The Running Mill P.2
A Trump-Like Science Fiction Story
This is the second half of The Running Mill. You can read the first part here.
September 20th. Sponsor.
Ricky ran around the solar-powered racetrack, setting personal records and breathing fresh outdoor air. Ruda's headquarters was thirty minutes inland from Copenhagen, but even here, in the flat countryside, the subtle smell of sea lingered in the air—the canals were never far away.
When Ricky finished his final lap, he jogged toward us and let himself fall on the freshly mowed grass. He lay on his back, chest rising and falling, as he smiled, inhaling the fresh air. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, I saw him in bliss—an appreciation of the senses that no genetically modified athlete had ever shown.
He looked at me with his hazel-green eyes, slightly flawed and unsymmetrical, yet handsome and powerful. His emotions couldn’t hide behind perfected aesthetics. He showed us what everyone used to love about sports: the emotions.
What did viewers want more than emotions? Why did we have to turn the sport of running into a breakneck act? These were the sorts of questions I asked myself when I sponsored athletes and sent them out to run.
“Together We are Winners...” Ricky finally said.
“That’s right,” Christine said, turning off her contact lens camera. She got what she needed.
“I’ll run for Rudas under one condition.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
“If I win the Celta Hi-Run, Celta has to move all their mills to smog-free cities.”
“That will never happen,” Christine said. “Nor do we have the power to make that happen.”
“Then I’m not running for you. I’d gladly work any other job here than support Celta Corp’s biggest event.”
I knew how to make him run for us; I just didn’t want to do it. Please, Ricky, I thought. Just give in.
“We’re trying to make a difference here, Ricky. People are starting to realize that our genetic modifications have homogenized us, not only increasing racial prejudices but now, the right disease could eliminate a whole population.”
Christine, such an incredible bullshitter. We didn’t care about disease, racial prejudices—we cared about trends, and the youth of today wanted something natural.
“I thought modifications got rid of diseases?” Ricky asked.
“They did eliminate some diseases. If we could just get rid of genes that cause diseases, that’d be great, but that’s not where the money is. The money is in the aesthetics and enhancements side of things, and where the money is, the people follow. ”
Oh damn, Christine. Good one, I thought.
“You’re the only person I know who stands a chance against genetically modified athletes. Especially if you stop drinking with Jet on Saturdays.”
“Why would winning a race change anything?”
“Because you’d be a symbol of the natural movement.”
“This natural thing... I don’t know. I don’t care about movements.”
“Then why’d you come here? To move somewhere where things are working, right?”
“Just a better alternative.”
Christine was a good bullshitter, but she wasn’t as desperate as me. Or maybe she wasn’t a conniving, heartless schmuck like me. No, I’m not heartless. I’m a good person. Good people do things for their families. Right?
“Listen, Ricky,” I said, knowing there was no turning back. “You’re from America, just like me. Remember when some people bought the virus that protected you from some pollutants?”
“What about it? It worked.”
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah, we all got it in school when we were younger.”
“Where are you going with this, Jet?” Christine asked.
“Check this out.” I displayed my C-screen on the ground in front of us. I opened a link to an article I found on some half-witted conspiracy website—Ricky didn’t seem like the type of guy who could differentiate between credible and non-credible news sources.
“Research shows that one-tenth of the population got an immune disease. Not a big deal for people who could afford the medication afterward, but it was a way for the government to wipe out certain populations.”
“Who made the virus?” Ricky asked, as I predicted.
“Same company as most modifications. Trazer. You need to insert a virus to destroy a gene that you later replace. It’s the same business,” I said. “And look, one of the geneticists came out and said that the company knew they were taking a risk all along.”
Ricky stared at the screen, his anger seemingly blinding him from the advertisement with a smiling white guru trying to sell some energy-healing bullshit.
“How was this legal? Why don’t more people know?”
“Things like this don’t stay in the news very long,” I said. Which, of course, wasn’t entirely true, but it sounded like something someone angry at the world would listen to.
