Jillian Shomer ran along the north edge of the quarry, toward a distant, silent ocean, into the dawning sun.

Her breath vibrated in her mastoid process, made sharp rasping sounds in her Comnet ear link. In her own very informed opinion, she sounded ragged and undisciplined.

Hot fudge sundaes are a basic food group. The words were etched in acid, her self-appraisal as merciless as the grade.

She unclipped the plastic bottle at her side, and sipped shallowly. Thin, faintly sweet, with a briny edge. The drink was custom-formulated from analysis of her own sweat, a nutrient solution composed chiefly of water and long-chain glucose polymers, with a few electrolyte minerals judiciously added. Jillian thought the sweat tasted better.

The air would heat soon. Morning chills burned off quickly of late, unusual for Pennsylvania in late March. April and May would be hot.

She squeezed the bottle closed with her teeth, and pushed onward. Halfway through now. Sean Vorhaus would be meeting her for the last two miles of the run. With the first tickle of fatigue her mind, ordinarily the most orderly of instruments, began to wander. She focused, and continued to dictate.

“Beverly: note. Mind seeks patterns. Predictions. Wrong here. Old math… says weather’s chaotic. Initial conditions. Disease, money, whatever. Try crime. Greek poets, storm… metaphor for personal change. Proposal-“

She panted, and wiped away the trickle of sweat oozing from beneath her terry-cloth headband. Her breathing normalized swiftly, and she continued.

“-use fractals, predict-global sociopolitical patterns. Determine where chaos rules human life-“

Funny how concise these notes always were. When she was running, she couldn’t spare the breath! An athlete training at a reasonable level should still be able to talk… and unable to sing; who was it tried that? And Beverly would edit out the gasping.