Biological Families
Author: duane at duaneaakre dot com
Disclaimer: As always I own nothing. Well I own a house, two cars, a pair of jetskis, and a lot of other junk, but none of these characters.
Story Rating: R [The story may drift into the HBO range rather than stay in the WB range, so to be on the safe side, I am rating this R.]
Chapter 6
A small park-like area was located almost directly across from where they had entered the main boulevard. Several benches were arranged under streetlamps along the street side edge of a small pond. There wasn't much they could do to start working towards their goal until after dawn when the Olympic village would start coming to life, so they crossed the street and slouched down together on one of the benches.
"Oh, if feels good to be able to finally stop for a minute and catch my breath," said Lana, not that any of these three were physically tired due to their special gifts. But they had all been through some extremely intense moments in the past fifteen minutes; fifteen minutes that had felt like fifteen hours.
After a pause of a few seconds where neither of the guys responded, Lana continued. "Okay, Clark, we have some time now. What exactly happened to Lex and Chloe?"
Clark nodded his agreement that it was finally time to tell what he knew in detail so they could start planning their best course of action. "Because of the storm, my Mom and Dad went out to the storm cellar where we keep the spaceship. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found a reporter with a camera videoing the ship. My Mom didn't say, but I think it was Roger Nixon of the Inquisitor. I had a run-in with him out in the woods at the farm last Saturday. I tried to scare him off, but I guess it didn't last.
"Apparently, my Dad got very upset; well you know how he gets when he is pissed off. They were shouting at each other when Lex suddenly showed up. According to my Mom, Lex said the reporter had stolen from his office a disk that is part of the ship."
"I remember," agreed Lana. "Lex showed it to me this afternoon just before I left to pick up Whitney. It was metallic silver with several unusual symbols. They were unlike anything I have ever seen. And unlike any of the written languages Chloe downloaded to my memory."
"Anyway," continued Clark. "The reporter pulled the disk from a pocket and then it floated out of his hand and towards the ship. While that was happening, my Dad and the reporter started fighting and after a few seconds my Dad chased him up the stairs and out into the storm. Lex walked over to the ship just as the disk seated home. My Mom said a powerful beam of light shot out of the disk and struck Lex directly in the face."
Lana flinched at these words. Clark had said Lex and Chloe were hurt before their mad dash to Chloe's lab and then on through the time machine, but it was still scary to hear the actual words.
Barely whispering, Lana said. "Go on, Clark."
Clark drew a deep breath and reached over to clasp Lana's hand. "The beam of light played over his face for several minutes. At first my Mom said Lex was screaming like he was in serious pain, then he finally passed out. Apparently the beam was so intense; it lifted Lex off his feet and held him suspended in mid-air. From what Chloe said later, I don't think it was just a bright beam of light. It seems to me it was some kind of data transfer, but it was intended for me and not a normal human. Lex's brain and nanobot system were overloaded and he has gone into shock."
"Then what happened?"
"When the beam of light finally ended, Lex's body slumped to the ground. Next the spaceship powered up and took off. It went straight up through the ceiling of the cellar. That's when Mom called me at the dance."
"You said Chloe was hurt, too?" asked Lana.
"When she and I got there, we didn't fully understand what had happened to Lex. She touched him to heal him and whatever had attacked him through the beam of light jumped to Chloe's 'bot system as well. She immediately started to shake violently. She said something from the ship was trying to gain control of her nanobot system and it was very powerful. In less than a minute she was unconscious too. Or at least she looked unconscious, but maybe she just needed to focus her full attention on fighting off this invader. Before she passed out she said she thought she had less than fifteen minutes before her defenses would be overwhelmed."
For a minute Lana just sat there. Chloe had spent thousands of years interacting with her 'bot system until it was just as much a natural part of her as her hands or her eyes. Lana had been in awe the first time they had mind-linked on Sunday night at Chloe's house. Lana had had a couple of days to experience her own nanobot system by then, but had never dreamed of some of the abilities of the system Chloe had shown her. If this alien invader could override all of the safety features built into the system and take control away from Chloe, she shuddered to think how she would cope in the same situation. If Chloe thought she would only survive fifteen minutes, how long would she have survived? Fifteen seconds?
Finally Lana realized her thoughts were heading down a negative path. If they were going to save Lex and Chloe, she needed to start thinking more constructively.
"Clark, did Chloe give any more definitive clues? Just saying the device was going to be at the opening ceremonies still leaves us in the 'needle in a haystack' category."
