The Last Man Standing

An astronaut finds himself in the Olympics

The Last Man Standing

         After being poked, probed, and inoculated, Troy Kealy found himself in New South Africa, where the 2120 Summer Olympics were being hosted.
         As the hover-cab pulled into the hotel aula, Troy was assailed by a barrage of human reporters and robotic photographers. Over the next few days, they would interview, record, and make their hypothetical analysis of Troy’s every movement. For the first time in his life, he felt important, felt like he mattered to more people than just the Government. He was treated like a king or, as Troy liked to think of it, as a condemned prisoner receiving his last meal.
         The phone video flashed on and Troy Kealy was greeted by the President of New South Africa. “Mr. Kealy," he said, "so wonderful to have you and the American Team here with us in beautiful Cape Town.”
         “Thank you, Mr. President.”
         “I want to be the first to wish you the best of luck in the upcoming events. Tomorrow, the Olympic torch will be carried through the center of Cape Town.I am expecting all Olympians to attend the ceremonies. The parade is at 9 AM. See you there.” The video abruptly winked out.
         “Great, a parade.” Troy plopped down on the bed, and it automatically adjusted itself to fit his body. His mind was troubled by the thought of all the events he would have to face in the next five days and whether or not he would survive.
         Each country was allowed one Olympian representative and one alternate. The alternate could only be used in cases of serious bodily injury or death.
         Troy didn’t think he would be able to cut the mustard. He was no athlete, but some bigwigs in the government thought otherwise. And now, here he was, in a competition that could only be compared to what the ancient Roman gladiators had gone through. Troy could identify with the mentality of “win or die.” He had always been at his best when the chips were down, and right now he knew the stakes were at their highest.
         He was the only one to endure the savage attack on the Mars Colony by unknown mutant aliens. By all rights, he should be dead, or worse, a mutated thing that no longer resembled a human being. What these creatures did to the humans stationed there was probably the most abominable thing that has ever been done to human beings in recorded history. Yet, somehow, Troy lived -- walked away with his mind and body still intact. But Troy had his moments of waning reality and terrifying nightmares.
         He remembered how the aliens had appeared out of nowhere and hovered above the settlement in a multifarious craft so bizarre and unfamiliar that it boggled the human mind just to look at it. In the chaos that followed, they systematically captured and performed bizarre experiments on the colonists, introduced an alien mutagen into their bodies, and then watched as the settlers became something more -- something other-than-human. The process of transformation killed them all, over a thousand. But somehow Troy survived. He did not die, and he did not change. The aliens seemed satisfied with this and left as quickly as they had come.
         The Government had kept everything 'hush-hush', and the media was told that the settlement had been hit by meteorites, compromising the integrity of the base, and all life was tragically lost. There was never any mention of aliens, reprehensible transformations, or of a survivor--end of story.
         The following morning, Troy found himself escorted along the parade route. It was a festive occasion, and the citizens came out in a show of public spirit for the Olympics; they were dressed in colorful raiments of magenta, blue, and yellow. Musicians aboard hover-floats played lofty melodies of heroic fantasy that inspired the soul. Troy took it all in and found himself enjoying every moment.
         The procession eventually entered the enormous arena that held over two hundred thousand. The crowd cheered wildly as the participants were marched around the field. Small flags, designating the different countries, were waved in the air in a vibrant display of global support. Troy took it all in with inexpressible feelings. He could only think that he was finally getting the recognition he so richly deserved. He had survived the unendurable, and this is how the world should have treated him when he had come home four years ago.
         A square-jawed man approached Troy from the sidelines as the parade of athletes came to a halt. His body looked to be chiseled from solid stone.
         “Kealy?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m your alternate, Warren Bost. It’s good to meet you.”
         Troy reluctantly took the offered hand. “Nice to meet you, too, uh, Warren.” The man’s grip could have cracked a walnut.
         “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the American Team’s dugout.”
         Troy sensed some animosity in the man. He hurried to catch up with him. “You with the military?” Troy asked.
         “Yeah, just like ninety-nine percent of the other athletes here. You’re the only one with no military experience. I don’t know how you’re gonna survive the first day. But I’m ready to go in the minute they carry you out.”
         “That’s a comforting thought.” Troy could sense the man’s aggravation. “Look, uh, Warren, this wasn’t my idea. Why don’t you talk to your damn superiors? They’re the ones responsible for all this.”
         Bost ignored him. “I’m instructed to educate you in all the Olympic equipment that you’ll be required to use during competition.”
         Troy was tired of being ignored. “Look, if you got a beef with me, just spit it out.”
         The soldier spun around and stuck his face just inches from Troy's.
         “Yeah, I got a beef. I was set to represent the American Team until just two days ago. Me! And then, lo and behold, I receive new orders of the change in plans. I’ve been in training for years! Do you understand that? Four damn years of my life wasted now that you're here.”
         “Hey, you wanna start first? Have at it. I couldn't care less.”
         Warren shook his head. “And this is America’s best? Where’s your patriotism?”
         “I left it on Mars.”
         “Mars? What the hell are you talking about?”
         “Nothing. Let’s just get on with this.”
