by Alten-Steve
Sam eyes the divot, his attention momentarily transfixed by grains of plastic dropping away like a comet’s tail.
Enough!
Renner pitches the football to Sam’s right. Sam plucks the floating object out of midair and secures it within the crook of his right arm. His dark eyes set upon the wall of moving bodies, his mind dissecting the fluctuating current of pads and flesh.
Miami’s right guard and tackle are pulling, but Florida State’s all-American, Ryan Ehrensberger, is blitzing from his linebacker position, and fat Tucker is too slow to stop him. Ehrensberger shoots the gap in slow motion, his eyes widening, his face a mask of contortion and glee as he bears down on the ball carrier like a child on Christmas Day.
Not today, pal …
The Mule’s quadriceps fire, the capacity crowd gasping as number 23 gallops away from the Seminole’s blitzing linebacker with an almost inhuman burst of speed.
Slipping from Ehrensberger’s lunging tackle, Sam heads for the outside corner, only to see wideout Rusty Bradford tumble in slow motion as he misses his block on FSU’s strong safety.
The outside linebacker joins him, cutting off the corner.
Have to do it the hard way …
Planting his right foot, the Mule changes direction with an ankle-breaking pivot and rushes back toward the mounds of flesh now rolling in disarray along the line of scrimmage. The safety’s expression drops as he flails helplessly at a blur of orange and white that, only seconds before, had been the Miami tailback.
A wall of bodies looms ahead. The ‘Mule’ targets Joe Mastrangelo, FSU’s 377-pound all-American, Sam’s powerful ‘stiff arm’ striking the defensive tackle’s chest like a lance, the blow knocking the bulky lineman clear off his size eighteen triple-E shoes, opening a sliver of Kelly green daylight.
Samuel Agler slips through the hole and into the clear, leaving a half dozen would-be tacklers in his wake. Invisible flames of lactic acid singe his insides as he gallops untouched toward the end zone.
He crosses the thirty yard line … the forty—
Who’s out there?
The female’s voice startles him. He nearly stumbles at midfield.
Speak to me, cousin. Identify yourself.
Terrified, Sam wrenches his mind free of the zone.
The crowd noise returns.
Sam staggers down the right hash marks, his chest heaving, his mind urging his exhausted muscles to move faster.
‘He’s at midfield … the forty … the thirty … the Mule’s heading for the end zone, and no one in this arena’s going to catch him—touchdown!’ Todd Hoagland, the Hurricanes’ visual color commentator, is on his feet screaming into his remote headset as waves of hysteria bombard the MTI arena.
Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler drops to his knees in the end zone, gasping great breaths of air as his delirious teammates rush to embrace him.
4:17 p.m.
Sam leans back against the carpeted cubicle in the Hurricanes’ locker room, his aching muscles in desperate need of a rubdown. The faint scent of ammonia moves through an air-conditioned current tinged with the scent of human sweat. Wearily, he raises a plastic container of tangy cold liquid to his lips and quaffs the beverage, a few drops dribbling past his chin. The high-protein drink is loaded with amino acids and biogenic fuel designed to stimulate tissue repair and help flush his system of lactic acid.
The media converge upon him. A dozen wireless videocams are shoved toward his face, linking each telecast to computer feeds around the world.
‘Sam, you’ve already broken the PCAA’s rushing record for a freshman, now it looks like you’re well on your way to smashing the all-time single-season rushing record. Can we safely assume you’ll bypass your junior year and declare yourself eligible for the GFL’s draft?’
‘Look, we lost a tough game today. I don’t want to talk about my future. Christ, don’t you guys ever get tired of asking the same questions?’
‘We’ll stop asking when you start giving us answers.’ Diane Tanner leans in, the blond bombshell’s tight gray-and-red ESPN leotard revealing more than most of the toweled athletes watching in the wings. ‘For instance, can you confirm rumors you’ve negotiated a contract to play basketball with the GBA next season?’