Clark nodded. "She didn't have time to go into details, but said she was getting images and memories from whatever was attacking her. She said the device we need is about the size of a paperback book. It looks like the same silver metallic material as the disk and is covered with many similar symbols. The one memory she had of the device that was definitely here on earth involved a man wearing a Luftwaffe Major's uniform handing it to another man wearing a fedora hat, khaki tie and shirt, and a tweed jacket. The Major referred to the other man as 'Dr. Jones', in English."
For the first time since they had sat down, Whitney spoke up, spoke up in a very incredulous tone of voice. "Dr. Jones?"
The other two turned to stare at him.
When neither of them seemed to have made the connection, he added. "Come on. The 1930s. Nazis. Dr. Jones."
When he said it like that Lana immediately understood what he was saying, but that couldn't be possible. "Indiana Jones. But he is just a character in the movies. The name must be a coincidence." However she was finding it difficult to keep down the insane urge to break out into giggles. After everything else they had been through in the past couple of weeks, finding out Indiana Jones was real and here, didn't seem impossible. Unlikely, but not impossible.
Clark had seen Lex lying on the floor of the cellar with his eyes pure white spheres and had then been forced to watch Chloe succumb to the same affliction. He was not yet far enough removed from those memories to be ready to find the potential humor in their current situation.
"All Chloe said was 'Dr. Jones'. No 'Henry' or 'Indy'. Jones is a pretty common name. I think we better assume it is just a coincidence until we have more information."
Lana got herself back under control. "You're right. At least it gives us a place to start. If this 'Dr. Jones' is American or English, there is a good chance he will be staying at a hotel while he is in Berlin. We can start checking hotels and maybe the embassies for anyone with that name. If we can find him before the opening ceremonies, perhaps we can convince him to work with us at the time of the exchange."
While they had been sitting there talking, the sky in the east had slowly begun to lighten. As it reached all the way to pink, they heard the beginnings activity out on the boulevard. As they watched, a number of old ladies with brooms appeared down the street and started to work their way towards them.
Clark looked over at Whitney sitting there with one whole side of his tee-shirt caked in drying blood and jeans torn out at both knees. Then he looked at Lana. Her tee-shirt was ripped open down the front from neck to navel exposing her sheer pink bra and her jeans were torn open along the left inseam from the knee almost to her crotch. Finally, Clark looked down at his own attire. Somewhere along the way he had discarded the tuxedo jacket. The matching formal dress shirt was missing the right sleeve, had mud splattered up to the elbow on the left, and had a wide horizontal tear across the front causing it to gape open exposing his rock hard abs. One of his pant legs was fluttering in the gentle breeze where it was torn from the knee down. None of them were going to make a good first impression if they met someone important while dressed as they were now. Hell, they looked like vagrants and who knew what the German police would do if they found them like this.
Standing Clark said, "I think we better find a change of clothes before we start drawing the wrong kind of attention. Lana, since you can read German, see if you can find a likely building for me to explore."
Lana nodded and headed back towards the main boulevard. At the street, she turned right, away from the old ladies with the brooms.
They were on Olympicstrasse, the main central street passing through the center of the Olympic village. Although village was almost a misnomer as this facility, built specifically for the games to glorify the Nazi Reich, housed almost four thousand athletes and nearly one thousand support staff of coaches, trainers, and other assorted disciplines. One hundred and forty 'houses' were built to accommodate the athletes. Each house, equipped with spacious, luxurious double bed suites, was named after a different town in Germany and the interior decorations of each were representative of its namesake. The village was set up with many of the features and amenities typically found on passenger ships: dining halls, laundry facilities, movie theaters, postal services, a hospital, and gift shops plus numerous indoor and outdoor training facilities specifically for the athletes. In fact, the Norddeutscher Lloyd Shipping Line had been hired to run the Olympic Village since they were experienced at dealing with large groups of short term guests speaking numerous languages and having special dietary needs.
Anchoring the ends of the mile and a half long Olympicstrasse were the two primary venues for the Olympic competition. At the north end was the great 100,000 seat stadium for the outdoor track & field and soccer events. At the south end was the sparkling new indoor facility for swimming, gymnastics, wrestling, boxing, and weightlifting.
The small park near where they had arrived had been located close to the north end of the street, so as they walked south, they had nearly a mile of shops to explore before they would reach the indoor competition facility.
They had walked about two blocks, peering in storefront windows hoping to find an appropriate clothing store, when Lana abruptly hustled them forward and out of the bright light of the streetlamp under which they had paused.
Once they were in the relative shadows between lights, Clark asked. "What is it?"
Lana nodded her head towards a building on the other side and about half a block further down in the direction they were heading. "See the men in the dark uniforms in front of that building? Gestapo."
