The Hurdler
A quick vault took him over the final hurdle and he was at the finish line, arms in the air even before he'd broken the wireless tape. Around him, the stands erupted in cheers and praises to his name; fitting for such a massive success.
Twinning Talbot had been heavily favored to win the inter-galactic hurdles at the New Olympics, but nothing was ever certain until his feet crossed the line. Now, he had well and truly destroyed the competition, many of who were still struggling to get over the first and second sets of hurdles. Of course, there had been some complaining from delegations who claimed their athletes were not built to leap over small wooden obstacles, but Earth had remained firm. Hundreds of new events had been added, many of which humans had no chance of competing in. Hurdles were a simple, ancient event, and those who could not perform were encouraged not to participate. Twinning's closest competition had come from a Zreelak, who had two legs and two arms just like he did, save for reversed proportions. A late rule-change had let the Zreelak run on his hands rather than his stubby feet, but even that hadn't mattered – Twinning had been doing this all his life.
A quick lap around the stadium to give the crowd what they wanted and he was off to the drug tent. These days, a simple scan had taken the place of a hyperspray, but athletes still tried to avoid it. He'd been drug-free for over ten years, and though he couldn't say he felt as good as he did back then, he was still the best in the galaxy at his particular sport. It was fitting he was finally getting the recognition he deserved.
The scan came back clean, and he and the Zreelak exited the tent arm in arm to more wild cheering from the crowd. A quick ceremony at a small podium got them both their medals, Piridium for him and Lucanite for the Zreelak. Gold and silver had meant nothing to the other worlds, and new, more precious minerals had replaced the old standards fifty years ago. Third place had also been removed, something Twinning approved of. Better to only acknowledge the first loser – the second one had no need to be recognized for such a failure.
His coach met him on the way to the locker room.
“Great work, Twinning,” Bal Bupkis said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Bupkis had been the best in the business two decades ago, almost winning a medal himself, but had let it all go after a bad divorce. All the big man could do now was yell and drink, and Twinning had brought him on simply for the legacy attached to the name.
“It was,” he replied quietly, “and it was all me. You're fired, Bupkis – go back to your gutter.” Reaching up, he removed the larger man's hand from his shoulder and slipped into the waiting crowd of reporters. They would want to know all about him, now, all about his story and about what made him tick. Bupkis didn't deserve any of that adoration. He smiled as he moved forward, holding his medal high. He was a god.
***
Twelve hours later, he woke with a start in a pool of his own vomit. The Odarians had assured all other delegations that their Olympic Village and the surrounding city of O'pak were perfectly safe, and the truth was they were right. Twinning had been up to everything he could think of, dancing with desperate human women and men along with stout Odarians, tall Zreelaks and even the occasional Wint. The night had included all the alcohol he could get his hands on, as well as plate after plate of a local dish called Drivvers. Twinning had no idea what was in the stuff, but it had tasted like fatty heaven to him.
Coming up now, it was foul.
As he rolled onto his stomach, a large boot took him in the side and he groaned. What the hell?
“Wake up.” A hard voice said from above him.
“I am!” He shouted. “God! Just give me a minute. Who the hell are you, anyway, and what are you doing in my room?”
The voice laughed. “I wasn't aware the Odarians were renting out rooms on filthy street corners now. They might, just to make a profit, but if you paid for this one you got screwed on the deal.”
Twinning forced himself to look around, though his eyes cried out in protest. The voice was right; a buzzing neon sign to his left told him he'd only made it ten steps from the last bar he'd been in before collapsing. At least no harm had been done.
“You're lucky I'm here, Twinning. Three times you were almost robbed, and once one of the other athletes tried to undress you. I'm sure you're entitled to a little celebration, but you might want to tone it down next time.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said drily, “now can you tell me just why you're watching me, you pervert?” The guy probably wasn't, but he didn't appreciate being woken up like this.
“Watch your tone.” Another boot-strike took him in the chest and he groaned.
“What the hell, man? Stop kicking me!”
“Sure,” the voice said, and two large arms reached down, grabbed him tightly and hauled him to his feet, “as soon as you shut up.”
Aside from being massively muscled, there wasn't much to mark out the man that had grabbed him. A wide face and dark beard gave him a stern appearance, and eyes seemed almost disinterested. It was the pin on his chest that mattered – the small blue and green circle against the dark fabric of his suit.
“What do the Earth Special Forces want with me?” He asked, trying not to sound afraid. The ESF had an unsavory reputation.
“Come with me, Twinning, and we'll find out together. The director has a job for you, but that's all I know.”
Twinning swallowed hard. First place might not be all he had imagined.
- D
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