Sam steals a glance at K. C. Renner, who is flicking his pierced tongue at him from across the locker room. ‘I’ve been offered a dozen contracts, but I haven’t signed anything. Besides, if and when I do turn pro, it will be to play football. The Global Basketball season is way too long.’
‘A lot of GBA owners would be willing to sign you just for the playoffs. The London Monarchs’ owner told me last week that he’d even allow you to use his private jet.’
‘Enough! Ask me about today’s game, or we’re done.’
‘I have a question.’ Sun Sentinel beat writer Ethan McElwee pushes his video feed a little closer. ‘Miami only scored one touchdown, four below its season average. Was the FSU defense really that tough?’
‘They’re tops in the nation for a reason. They hit hard, as hard as any team we’ve faced.’
CNN sportscaster Cal Kitson squeezes between McElwee and Sam, offering the football star a tantalizing view of her Indian red-tinged cleavage. ‘Mule, in two years, no one’s ever come close to tackling you behind the line of scrimmage, yet in the third quarter alone, Jesse Gordon, Florida State’s left defensive end, caught you twice. How do you explain that?’
‘Gordon’s quick. He made a coupla nice plays.’
‘And those rumors about point spreads?’
‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’
‘Coach DeMaio—’
‘I said out! Security, get these leeches outta my locker room.’
Four taser-armed security officers push the crowd of reporters toward the exit.
Sam hangs his head.
Diane Tanner lingers behind, moving close enough for Sam to catch a whiff of her perfume, a new aphrodisiac offering a hint of lilac and strawberries.
‘Yes, Diane?’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You promised me a private interview after the Penn State game. You blew me off.’
‘I, uh … sorry, I’ve been busy.’
‘Sports is a business, Sam. You guys get paid from revenues we help generate. The head of the network’s pissed, he wants a live studio interview by Monday or we’ll cancel global coverage of the FAU game in three weeks.’
‘Okay, okay. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you in the Press Room about three.’
‘Tomorrow’s good, but tonight’s better. I thought we could do it in my hotel suite.’
Yeah, I bet you did …‘I, uh … really can’t.’
Diane leans closer. Whispers into his ear. ‘Yes you can. In fact, I bet you can do it all night long.’
She pulls away as the ’Canes’ starting offensive line assembles in front of Sam’s cubicle. The grungy, orange-stained underclassmen are wearing nothing but skimpy towels.
K. C. Renner steps forward. ‘Hey, ESPY-ho, check out this exclusive!’
‘Trust me, Renner, there’s nothing you’ve got under those towels I haven’t seen already.’
The six football players ceremoniously drop their towels, revealing pubic hair but no penises.
Sam hides his grin as K. C. strikes a pose. ‘It was a team decision. Saves wear and tear on jockstraps and cups.’
Ignoring Renner, she turns back to Sam. ‘Tomorrow at three. Don’t blow me off again.’ She whispers. ‘Call me later, and I’ll help you forget all about today’s game.’
She pushes past K. C. and heads for the exit as Sam’s teammates, laughing hysterically, untuck their male organs from between their legs.
K. C. watches Dave Goldsborough, Miami’s 402-pound all-American left tackle struggle to free himself. ‘Yo, Moose, you ough
ta think about trimming that thing for real, man. Probably help you to move a lot faster.’
As if considering it, the lineman looks down, unable to see past his massive belly.
Sam looks up as his best friend slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, K. C. Lauren would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she caught me hangin’ with the ESPY-ho.’
‘No sweat. If she corners you again, send her my way, I’d love to give her what she wants.’ K. C. lowers his voice. ‘Seriously, man, what happened out there today? ’Cept for that first score, I’ve never seen you move so slow. You pull something?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? You’re not doin’ leeches, are you?’
‘You know me better than that.’
‘Sure, sure—’ The quarterback follows him back to the showers. ‘Well listen, you can pay me back by sticking around long enough for us to win at least one more PCAA championship. I don’t wanna be reading about you jumpin’ ship next week to join some rugby team in Orlando.’
Sam wheels around, catching his friend in a playful headlock. ‘Don’t worry, pal, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
7:42 p.m.