"Here?" asked Clark incredulously. "In the middle of the Olympic Village?"
Lana got them moving forward again. "Pretend to belong and act like we are just out for an early morning stroll. But try to stay in the shadows, no point in letting them get a good look at us or our clothes. And yeah, I wouldn't have guessed they would be so blatant as to have a Gestapo building right on this street, but then it was their superior 'we have the right to do whatever the hell we want' attitude that caused the whole Second World War."
Apparently, early morning walkers were not unusual on this street as they made it past the men in the black uniforms without any interference. They walked in silence for several more blocks before Lana finally spotted what she was looking for: an elegant men's shop next door to a woman's dress shop. She led them past these stores and turned into the alley beyond.
"I hate to suggest stealing, but we need to get out of these clothes within the next few minutes or I am afraid we are going to have more problems we don't need now."
Clark responded somberly. "Let me handle this. I seem to becoming an expert lately at pilfering clothes."
Lana nodded as she remembered the Roman robes Clark had procured on their first day back in Ancient Rome. Robes, but no underwear or shoes. Although she had to wonder how much their unusual attire had contributed to Lex and her first getting together. After looking down at their feet, she looked back at Clark. "Just don't forget the shoes this time."
Lana saw a small smile cross Clark's face for the first time since he had arrived in the cornfield where the tornado had dumped Whitney and her. She hoped this was a sign his spirits would improve or it was going to be a long week until the Opening Ceremony where they would have the opportunity to retrieve the device they needed.
Then Clark blurred and was gone. Although in the fraction of a second before he completely disappeared, Lana could have sworn he was heading back towards the main street rather than to the rear of stores as she had expected.
"Does he do that all the time?" asked Whitney.
Lana shrugged. "I don't really know. I didn't learn about Clark's secret until about a week ago and then it was second hand from Chloe while we were being tortured in a dungeon in ancient Rome. At the time I was more focused on just surviving than really concentrating on what Chloe was saying. A few hours later I was killed and didn't reawaken until we had returned to our own time. So the first time I experienced Clark's abilities first hand was only seconds before you awoke back in that cornfield."
"How does he do it? I mean one second he is standing in front of you and the next he has just vanished."
"When Chloe was first telling me, she spouted a whole bunch of different theories, but frankly I think she was just making it up. I guess you will have to ask him yourself, but I am not sure he will be able to explain. He arrived here in a tiny ship at the age of three and from what he has told me; he has no idea where he is from or why he was sent here all alone."
Just then, the subject of their conversation was abruptly standing in front of them again. Clark had already changed into a brown suit, white shirt, green and brown striped tie, black leather shoes. His new ensemble was topped by a brown felt hat tilted at a rakish angle. Other than pants a little shorter than optimal, Clark looked like something straight out of an old 'Al Capone' gangster movie.
After handing a brown paper-wrapped bundle to each of the others, he said. "Don't worry about stealing from the shop owners, I left what I think was an adequate amount of money on the counters in each store." Then he reached into his front suit pockets and pulled out a large wad of money in each hand.
Handing each of the others a handful, Clark said. "Here, this cash should hold us a while until I can scrounge up some more."
"Where did you get this?" asked Lana with a nervous glance around she couldn't suppress.
"When we walked by the Gestapo building I gave it a 'once over' with my x-ray vision to see what we might be up against and I saw the safe sitting in an empty room. It just seemed to be calling to me."
"You stole money from the Gestapo?"
Clark raised an eyebrow before saying with a smile, "They are freaking Nazis. It seemed better to steal from them than from some hopefully honest shop owners."
Lana shook her head at this example of 'Clark' logic. "Okay, Clark, although we needed the clothes more than the money. In her usual 'plan ahead' fashion, Chloe stashed away emergency funds in major cities throughout the world during the past two thousand years. I know exactly where her 'Berlin, 1920s-1930s' cache is located."
"Oh," was all Clark said. He had forgotten about Chloe's stories about secret stashes of money and that she would have passed the knowledge of the locations onto Lana.
Whitney was just closing the fly on his new suit pants, which were in a similar style to Clark's only in gray, when he looked up and asked. "How much money are we talking?"
"Here in Berlin?" asked Lana as she calmly pulled off her ruined tee-shirt, her time in ancient Rome having apparently reduced her feelings of modesty. "Eight hundred seventy three pounds of gold in a combination of old coins and five kilo bars. One thousand one hundred thirty four diamonds in the 1/2 to 1 carat range. A several handfuls of other precious gemstones."
"Eight hundred pounds of gold?" asked Whitney with a strange catch in his voice. That sounded like an amount you would only find in Fort Knox.