When Christine looked at me, I couldn’t tell if she was flabbergasted or proud, maybe a bit of both. Either way, she didn’t look disgusted. My boss was a monster like me. Malicious and crude. Clever?
Ricky stared at the article and then suddenly started slapping himself across the face as he released the animalistic sounds I first heard in the hospital. I tried to stop him, well, I thought about stopping him—his slaps were frightening.
Tears poured down his face; I felt guilty, but not guilty enough. I never felt guilty enough. Ria would ameliorate his pain. They had been drawing and playing games with Julie and Eric for over three weeks now. Ria and Ricky were turning into the best of friends, and I provided that. Plus, I gave him food and a place to sleep. Maybe—maybe I didn't need to feel guilty. Right?
“Honey, what’s the matter?” asked Christine.
Ricky didn’t answer, but I knew what was wrong. He didn’t need to tell me his brother suffered from an immune disease. Ricky may have mostly discarded social media, but Steve sure did. A few depressing statuses and articles about Recolatus Immune Eating Disease were shared, and I knew everything I needed to know.
What I didn’t know was that Steve died in Ricky’s arms on the voyage here and that the smell of Steve’s rotting body lives on in Ricky’s nightmares. But do you know who he now calls in the middle of the night? Ria. My daughter. My creation. My doing.
Me convincing myself that I’m not a total schmuck.
November 22nd. Fame.
“You escaped from poverty three months ago, and already, you’ve won the Copenhagen Frisk Luft Marathon, the European Trail Run X, and now you’re about to enter the most watched race of all time,” said Chris Clark, one of America’s most esteemed talk show hosts via the C-web live interaction.
The host sat in his chair that he never seemed to leave, belly nearly bursting out from his thousand-dollar suit. Behind him, there were posters of all the famous people he had interviewed, including Denmark’s president and now Europe’s New Order leader, the woman who loved our slogan, Together We Are Winners.
“For the first time ever, you’ll be racing against the top runners in the world. And for the first time in four months, you, the most auspicious athlete to ever enter the Celta Hi-Marathon, will be returning to America. How does it feel, Mr. Zero to hero?”
“Well, I don’t know what auspicious means, but not great,” Ricky said.
Ricky’s skin now had a healthy glow, and the whites of his eyes were flawless. His Rudas casual wear fit perfectly on his sculpted body. He no longer looked like a mill worker; he looked like an influencer—the highest trending influencer for over a week now.
Ria sat next to Ricky on my living room couch, her rascally smile watched by millions. She put her arm around Ricky’s and said, “Auspicious means promising success, Ricky.”
“Well, it still doesn’t feel great.”
“And why is that?” Asked Chris, his voice crystal clear in my living room, a room which nearly a billion people were looking at on their C-screens.
“Celta Corp took advantage of me and people like me, desperate people in unlivable places.”
“Others might say that Celta Corp provides jobs and clean energy.”
“Chris, can I say something? Of course, I can say something. Here, we don’t use people. We don’t use modern-day sweatshops to provide power. We have the technology to provide a national base income. Here, everyone has the chance to use their talents to their greatest capacity,” said Ria.
“Or sit on their asses and live off hard-working people.”
“From your three chins, it seems you’ve been sitting on your ass too, Chris.”
“There she is, the famous feisty Ria, the twelve-year-old some say is a genius,” Chris said. “And why do you, oh so intelligent one, think Ricky should even race in the Celta Hi-Run?”
“Well, I’m probably supposed to say it’s because he can show the world you don’t need genetic modifications blah, blah, blah. But no, it’s because within the four months I’ve known Ricky Rivers, he’s become a brother to me, and I wanna see my brother kick some genetically modified ass.”
The refugee that integrates into the Scandinavian society—that’s a story that can sell. But a twelve-year-old girl who cures a refugee’s depression with her undisguised words and by giving him a chance to be a brother again—that story would triple Ruda's profits, and all Ricky had to do was wear our clothing.
“And what happens if you fail, Ricky Rivers? What will the world think of you and the natural movement then?”
