Challenges: SciFi Short Stories

The Thirteenth God

Year 3024. Earth's natural frontiers sank. Countries and their tongues vanished. Peoples came together to terraform artificial lands, some floating on seas, others on clouds, in an effort to build renewed futures.

Cruising around the globe, on the highest plane, reigns the isle "Olympus". From below, besides the swarm of thrusters, we can read in titanic white letters Citius. Fortius. Supremus. On its surface is erected an artificial mountain, swarmed by schools of unmanned drones that record every athletes and their every movements.

Year 3024, 45 July on the new calendar, the Olympics Game's broadcast begins. A couple of Sports Commentators appears on the screen in flashing colours. Their hairs are moulded, their faces glitter like plastic bubbles, and their mouths move in uncanny ways.

"Welcome New World! Welcome Olympics Game! Citius! Fortius! Supremus!"

They chant together, dance together, improvise in showmanship, the louder the better. All is done until the viewers count rises, stabilizes, reaches a new high.

"Are you ready?"

A flock of emoticons covers on the screen, faces and thumbs, bolts then skulls, lot of skulls.

"There is only one summit. There can be only one chosen. Have you bet on the right one? And then a message from our sponsors!"

An overlay appears on the screen, showing an old depraved body crawling on a dirty floor. He grabs a smartphone laying near him, and opens the reddest App with the icon of a white bolt. An endless display of anonymous alike athletes in uniform appears around him. He scrolls nervously before stopping on the most starred one, then swipes. The athlete materializes in front of him and starts running toward an oversimplified model of the mountain made in golden wireframe graphics. He overtakes some of its peers, explicitly crushes others behind censorship's cloak, then reaches the summit to grab the bolt, triggering the obliteration of the mountain into a money rain. The awaited shower pours on the old one, who rejuvenates in a blink, regrows its limbs, luxuriously dressed, stands tall and faces the screen, all white teeth, fifty two.

"Have you bet on the right one? Download now the official Olympics Game App! Be like me! Place your bet!"

The overlay becomes a grid, scrolling from left to right, real-time broadcasting viewports on hundreds of athletes warming up at mountain's foot. The two S.C. appear over it, and click on a random cell which then get enlarged.

"Thanks to our sponsors! And now the main course! What do we have here my friends?"

The screen show humans, the most basic ones, sevens on pH scale, inbred by the thousands. They look determined, yet afraid, like facing head towards their last standing. Only twisted vanity resides in their eyes.

"Our origin, our soil, our base. They refused any improvements, years after years, only to defy the progress, keeping a so-called legacy. We would call them fools, if they never won, but they did! A true black horse. Humans! Like us? But not for them, and they will never hesitate to beg to differ. They call themselves Naturals! Place your Bet! Place your Bet!"

The screen shrinks, and one S.C. clicks on a another cell. Engrossed into their perfectly sculpted muscles, some cauliflower-shaped, with a head so tiny it's paltry, yet human. They taunt the drones, move and shout, try to garner all the attention.

"Do you like your body? They love it, and will never stop working on it. Fruits, vegetables? What for? They got the juice. A body part in the way? They tune it. Real body alchemists, they supersede Naturals in any ways. Just look at them, they shining! So much dopes, they pees rainbows! The Transhumans! And don't forget! Place your Bet! Place your Bet!"

Another cell comes on, exposing amalgams of flesh and metal, of steam and blood pipes, the caterpillar treads whirring impatiently around a dust cloud. Head over all other athletes, their faces, half eaten by probes and tubes, reflect confidence and serenity, a veiled insanity.

"Do you like gas? I always drink mine with two sugars, but for them! It's only the purest. Most are Transhumans who have never found enough satisfaction. Limited by flesh, they have chosen the cold embrace of machines, the Cyborgs! They hold the highest number of takedown, so be advised! Don't get in their way! And! Place your Bet! Place your Bet!"

The next cell presents things... living things... nothing close to human, and nothing in common among them. A mix of tentaculous aliens, lean insects, and furry beasts. Their expressions are indistinguishable, they stare in trance at the summit.

"Last but not least, born from a tube, an experiment for the future, the Children of the Dawn! Countless genes have been cherry picked to create the ultimate life form, the ultima chimera! Be in awe by all the possibilities offered by the most advanced Pharmas. Thanks to them for sponsoring this event too, as always! And don't forget there is an ongoing promotion of eighty percent! You heard me y'all! EIGHTY PERCENT! For your first child of the dawn, one per household, other limitations apply, contact your nearest lab. A known safe bet. Place your Bet! Place your Bet!"

The cell shrinks into the grid and the S.C. appear one last time to sum up the odds.

"Hundreds of athletes! One summit! They will run! They will jump! They will swim! They will dance! They will fight! They will climb! They will all fall... but one! Citius! Fortius! Supremus!"

The chants grows stronger.

"Citius! Fortius! Supremus! Citius! Fortius! Supremus! Citius! Fortius! Supremus!" silence "Bets are close! GO!"

A blood bath trickles down on each faces of the mountain, the viewership explodes along with the juicy comments. All drones are exploited to the maximum, clipping the best moments for those that can't follow the madness accross the hundreds. A few hours after the starts the din subsides. No more rage, but a crippling tension grasps the scene. At half way, any athelete who tries to take the lead will become a prime target, and as always, some fools will act like fool. Final rush. The summit gathers all the drones, focusing alternatly on each suitor. The luckiest jumps and grabs the bolt, activating the penalty for everyone else, under thunderous applause of emoticons lasts a dead silence. An angelic face appears on the screen among clouds.

"Congratulations Athelete! You are expected at Olympus. Join the rank of Gods."

Later, a QR code appears. A link to Pharmas websites with the gene mapping of the winner. Ready to be incubated for any parent, or inoculated for any patient, so they can be children of Olympus, children of the thirteenth god.

Year 3024. Far away from De Coubertin's spirit and greeks myths, peoples came together in an effort to build renewed futures. Still, they remain divided. Neither by language or belief, nor by colour or sex. Untouched or altered, before or after birth, it doesn't matter, now. It never mattered, before. An uncertain future calls for survival, and supremacy onto others prevails in its sickest form. Thus, acclaiming supreme genes, and rewarding supreme alterations, became the norm instead of accepting everyone's flaws. Communiter.