"You have to understand, Chloe is something like seventeen thousand years old and most of that time she ran major trading empires. Ultimately, she ended up possessing roughly half of the world's gold which is about five hundred million pounds. Not that the eight hundred pounds here in Berlin is worth as much as you think. We are still in the gold standard era and the price is fixed at $35 dollars an ounce. Eight hundred and seventy three pounds works out to about half a million dollars, throw in the jewels and the total is about two million dollars. Of course, back here without the last sixty years of inflation, a million dollars is still 'real' money. Anyway, once we have accessed Chloe's funds, cash shouldn't be a problem for the next week."
The morning was still young as the three of them sat in a street side cafe a little further down Olympicstrasse drinking bitter German coffee and eating apple fritters that were as good as the coffee was bad. Just like ancient Rome, 1936 Berlin also looked like it would benefit from a 'Talon' franchise.
Lana was reading a copy of the 'Olympic Press', a daily newspaper for residents and visitors to the Olympic Village. The paper was printed in German, but almost like magic when Lana touched Whitney's hand he found the words seemed to morph into English so he could read them, too. Although it hadn't been nearly as cool as when Lana had touched him while the waiter had been talking and in mid-sentence he seemed to switch from German to English. And it had seemed to work both ways as Whitney had answered in what he thought was English, but the words coming out of his mouth must have been German as the waiter had seemed to understand what he said.
"According to this," began Lana. "Most of the teams, including the Americans, arrived yesterday and there was a welcoming banquet last night. This morning at 9 AM an orientation session is being held at the stadium for all of the track & field participants."
Lana looked up at the ornate clock mounted on a tall pole at the end of the block. Either the Olympic Organizing Committee didn't want anyone to miss their scheduled events or it was just an example of the infamous German compulsion for order and efficient, but they had discovered the street had been lined with these clocks at two block intervals.
"We have about forty five minutes. If we leave now, we should arrive in plenty of time."
They all rose and as Clark was sticking some German Marks under his coffee cup, he asked. "Do you really think we can just walk up and talk our way onto the team?"
Lana shrugged. "I think things are a lot less formal here than in our own times. If you are good enough, you can probably do it. So guys, think you are of 1936 Olympic caliber in any track & field events?"
This question wasn't really addressed to Clark since it was obvious he could crush the records in any event that was a simple test of physical abilities. No, the question was mainly for Whitney. With all of the improvements in record times over the past sixty years, could a twenty first century high school football player compete at or near the Olympic level of 1936?
"Well," answered Whitney. "My best track event was the 200 meter dash. My best time last year before I hurt my knee was 20.6 seconds a good 1.3 seconds off of world record pace. However since the tornado, my knee feels 100%, hell it feels like more than 100%. And when we were running through the lab and you touched me, wow, what a rush. It felt like I could run flat out forever. If you could touch me and rev my body up right before the race, I am sure I could easily beat my old personal best."
From the near encyclopedic knowledge Chloe had passed on to her, Lana said. "Jesse Owen's winning time in the 200 meter dash will be 20.7 seconds. So if we can get you a chance to demonstrate your abilities, you should be able to make the team. Just don't run too fast, we still need Jesse Owen to ultimately win. We don't want to change the past and not be able to return to our own times."
Whitney had never particularly loved track & field; it was just something to do during the off-season to stay in shape for football. He had a good idea what the current world records were in the events he competed, but he hadn't realized quite how much the times had gone down since 1936. Jesse Owen had won four gold medals in the Olympics. To find out he was actually faster than him in at least one event was amazing. Wow. Maybe they could pull this off.
The eight hundred track and field contestants and the several hundred assorted others were all sitting in the center of the stands on the south side of the stadium; this large turnout looked small as they were overwhelmed by the grand scale of Hitler's stadium. A small wooden stand had been set up on the playing field directly in front of them. Three officials and six translators were standing at microphones and the remarks by the Olympic Organizing officials were being translated into German, French, English, Spanish, Italian, and Greek, as required.
Many of the athletes were dressed in training clothes, but a respectable percentage sitting in the stands were dressed in suits like Clark and Whitney, allowing them to blend in. Banners for the participating countries were scattered around the sitting area and most of the athletes were sitting with their teammates. The American group was one of the largest with 66 athletes and with 11 African-Americans the American team also had the highest percentage of blacks of any team. The only team from Africa participating in the '36 Olympics was from South Africa and their entire team was white.