Dusk bathes the western face of the arena in its golden haze.
Sam emerges from the air-conditioned building, his skin tingling in the heavy south Florida humidity. He brushes his long, jet-black hair away from his forehead as his dark eyes search the sea of faces waiting for him behind the outer steel gate. Samuel Agler’s eyes are black as coal, making it impossible to tell where the irises end and the pupils begin. At times they seem to shimmer, radiating an inner strength and intellect.
He nods to the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the crowd, struggling to avoid the computer porto-pads being shoved in his face.
‘Come on, Mule, one autograph—’
Sam ignores the autograph hounds, whose only intention is to download his signature across the Internet. He pauses for a father and his eight-year-old son, forcing a smile as their porto-pad snaps his picture. He scribbles a signature—
—looking up as a black stretch limousine slows, then passes by.
Sam’s pulse quickens. He hands the kid back his porto-pad, his eyes searching for his ride.
K. C. Renner beeps at him from his ‘hydro-jeep.’
Sam jumps in the vacant passenger seat. ‘Go, man, quick!’
The fuel cells kick in, spiriting the two of them away.
Main Campus, University of Miami,
Coral Gables, Florida
Saturday Evening
Nineteen-year-old geology major Lauren Beckmeyer jogs past rows of royal palm trees adorning the campus drive. Shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, making her tall, six-foot frame seem even more angular. The junior track and field star glides like an antelope when she runs, her loping strides and explosive power giving her a competitive advantage in the long jump, triple, and high jump.
Lauren’s coach is pushing her to add hurdles to her events. Hurdles means more roadwork, a lot of it. Lauren hates roadwork. It wears on her lower back and knees and chews up too much time. Between going to class and studying, proctoring Dr. Gabeheart’s meteorology class and her physical training regimen, she barely has time to see her fiancé.
Missed his game again. Sam’s going to kill me …
A gunshot of thunder echoes across the threatening south Florida sky. She quickens her pace. Screw this. Three events is enough. Not like I’m going to the Olympics …
Crossing the street, she cuts in front of a campus robobus, the twenty-four-hour-a day vehicle powered by the electromagnets of the induct-tracks embedded in the smart-way. Sheets of rain are pouring on her by the time she reaches the quadrangle of dorms located on the west side of campus. Wiping sweat and rainwater from her face, she holds up her hand, allowing the security camera’s scanner to ‘read’ the computer S.I.D. (security and identification) chip embedded in the flesh of her palm.
The sensor identifies her, simultaneously scanning her for weapons.
ENTER LAUREN BECKMEYER. HAVE A NICE DAY.
The front doors part, the familiar gust of cold air causing goose bumps as she enters the mezzanine. She walks past a group of students, some on body cushions, others hibernating inside sensory bags, as a movie displays on the giant smart-glass screen. By day, these multipurpose windows adjust the degree of tint to keep out the sun. By night, they opaque for privacy and convert into entertainment centers.
She waves to a friend, then locates an unoccupied turbolift and takes the high-speed transport up to the seventh floor. A holographic notice advertises a ‘Rave-Free Lunar Festival’ tonight in the dorm’s virtual-reality chamber. A federal ad displays: Immunize and say NO TO ADDICTION.
In early 2024, the United States, Canada, and Mexico, following in the footsteps of the European Union, began mandatory infant immunizations for cannabis, cocaine, and heroin. These ‘inhibitor shots’ were designed to prevent the human brain from experiencing a ‘high,’ eliminating any possibility for a future attraction to the narcotic.
Unfortunately, remove one illegal high and another is bound to come along. Immunization programs against fringe drugs like methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) were proving expensive, and the population was becoming tired of ‘Big Brother’s’ heavy-handedness.
Instead of continuing the battle, the federal government, in 2028, decided to join forces with the pharmaceutical industry, staking its own claim in the $500-billion-a-year trade of recreational agents. The aim of drug companies had always been to free the human condition from physical pain. Now they would turn their attention to eliminating psychological pain while enhancing happiness.
