Chapter One:

Million Dollar Morrow

Perhaps all this work would pay off. All these years, he had been swimming in pools; Lukewarm, placid, holes in the ground, where the only waves were produced by your own legs. Besides, he had conquered that, long ago. There wasn't a stroke he couldn't swim. He decimated the records of Spitz, Thorpe, Phelps, the best of the past. It was said that perhaps he shouldn't compete in the Games, that he had an unfair advantage. "Of course I do," he said during a famous interview, after his 400-meter freestyle victory at the Los Angeles Olympics, "the nickname isn't just a catchy phrase."

But the one thing I haven't tried is the English Channel Cup.

"Jerome, you're not giving me a whole lot of time. I have to train you for a whole different type of swimming in. . .two and a half months!"

I can do it. I can do anything without breaking a sweat. With that gold medal, with all those endorsements, even the Olympics were overshadowed now by the English Channel Cup. The best swimmers from all around the world do this, and I practically walked on. I am the best swimmer in the world. I'm a hero. A damn hero.

Well, at least here I am. But after this, the entire world will know of me. Overseas they only care about their baseball stars. Only the swimming community knows of me. That won't be so for very long.

Suddenly, the gruff Scottish voice of his coach, John McHallan, rang in his ears. "Dammit, Jerome! Are you even listening? Is this naptime? HOW many times have I tried to get your attention in the last two hours!"

"Well, I don't know why you find it necessary to drone on for two hours. This is practice, not a university lecture," Jerome said, and ruffled his now-dried brown hair around.

"And how would you know?" Coach McHallan scoffed. "You didn't go to university. You've been stuck with me."

His blue eyes flashed, "I didn't have to. I'm smart enough. I passed the tests."

Coach McHallan sighed and scratched his belly, "Cut the crap, Morrow. This is important. Now, the current is. . ." and he continued to drone. Jerome continued not to listen.

It was springtime in his native London, and a very rainy one at that. Jerome Eugene Morrow peered out the large window cut into the brick wall of the pool complex. He thought of the trees outside, drenched with water, lining the street filled with the shrill zip of electric cars. Perhaps all the British Isles were like London was now, enveloped by a thick blanket of fog. Perhaps after this I'll go get a scone and coffee and run by the telly shop. . .

"Jerome!" McHallan bellowed.

Jerome looked up with that usual frown of his. He didn't have to listen. He was Jerome Morrow, genetically engineered by the best scientists and geneticists in the entire world. At the time, he was said to be the most perfect human specimen to date. "Yeah?" he sneered.

"Don't 'yeeahhh' me, Jerome. Listen, will ye'?"

He lamely replied, "Sure."

"This is important, much more so than staring out the window. You're like a five-year old with attention-deficit-disorder. I get paid to coach and help you swim better, to keep you motivated, not to babysit," McHallan whined.

"What's that?" Jerome asked.

"What's what?"

"What's attention-whatsit?"

McHallan stared at him blankly, and took off his tweed cabbie hat to scratch his head. "Why, it's that disorder that. . .Oh that's neither here nor there, they engineer it out now."

"Oh, I see," Jerome distantly nodded and stretched his legs out. "Can I at least get back in the water? I've been sitting here on the cold floor for all this time."

"No, you can't hear me in there," McHallan shook his head as he dug in his pocket or something.

Perhaps that's the point, Jerome thought to himself.

Suddenly, a piece of paper landed in his lap. "Look that over, Jerome. Those are your competitors."

Jerome smoothed the magazine article out in his lap. In fact, it was their genetic identification; the same one everyone had, with their face, their genetic code of the four letters scrolling at the bottom, all on a blue background. All that mattered of course were the bold white VALID in the foreground and the shape of the double helix on the corner. He always rolled his eyes whenever he saw these. Everyone marveled over his, and it got so tiresome. "I've never seen a helix so perfect," they'd say whenever the barman carded him. Of course I look over age, he always thought. Why am I thinking of beer at a time like this? Perhaps that's a sign that I should pop on over. . .

"First is James St. Clair, you know him. Wanker," McHallan paced the pool deck.

Of course he did. James St. Clair was a right bastard, in his opinion. He was an Irishman who always got second place behind him, who even went so far as to accuse him of blood doping and steroid use. During a now famous (or infamous, however one looked at it) press conference, when St. Clair made his false charges in front of the media, Morrow leaned back in his chair and laughed, "Blood doping? What do you call genetic engineering?"

"Second, Nikita Trovsky."

Jerome's eyes widened when he saw his picture. He must have been over 250 pounds, maybe in his late fifties, with white hair and fat rolls in his neck. "Are you kidding me? Why is he here?"

"He's a famous ice diver. Never mind him, it's the girl you should be worried about," he said before he took a swig of coffee from a thermos.

He was so surprised he snorted with laughter and crinkled his nose. It was an INVALID, a blonde-haired woman named Portia Robinson. "Are you kidding me!" he snickered, letting an inkling of that genoism show through. "An INVALID in the English Channel Cup? Won't their hearts give out!" He laughed out loud, "What a joke."

McHallan narrowed his eyes at him, saying nothing.

Jerome blinked innocently, "You're not serious, right?"

"No, actually," his coach replied, baiting him and waiting for a response.

"I didn't think so," he laughed and put the paper down. "I figured. . ."

"Morrow, you genoist!" McHallan groaned. "Yes, she's not engineered, but she's just as good! If not better! In the old days, back before I was. . ."

Shit, here he goes again, with the "In The Old Days" speech, Jerome thought to himself.

"Whatever you do, don't underestimate this American INVALID, all right! She's wicked good!"

He nodded and gave the programmed response, "Yes, sorry coach."

"Right, good on you," he mumbled. "So, think about what I've said, if that sponge you call a brain has soaked up anything, and I'll see you at six o' clock AM SHARP. And no, I don't mean six-thirty, or six-fortyfive, and I do not care if the coffee shop doesn't open until then! Daily scones are not acceptable, even for you. If you have turned yourself into a caffeine junkie, learn to make it at home."

Blahblahblah, damn! He loves hearing the sound of his own Scottish brogue! Jerome laughed to himself.

"Remember that, eh?" he pointed to him and gathered his papers, putting on his hat.

"Finally," Jerome sighed and took off, "I'm free!" Springing to his feet, sprinting across the deck, he raced to the locker room, dripping water on the tile floor.

"Dammit, Jerome! You are going to fall and break your neck if you keep running like that! It's TILE! Be careful!"

You're not my father, Jerome thought to himself as he turned the corner to the showers, and of course, slipped, hitting the door with his head.

Hearing the thud, McHallan laughed, "See? What did I tell ye'? I'm WISE, Morrow. You listen to your coach. . ."

Jerome made a face behind his back and swaggered in the door, rubbing his forehead.