Lana, Clark, and Whitney took seats at the edge of the American group. During the long pauses while the officials' comments were being translated into the different languages, Lana pointed out various members of the U.S. team she recognized from old photos, including two people who were most important in their current situation: the coaches. First, was Lawson Robertson, who at age 63 was the head U.S. track coach for the third time. His full-time job was track coach at the University of Pennsylvania and he had the distinction of being one half of the team to forever hold the Olympic record for the three-legged 100 yard dash, last run in the 1908 Olympics. The second key man was Dean Cromwell, 57, the assistant U.S. track coach and whose full-time job was head track coach for USC.
When the officials' remarks and instructions finally drew to a close and the crowd in the stands started to disperse, Lana quickly led the way over to where the coaches were standing and talking to a handful of their athletes. When there was a break in the conversation, Lana jumped in.
"Coach Robertson?"
Robertson, a stoutly built Pennsylvanian Quaker, turned to see who was interrupting his instructions to his sprinters. He found himself staring at an extremely attractive young woman in a light blue dress and large white sun hat flanked by two young, muscular, extremely tall boys in expensively cut suits. The dark haired one was at least 6'4" and 220 lbs, while the blonde haired youth was nearly as big at 6'3" and 210 lbs.
"Yes?"
"Hi, I'm Lana Lang and this is Whitney Fordman and Clark Kent. We are from Smallville, Kansas and have been doing the 'Grand Tour' this summer. I know we missed the U.S. Olympic trials, but I was wondering if you could still let us try out. You won't be disappointed."
Robertson stared at the girl for a moment. He had participated in the 1904 and 1908 Olympics and had been involved in some coaching capacity in every Olympics since, culminating in the position of head track coach during the 1928, 1932, and now the 1936 games. This was the first time a total unknown, let alone three, had had the gaul to show up a week before the games and ask for a try out. Perhaps it was worth a few minutes to teach these kids the lesson that it took years of hard effort to reach Olympic caliber.
Robertson looked the two boys over once again before asking, "What are your best events?"
Whitney quickly answered. "The 200. My personal best is 20.9." Close enough to be enticing, but hopefully not too unbelievable for this era.
"Not bad, if true. Jesse, Ralph, are you up for a little competition? Take Whitney here and go get suited up."
Two black men in their early twenties stepped forward with big grins. This was not the first time some white boy had tried to challenge them.
Whitney reached out to shake their hands feeling both excitement and a small touch of disappointment. Jesse Owen and Ralph Metcalfe would win the gold and silver in the 100 meter dash. They would both be part of the gold medal winning 4x100 relay. Jesse would also win the 200 meter and the long jump. So meeting them was like a dream come true, probably second in his life only to his exhibition game as quarterback of the Sharks for his Dad. On the other hand, the pair were not physically impressive by modern Olympic standards. Oh they were both extremely fit, but at 5'10" and 165 lbs, neither man looked like they would survive long against the average 6'5" competitor at the Sydney games.
"Jesse, Ralph, it is an honor to meet you. I followed the Olympic trials, well at least when we could find an English language paper. Win or lose, I will remember this chance to race with you for the rest of my life."
Jesse clapped Whitney on the shoulder and then the three of them headed to the locker room.
Robertson turned back to Clark. "How about you?"
"I am a pretty good all around athlete."
"Hmmm, my alternate in the javelin went down with appendicitis just before the ship sailed from New York. Ever thrown the javelin?"
"Oh, a time or two," answered Clark with just a hint of a modest shrug.
Lana almost laughed out loud at Clark's 'a time or two'. She remembered a similar hot summer day at the Circus Maximus in ancient Rome where she had watched Clark hit a thrown orange at a distance of a thousand feet with a spear tipped with a heavy iron head. The winning distance here at the 1936 Olympics using a light weight wooden javelin would be a mere 235 feet by Gerard Stoeck of Germany.
"I see some javelins out on the field. Let's see what you got."
Clark started pulling off his jacket as he and the coach walked across the running track and out into the central grassy field. Lana and some of the other U.S. team members tagged along.
As they approached the stack of javelins, Clark pulled off his dress shirt exposing his incredibly ripped pecs and abs. Lana knew Lex was her ultimate soul mate, but for a moment she couldn't help but imagine what Clark must be like in bed. After experiencing some of his other physical gifts, the thought of having sex with Clark almost boggled the mind. It seemed like only someone with a nanobot enhanced body like Chloe could both enjoy and survive the experience. 'Of course,' thought Lana, 'I have a nanobot enhanced body, too.'
Lana forced her mind away from thoughts about sex and back to the situation at hand as she watched Clark make a show of hefting several javelins before settling on one. He made several practice throwing motions when suddenly he paused with what Lana recognized as the 'Clark, sheepish expression number 4' look on his face. After holding one finger up to Coach Roberson, Clark loped over to Lana and bent down to whisper in her ear.