The first ‘heaven’ drug was BLISS, a genetically encoded cocktail designed to release serotonin and stimulate phenylethylamine, a chemical released by the human brain when one is ‘in love’ (or for some, while eating chocolate). A year later, a second line of BLISS was developed for senior citizens, this one designed to restore the dopaminergic neurons that gradually die off as we age, leading to a decline in sexual drive.
Happiness and a recharged libido—an old industry was reborn.
Designer heavens were not physically addictive, and the delayed action of these nonneurotoxic mood enhancers released a more gradual high, preventing the wild emotional swings of drugs like heroin, Ecstasy, and cocaine. When used in conjunction with a new line of virtual-reality software products, the effect was increased tenfold.
Biotechnology had created an entirely new sensation-driven world economy, virtually replacing the alcohol and nicotine industries.
Lauren steps from her moment of serenity into a hallway throbbing with technomusic. From an open dorm room she spots a bare-chested, multistained underclassman.
Second-year Middle Eastern Dialects major Kirk Peacock stares back at her through mood-evolving contact lenses, which now appear purple. The track lighting along the ceiling reflects off his hairless scalp and the Chinese symbol for love permanently tattooed just above his forehead.
‘Laur-rah—’
‘It’s Lauren.’
‘Laur-rah, Laur-ren … just a name, Laur-ren Beck-man.’
‘Beckmeyer.’
‘You’re the Mule’s tool.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘His plaything, you know, his pacifier. I need you to score me a signed pigskin. My geoprof said he’d raise my grade if I—’
‘You like new experiences, Kirk?’
‘It’s the basis for my existence.’
‘Then try attending a few lectures in person this semester.’ She examines his neck. ‘Is that a mood-leech?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Kirk giggles, pulling the edge of the flat leech-shaped object away from his birdlike neck. ‘Want a suck? Still got another twenty minutes of juice.’
The ‘mood-leech’ is a drug injection system, its two-hundred hollow microscopic needles designed to release a hybrid of illegal ‘rave narcotics’ directly into the user’
s carotid artery. Combined with ‘designer heaven,’ the mood-leech created waves of ‘ wholebody hyperorgasmic euphoria,’ especially when used in a virtual-reality chamber.
Lauren shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Is your consciousness ever drug-free?’
Kirk’s grin reveals two platinum-capped teeth. ‘Consciousness blows, psychological hedonism rules. If it ain’t virtual, it ain’t reality … Laur-rah Beck-woman. What releases your endogenous opioids? Exercise? Sex? Food? Music? When I listen to music now, its stirs my soul. When I make love, my whole body quivers for hours. This morning, I had erotic alien sex in a VR chamber, and I don’t even know if it was a male or female!’
‘Yeah, well I’m not into Zombi-ism or alien gang bangs. I’ll stick with my mule, if you know what I mean.’
‘Mule sex. Ha. Ha-ha—ugh …’ The metallic smile suddenly fades as Kirk’s blue-tinged face flushes violet.
WARNING: TOXIC LEVELS OF DEXTROMETHORPHAN PRESENT. SWEAT GLANDS SHUTTING DOWN. HEAT STROKE IMMINENT. PARAMEDICS HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.
‘Shut up!’ He looks at Lauren, fighting to keep his balance, his mood swinging like a pendulum. ‘ Sheating-fud computer’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.’
Sheating-fud? Lauren frowns, her mind racing to unscramble the new slang-stringing curse. Shit-eating fuck-wad … got it. She touches his forehead. ‘You’re burning up.’
Kirk’s eyes roll up as he falls forward.
Lauren ducks, catching him over her right shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She enters his apartment, gagging at the stench as she makes her way over piles of soiled laundry and garbage.
The lights fail to activate as she enters the bathroom. ‘Computer, increase lighting.’
UNABLE TO COMPLY. FUEL CELL HAS BEEN REMOVED.
‘Emergency lighting.’
Panel strips illuminate along the ceiling and floor. The bathroom smart-mirror has been spray-painted black.