         For the rest of the day, Troy was thoroughly rehearsed in the operation of the Olympic machinery. Finally, he was allowed to collapse onto his hotel bed late that night. That’s the last thing Troy remembered. That, and the dream of an indescribable creature injecting him with a phosphorus blue liquid.
         Four hours later, Troy received his wakeup call. And an hour after that, he found himself on the Olympic field with Warren Bost giving him a few last-minute pointers.
         “Keep your back to the wall. That’s one less direction you’ll have to worry about. And keep moving. For God’s sake, don’t just sit there waiting to be somebody’s target. Look for weaknesses, and use them to your advantage.”
         “Anything else?”
         “Yeah. Anybody get close to you . . . blast the hell out of ‘em.”
         The ancient Roman horns blew, signaling the start of the games.
         “All right, saddle up and get ready.” Bost slapped him on the back. “And good luck.”
         “Yeah, thanks.”
         Troy approached the spider-slider. It was a war machine that resembled a spider with two robotic arms jutting out of its center. A set of four sturdy legs held its low-slung body core just above the ground. Troy settled into the cockpit and turned on the machine. The robot automatically waved its sensor arms and weapons lenses. Troy gripped the controls and tested the steel, gleaming legs, lifting the metal pads and adjusting the hydraulics.
         The horns sounded again, and the weapon-studded warrior-forms strode forward in lockstep toward their designated marks.
         There were twenty-one competing countries, and Troy looked across the field at his opponents. Within his wide-ranging operating program, a three-dimensional image was displayed on his control panel. Troy studied the competitors closest to him. Sweat emerged on his forehead, and his wet palms clutched the controls tightly.
         The horns sounded again, and then all hell broke loose.
         He had already been targeted, and his spider-slider stumbled backward with the assault. Troy quickly hit the shield button, and it crackled to life with a lightweight electrical covering that gave little protection to the control pod in which he sat. He slammed the controls and continued his backward slide toward the wall.
         “What the hell are ya doing?” Bost’s voice filled the headset.
         “Trying to stay alive! What do ya think I’m doing?”
         “Put your weapons on automatic! Choose your closest target and disable him! Keep moving!”
         Troy hit the auto-weapons display and started forward at a run toward his nearest robot. His low-grade plasma lasers danced crazily across his target’s pod shield. Troy kept blasting and ran over the top of his opponent and continued moving on toward the next mechanical spider. In the heat of battle, Troy didn’t have time to look around to see how well he was doing. He just kept running and shooting. In his dance of hit and run, he saw several destroyed spiders with smoke issuing from them. He breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t him.
         “Watch your backside!” yelled Bost. “Enemy at six o’clock!”
         “I can’t see him!”
         "It’s the Russian, and he’s hot on your ass! Move!”
         Troy veered left, then right, but couldn’t shake the pursuing spider. He started to stress out. His nerves felt like a tightening vice, and his entire body trembled under the strain. His survival instinct told him to do the unexpected, so Troy suddenly stopped his spider, and the Russian slammed into the back of him. Troy backpedaled and climbed on top of the Russian, stomped on the man with his mechanical leg, and pulled him to the ground.
         The sight of the blood awakened something inside of Troy. His vision blurred as he started to mutate.
         “Jeez, Troy, what the hell are you doing?”
         He didn’t answer. He watched in horror as three limbs sprouted out of his chest and started working the controls. He felt something happening to his head as eye stalks grew through his scalp and gave him a complete 360-degree view.
         His multiple hands blurred on the controls, directing his mechanism to attack every spider on the field. Finally, the machine’s optic threads glowed like white hot stars, and he was forced to shut down his computerized navigational systems. But he kept shooting at the downed spiders until every opponent was either dead or dying.
         Troy quickly abandoned the downed robot and jumped to the ground. He grew extra legs even as he ran, his arms retracting back into his body.
         Security police flooded onto the field. Troy traveled crablike, darting away from them. As he moved, his body mutated again and sprouted twelve-inch blades along his back, front, and arms. When the police came within reach, he ran through them, the blades puncturing and tearing through their soft, pulpy bodies. Continuing to move, he dropped them to the ground like bloodied rag dolls and then grabbed another.
         The crowd panicked at the sight. Screaming, they ran over each other to reach the exits. Troy crawled up the wall and into the box seats like an insect.
         “Isn’t this what you wanted to see?” he yelled at them. “Blood, death, and destruction? Isn’t this what you came for?” He threw another corpse from him that had been pinned to his back.
         “Kealy!” His name resonated in his ears. It was Bost on the headset.
         “Yes, Warren, may I help you?”
         “In God’s name, man, what . . . are you?”
         Troy turned toward the American Team’s dugout; he saw Bost just inside the shadows of the overhanging roof.
         “I am a survivor, Warren.”
         “Survivor? You’re a goddamned monster!”
         A low hum reverberated through the stadium. Troy looked up to see the same grotesque craft he had seen four years earlier on Mars. It hovered just above the arena.
         “It is a human quality to survive, Warren,” he said, swallowing back a lump of tears, the last shred of humanity left him. “To endure, one must be willing to change. The aliens knew this when they altered my body. All life is the sum of the forces that resist death. I am the last man standing -- the lone survivor.”
         There was a brilliant flash of light, and Troy Kealy was gone. The alien ship immediately blinked out and disappeared.