"Lana, what is the current record? I have no idea and I don't want to throw it 100 feet too far or too short."
Lana quickly responded since the answer was on the tip of her tongue. Well, since awakening from her death, her nanobot memory system made every fact, no matter how small or seemingly trivial, instantly available.
"The winning throw will be about 235 feet."
Clark quickly glanced out at the field with its four widely spaced, white chalk arcs. "How far?" he asked again.
Lana thought to herself 'How far?' Instantly she felt like she was back watching Monday Night Football at Whitney's house as a yellow arc overlaid her vision about five feet short of the third chalk arc.
"Five feet short of the third arc."
Clark gave her a quick peck on the cheek, going for the boyfriend-girlfriend cover story. "Got it, thanks."
Then Clark turned and trotted back to the throwing circle. Without any further delays, he immediately tossed the javelin. It was a text book perfect flight ending with the javelin sticking up out of the ground exactly five feet short of the third chalk line.
'Shit,' thought Robertson. 'The kid has horrible form and still he is up in world record territory. What can he do with a little guidance?'
"How about other events?" asked Robertson trying not to sound too excited by this totally unexpected find. "Hammer? Discus? Shot-put?"
"I have never really tried any of those," said Clark shaking his head. "I could, if you like." Clark paused for a moment. If Whitney was getting to compete against Jesse Owen, he would like to do it also. It would be a cool story to tell Lex and Chloe when they got home. "I am also pretty good at the long jump."
Robertson nodded and then led Clark away in the direction of the shot-put pit.
As they were walking away, assistant coach Dean Cromwell stepped up beside Lana. "Your friend is very impressive. And sight unseen I am guessing your other friend will be too. What about you? I did notice the 'we' and 'us' when you were talking about try-outs. I have worked with several outstanding women through my program at USC."
"I wish they had as many track & field events for women as they do for the men. Why do they only have 100 meters, 4x100 meter relay, high jump, Javelin, and discus? They are all events were pure size or upper body strength will win out and obviously at 5'4" and 94 pounds I am not going to be competitive against the 5'8" and taller women I saw in the stands." Lana shook her head. "I wish they had some distance events for women. 800 meters and up are my forte."
If only she could admit to her true abilities. With her nanobot enhancements she could run flat out almost indefinitely. Her 'new' personal best at the 100 meters was 13.1 seconds, not in Women's Olympic range even way back here. But she had always enjoyed distant running more than short sprints. Wednesday morning she had gotten up very early and had run the course used every year for the Smallville Fourth of July Marathon. She had really wanted to test the limits of her new body and had run as hard as she could the whole way. When she had reached the end and checked the time, she couldn't believe it. One hour and 36 minutes. Her 'bots kept perfect records of speed and distance, just like having one of those expensive GPS units. And the 'bots said she covered the last hundred meters on flat, level ground in exactly the same 13.1 seconds as the first hundred meters. At last year's Fourth of July Marathon, she had been so pleased with her 3 hours and 47 minutes. Now she could do it more than 30 minutes faster than the men's record back in the 21st century, and it didn't matter.
Lana looked up at Cromwell. "I don't suppose you have any pull with the fencing coach? I am very good with a foil. Well, I prefer the saber, as its extra heft is more practical in 'real world' situations, but since women are only competing with the foil, I am sure I can adjust."
Lana's eyes widened as she realized what words had just tumbled out of her mouth. Was it just all of Chloe's stories of leading troops into battle that had caused her to say that? Or was this another instance where some of Chloe's memories had leaked across when she had supposedly only transferred cold, impersonal data?
"Not that I have ever used a sword in real life. I have had this life-long dream of being an actress and being able to do a convincing sword-fight scene seemed like a useful skill. So I have been taking fencing lessons almost as long as dance lessons." Whew, was that an adequate explanation?
Cromwell laughed. "You had me going there for a minute. I thought you were going to claim to be the reincarnation of Boudica, the Warrior Queen." Then fiddling with his trademark bow tie for at least the third time since this conversation began, Cromwell sobered. "The movies. You are almost too young to remember the silent film days and we didn't even have that when I was growing up. How the world seems to be changing faster and faster every year. I guess it truly means I am getting old. Anyway, yeah, I can give you an introduction to Giorgio Santelli; we played pinochle for a couple of hours every evening during the trip over. I see your friend Whitney and the others are back from the locker room. How about after their race, I escort you down to the indoor facility and we'll see if we can't scrounge up Giorgio."
