate Denham Peck stormed out to confront them.
"Where do you think you're going?" Peck challenged, gesturing wildly.
"Out for a stroll," L.T. replied, as though describing the most ordinary of occurrences.
"Are you nuts?" Peck was literally hopping in agitation. "That's $500-million worth of property."
L.T. fixed him rigid with a stare.
"Peck ... they're horses."
Rime or Reason probed the water with one hoof, in the telltale manner of horses with VR experience. After some initial uncertainty, the colt began to splash in the surf with joy, and L.T. laughed. Around them, the crowd had swelled enormously, now a thousand souls strong.
You forget the thrill, the sheer excitement of people delighting in horses.
"We've been missing something, huh?" Francisco offered from beside him.
"You read my mind. Yes, we surely have."
Scotty was standing knee-deep in the surf holding Turn Me Loose by his side and using his free hand to detail precisely to another owner how he could have ridden the horse to victory. The animated reaction of the other suggested he believed otherwise. L.T.'s eyes drifted down the shoreline, to an immense American flag snapping in the breeze atop a distant lifeguard station. The horses had seduced all the sun-worshipers; apart from the crowd around them the beach was now pretty much deserted.
"To the flag?" L.T. asked.
Francisco followed the direction of L.T.'s gaze.
"Looks about right," Francisco replied. "You sure your colt is up to it?"
"He could do it even with me in the saddle," L.T. said, grinning, and Francisco laughed heartily.
At the shrill blast of a lifeguard's whistle, 28 Thoroughbreds with human passengers took off down the beach like a cavalry charge. A line of volunteers had strung along the shore, holding back the pockets of spectators and securing a wide strip of sand along the water's edge.
L.T. looked on from a perch atop the wooden station at the finish line, peering through binoculars lent to him by a delighted lifeguard.
The preparations had been chaotic, and Rime Or Reason had been confused by the ragged start. He had hesitated but quickly grabbed the bit and pulled his substitute rider forward in the saddle. The colt showed his innate athleticism as they zig-zagged their way through the field until they were splashing just behind a tight pack of six that had separated from the remainder of the horses after a half-mile. The colt's long legs struck out, attacking the sand, and his jockey fell into a smooth rhythm with the strides.
Two of the sextet tired suddenly and quickly fell off the pace. L.T.'s breath caught in his throat as Rime Or Reason appeared trapped behind them, but the rider deftly steered the colt to the right and swooped far around the danger, skimming very near the chain of onlookers.
Rime Or Reason pricked his ears as they raced past the halfway point, speeding by one struggling colt and then another, until only two remained ahead. He pushed forward, reaching the flanks of the leading pair, and the three of them raced as a team for a good 20 seconds until the middle horse wilted under the pressure and gave up the chase.
L.T. could see the pacesetters clearly now, a quarter-mile down the beach. He zoomed in on the leading horse-Turn Me Loose, being ridden with abandon by Francisco Rodas-as they ran on, spraying clumps of wet sand behind them.
Rime Or Reason gained ever so slowly. L.T.'s heart pounded in his chest, the binoculars unsteady in his hands. He lowered them for an instant and shot a glance ahead.
The finish is coming up so quickly! Come on Rimer, fly!
Neither colt seemed ready to yield, but then the rider tapped Rime Or Reason once, just once, and he pinned his ears and unleashed a move that made the hair on L.T.'s arms stand on end.
In the blink of an eye they had pulled even. L.T. focused on Francisco as the man allowed himself a peek over at his challenger. Even from an eighth of a mile away L.T. could read the astonishment on the man's face when he realized who was riding Rime Or ReasonÐnot Cole Robertson, as expected, but his own son, Scotty.
Rime Or Reason swept into the lead ... a half-length ... a length. L.T. looked back to Francisco, expecting shock and disappointment, but instead was met by a smile so wide it nearly eclipsed the man's face.
L.T.'s attention flashed back to Scotty. He could feel the boy drinking in the sensations, the adrenaline surging through him, the wind rushing by, the power beneath-and L.T. drank from the cup with him.
Emotion crashed over L.T. like a wave as Rime Or Reason flashed by the flag, triumphant. The crowd around him cheered loudly, a long-lost sound from racing's past reaching forward. Scotty pointed to L.T. in tribute and thanksgiving, and L.T. applauded wildly, saluting his colt and his jockey.
Good for you, Scotty. Good for you. ... Rimer, we are all your witnesses. You are the champion.
L.T. laid his head back and closed his eyes, sending tears streaming down his cheeks. He relished the sun warm against his skin, he filled his lungs with the sea-laden air, and his spirit soared truly free for the first time in a long time.
Nicholas ... today was for us both.