“I damn well could fail. Unlike everyone else that’s always sucking up to me these days, Ria reminds me that the odds are very much against me. But there’s only one way I can fail the people that support me. There’s only one way I can fail Ria,” Ria laid her head on Ricky’s shoulder at that perfect televised moment, “and that would be if I didn’t run the race.”
“Well, Ricky, as much as we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, I admire your spirit. Now, for my final question, the question many of our viewers have on their minds. Which nation will you be running for? The United States of America or The European Order?
“I will always be an American as long as my blood runs through my veins. America made me who I am, and I look forward to meeting my American supporters, but America is no longer my home.”
I came up with that for Ricky.
“But who will you be Running for then?”
“No one and everyone. I see no borders, the man-made lines that divide us. I will be running because I’m damn good at it.”
Ricky made it sound like something noble, but he was running for someone; he was running for Rudas, and it’s true, we don’t see borders—just like the Celta Corporation.
November 25th. Run.
Thousands stared down at Ricky Rivers, many with high hopes and others with disdain. Millions of others displayed their C-Screens on various surfaces all around the world: pubs, gyms, mud huts, churches, mosques—this was the race of the year. Ricky stood in the middle of the Los Angeles Running Stadium, one of the few places people could still breathe in the city that so many fled.
Norwegian Mountain Fresh emerged from the vents, filling the lungs of spectators and athletes alike—subtle hints of pine and wildflowers in the middle of the smog-ridden city of L.A.
People from all over the world filled the stadium. The older Scandinavians were always easy to pick apart from the crowd. A sea of blond hair and healthy faces. Some were proud to have Ricky Rivers living in their country; others felt he had betrayed them by not running for The European Order. However, the sea of blond hair only represented a small percentage of the people. There was another group of individuals that the marketer’s eye always picked out, and they were sitting everywhere with every nation—the people that saw no borders, the culture that spread across the world. You guessed it, the counter-culture youth—the natural movement. Everyone had their unique hairstyle and earthly coloured attire adorning their bodies. Some of their piercings resembled African tribes, while others’ accessories were hip and modern. They refused to be called homogenized. They refused to be called conformists. Anti-corporate, anti-establishment, anti-government—anti-everything but themselves.
Then there are the Chinese, the most prevalent population at any event. They were the first to invest in genetic medications and disregarded any laws other nations tried to implement. They were beyond curative modifications; they were the enhanced race. They all looked like stunning athletes, which explained why over half of the contestants Ricky was up against were Chinese. Even here, amongst the people where genetic modifications flourished, the counter-culture youth held up signs with Ricky’s name. To those that were modified themselves, it didn't matter that Ricky wasn’t. To root for Ricky was still cool.
There were ten racers. Six Chinese-born with genetic modifications, two Kenyans with a few “curative modifications” (curative seemed to have a broad meaning), a Russian that had competed for over a decade and didn’t age one bit, and then there was Ricky.
“Today is not just another race. Today is the day we see if humans have perfected the human genome. Today, we see if God has given us control of our destiny,” said the announcer, a Korean man with bleached skin and genetically modified cyan-blue eyes.
The crowd’s cheers turned to a pandemonium with the perpetual arguments of religion. The announcer kept babbling on, entertained by his own voice, and then finally:
“Racers, it is time to ascend to the treadmill.”
The athletes walked into the lift that took them up to a twenty-meter-wide treadmill. The treadmill was suspended several meters from the ground to ensure that when a racer could no longer keep up with the constantly increasing pace, they would fall and shatter their bones (the best way to market stem cell bone replacements). Once the last runner is left, the treadmill stops, and the race is over.
There Ricky stood, in the center of all the racers. He looked up at the camera and then took a piece of paper out of his pocket; on it was a drawing of Ricky and Ria sleeping in a grass field and dreaming about dogs and all the things that made them happy. Ricky then blew a kiss, folded the drawing, and placed it back into his pocket. That was when the horn sounded, and Ricky ran, just like he always did.
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