Lana nodded her thanks. Then she and Cromwell started walking over to where sprinters from many nations were congregating, for word of the unique contest had quickly spread. It wasn't often someone was given a late opportunity to qualify for the American team. It happened occasionally with the smaller, more obscure teams, but never with the Americans. Plus many of the European sprinters had never seen Owen and Metcalfe run. And that was what they were most interested in, not this young upstart who had appeared out of nowhere.
Whitney stepped out of the relative darkness of the tunnel leading from the locker rooms and into the dazzlingly bright light of the stadium. Even though the stands were mostly empty, the hundreds of remaining Olympic athletes and officials far exceeded the biggest turnout he had ever witnessed at a Smallville track meet. Now was not the time to get a case of nerves even though he was about to race against the two fastest men of the year 1936. He just needed to get his head into his pre-football game mode, as he had played football before bigger and much more vocal crowds.
As he made his way out onto the track, he tried to adjust to the biggest difference from the previous times he had run races. The shoes. It had taken some serious scrounging to find someone, ultimately a Swiss sprinter, with feet as big as Whitney's size 13, from who to borrow a set of cleated running shoes. But these shoes were nothing like the modern, ultra-lightweight ones he was accustom to using. No, these felt more like boat anchors, at least four times the weight of his pair back home and even his were nowhere near the weight of modern Olympic class shoes. No wonder the current records were so much faster, the shoes alone felt like they would make a second worth of difference. But he couldn't worry about that now, he would just have to do his best.
Only the 100 meter race was short enough to run in a straight line without any turns. For the 200 meters it was necessary to start on the back side of the track and make one turn to reach the finish line on the front straight. Since they were required to stay in their assigned lane, the curve forced a staggered start to have the occupants of all of the lanes run the same distance. Most people preferred the outer lane as it had the most gradual turn, but in Whitney's mind it was a disadvantage as the other lanes started behind you and it wasn't until you cleared the turn that you could see how you were doing relative to the others. No, he always hoped for one of the inner lanes; he liked the feeling that he was coming from behind and passing his opponents. But Jesse and Ralph were trying to be generous and had insisted he take the outermost lane.
He could see someone had already set the starting blocks in position and his opponents were heading straight for theirs, but Whitney saw Lana standing in the infield at the edge of the track next to Coach Cromwell and made a detour over to them. When he reached them, Lana quickly clasped his hand.
"Are you ready? Are you going to show them what someone from Smallville can do?" asked Lana out loud as she stalled for the few seconds necessary to activate the 'bots in Whitney's body and give him a last second boost.
"Yeah," responded Whitney just a touch raggedly as he felt the surge of power roll through his body. The closest thing he could ever remember to the feeling he was now experiencing was during the game against Emporia back in October. The Crows had been backed up right against their own goal line and he had been forced out of the pocket before any of his receivers became open. After a mad scramble he had found a hole in the line and ended up running the ball ninety four yards for the touchdown. Ninety four yards doesn't sound like much compared to the 200 meter dash, but you never do the 200 meters while wearing almost thirty pounds of protective gear and after nearly sixty minutes of hard football and four bruising sacks.
After that grueling play he had spent several minutes sitting on the bench sucking oxygen. Sucking oxygen was the closest he could come to describing the feeling running through his body now as the 'bots worked to clean all of the toxins and carbon dioxide from his body and pre-saturate his muscles with oxygen. In mere seconds he felt like he was almost ready to challenge Clark to a race, as impossible as he knew that was. But mere human competitors? They wouldn't stand a chance!
Abruptly, though the mind-link, Lana said, "This is the best I can do to improve your chances. The rest is up to you."
Whitney nodded. As he started to pull his hand away, Lana pulled him back for a quick kiss. Just as he started to think the kiss might mean more than did, Lana pulled back and said, "For luck." Then she spun him towards his starting block and then with a slap to the ass said, "Go get them, Tiger."
Dean Cromwell was startled by the girl's behavior. Not the kiss, but the slap on the butt. This was a tradition that wouldn't come into common practice for another forty years and even then it would be a long time before you would see the slap delivered by a girl. He couldn't put his finger on it, but this was just one more clue that there was something strange, something just a little not right about these three. Exactly who were they and where had they appeared from?
Whitney settled into his starting blocks, the rush from Lana's boost already seeming to fade a little. It was time to clear his mind of all distractions like nanobots, Olympics, time travel, and Lana, although the last was the hardest to do. No, he must focus his full attention on the race. He wouldn't be able to tell the relative position of Owen and Metcalfe until they cleared the turn, so he needed to do his best to explode out of the starting blocks. It would definitely be simplest to be leading once they reached the front straight. Then, if necessary, he could slack off a little at the end to keep the race close.
Gradually, the assembled sprinters and other onlookers began to quiet as he heard one of the officials call for them to assume the starting position. Apparently, the officials were using this as an opportunity to get in a little practice as well.
"On your mark!"
"Get ready!"
And BANG! The starter's pistol went off and Whitney surged out of his blocks. In four strides he had almost reached his top speed as he swept through the gentle turn of the outer lane.
Faster and faster Whitney urged his body forward as hard as he could. Coming out of the turn he forgot all about his intention to watch for the others and adjust his performance. Instead, his full attention was focused on the finish line looming up in the distance. All the way to the end he pushed himself to one hundred percent and then even a little beyond.
As he broke the tape, he knew he had beaten his own personal best and at that moment, that was all that mattered.
For several seconds there was stunned silence from the various onlookers then the crowd erupted in frantic cheering. This unknown sprinter, who was supposed to be humiliated by the two fastest men in the world, had instead just blown them out of the water, beating them by over fifteen meters.
While the three men stood twenty meters past the finish line catching their breaths, Head Coach Robertson and Clark walked up from one direction while Assistant Coach Cromwell and Lana walked up from another.
"Owen, Metcalfe. What the fuck was that all about?" demanded Robertson. "You are not earning any favors from me letting this kid have an easy victory."
"Honest, coach," said Owen while his eyes kept glancing over to Whitney. "I gave it everything I had and thought I had one of my best times."
Robertson flicked his eyes to Metcalfe, who nodded his agreement.
"Lawson," said Cromwell quietly while holding up two stopwatches. "I have Owen at 20.58 seconds which is a new best for him. However the kid ran a 19.3 flat. Too bad this wasn't an officially sanctioned race or we would have a new World Record on our hands."
"19.3 seconds?" echoed Robertson. "There must be a mistake. Something must be wrong with your watch."
"I don't think so," said Cromwell. "But I will check the crowd. Someone else must have been timing the race, too."
Robertson turned to Whitney. "Kid, if you can do that again, I think both you and Kent here have just found spots on the team. What did you say your name was again?"
"Fordman. Whitney Fordman." As he spoke, he took in the expression on Lana's face. She was obviously less than thrilled he hadn't followed the agreed to plan. But Whitney did a mental shrug, what did it matter? The one guy said the time wasn't official. And if they stuck to the plan, they would have the alien device and be long gone before the 'official' track and field events even began. The main thing was it sounded like both he and Clark would be on the team and staying in the village.
As Cromwell walked off in search of others to confirm his times and Robertson took his other sprinters aside for a little motivational speech, Lana and Clark stepped closer to Whitney.
"Incredible race, Whitney," said Clark reaching out and shaking his hand.
Then Lana pulled him into a quick hug before stepping back. "Yeah, more impressive than we had planned, but wow. By my 'bots clock, you ran a 19.28 second race. That even beats Michael Johnson's 19.32 world record back home."
Whitney knew he had run a fast race, but to have beaten the world record. Maybe he should consider a career change when they got back home. Of course, if anyone ever found out about his 'bots, it would probably be considered just as illegal as performance enhancing drugs.
"Well, it sounds like Clark and I are in at the Olympic village. What about you, Lana?"
"For track and field, the women only have five events and they all are ones where pure size and upper body strength will win out. Even with my 'bots I am unlikely to be competitive in any of these events. Coach Cromwell is friends with the U.S. fencing coach and is taking me down to the indoor center for an introduction. Fencing is one of the sports where my 'bot enhanced reflexes will give me the biggest advantage."
After the last few minutes, Clark was in the best mood he had been in since he had been out on the dance floor kissing Chloe. Was that only four hours ago? With a grin he said, "Too bad catching arrows isn't an Olympic event, you would be in a class of your own."
Whitney gave Clark a wondering look.
"Oh, there was one time when we were back in ancient Rome and Chloe was passing herself off as a Druid Witch and I was her demonically possessed warrior. She demonstrated her magical abilities by catching arrows shot at her. Plus, I wasn't present at the time, but Chloe, Lex, and Laura fought a big battle against several hundred Roman archers. Of course, it does help when you miss deflecting an arrow, if you are able to just pull it out and instantly heal."
At this point, Coach Cromwell rejoined them and the conversation had to turn back to more mundane things, but Whitney was getting intrigued to hear more about their adventures in ancient Rome. Their stories would have been almost impossible to believe, if not for the fact they were at this moment themselves back in time competing in the 1936 Olympics.
End of Chapter 6