Sprint

Tim tensed his muscles and lifted his torso. As usual, the time from the command "Steady!" to the gunshot seemed to drag on forever. Only 1.5 seconds, but it was enough to lose concentration. Out of the corner of his eye, without changing his position, he glanced at the athlete in the adjacent lane. Achilles – the absolute champion, even the name matched – had won everything in the 100 and 200 meters since the last Olympics, and at smaller meets, he added the 400 meters, long jump, high jump, hurdles, and God knows what else. He didn't always win in these "additional" disciplines, but often enough to be considered the greatest phenomenon in sports history.

"Stand up!" The stadium erupted in a roar.

The sprinter took off strongly and ran a dozen or so meters. The other athletes also burst out of the blocks. Only the famous Greek, upon hearing the command, rose slowly, a bit sluggishly, as if thinking he'd only lose a tiny amount of his—as the rumor repeated by every other Greek woman—inexhaustible strength. His muscles slowly stopped vibrating and began to relax, but fortunately, his coach reacted quickly and immediately disconnected the stimulators. Only now did Tim realize he had no idea how it worked. Miniature devices implanted on the surface of the muscle—okay, but mechanical or biochemical stimulation? As an intelligent student, a complete contradiction of the athlete-dumb-brain stereotype, he had every right to entertain such interesting but fruitless speculations. Finally, at almost 40 meters, he braked and slowly walked back to the starting line. Along the way, he involuntarily picked at his ears and took several deep breaths. The nasal filters were still bothering him, and the increased lung capacity was only useful under intense exertion. For most of the time, he felt a constant suffocation.

Tim once again lined up in block number 4. Before lowering his head, he glanced around once more. On his right was his most dangerous competitor – the Greek. On his left, his teammate and namesake, who, despite having seen his best days, was still a formidable force and a reliable pillar of the American relay team. In the eighth lane, the sprinter spotted the frail figure – compared to the six African Americans and the Greek – of a Chinese athlete named "You Can Break Your Tongue." He was probably the only representative of the home team in any final, excluding gymnastics and table tennis, of course. By breaking his personal record and miraculously qualifying for the final, he became a hero to two billion people.

"Steady!"

The American immediately got up and tried to concentrate as hard as he could. He'd rarely managed to detach himself from his thoughts. The sound of the gunshot echoed painfully in his skull. Incredible! The final and the start were straight away, without a single false start. Perhaps they'd gotten scared and started on a safe start after several world-class competitors had dropped out in the qualifying rounds? Tim hadn't started on a safe start. The microchip instantly fed him his reaction data. 0.100 seconds! A perfect start. A thousandth faster, and it would have been considered a false start. Despite everything, he wasn't happy. He knew that if it weren't for the hidden headphones tuned to the starter's pistol, he wouldn't have had such a good start response. The headphones shortened the reaction time by the fractions of a second it normally takes for an impulse to travel through the cable from the pistol to the speaker, and, as sound waves, from the speaker to the competitor's ear. Besides, with the headphones deep in his ears, it was impossible not to hear the signal. The microchip also recorded the start reactions of the other competitors. They were significantly slower.

20 meters. It's unclear how Tim knew his split time. Very good, but would it be enough to break the world record, which the Greek had broken at one of the last meets, reaching the magical 9.60? It was a shame this clever device didn't also report the split times of the other runners, but even so, the young sprinter could see, or perhaps sense, that for now everyone had fallen behind. His muscles were starting to settle into a rhythm, his stride was lengthening, his arms were flailing the air faster and faster. A loud beep somewhere in Tim's head meant it was time to move from a bent-over position to an upright position.

50 meters, halfway there. The microchip was constantly flooding him with data. Split times, projected final time, heart rate, muscle function, and the like. Tim recalled the agonizing moments when he had to adjust to carrying so many foreign bodies in his body. The chip implanted in his skull was the worst. At first, the boy couldn't believe the information transmitted by the device could be useful; he couldn't imagine digesting so much information in less than ten seconds and then putting it to use. After a dozen or so runs, he knew that running without the microchip would be much more difficult, and after a while, he couldn't imagine competing without it. For some reason, a ridiculous and absurd thought suddenly popped into his head: that other runners were also using support... He immediately reconsidered, realizing that if anything, it was at best old-fashioned hormone doping, and certainly no one had packed them with the latest advances in computer science, nanotechnology, gene therapy, and everything else that was new, trendy, and, above all, most effective.

70 meters. Even though Tim couldn't see the Greek, he instinctively felt that he had accelerated and was right behind him. He always had a very strong second half. He slowly gained momentum, but then he'd hit top speed. Suddenly, Tim felt something strange in his left leg. First, a vague itch that quickly turned into a stinging pain, which in turn turned into pure, piercing pain. A warning beep. The microchip gave him 75 meters. Out of the corner of his eye, the American noticed the Greek right next to him. His legs lost their rhythm, and a grimace of pain crossed his face. The young athlete wanted to stop immediately; he felt that if he didn't, the pain would tear his leg apart. His whole body was saying stop, slow down, and he screamed in pain, but something in his head told him to keep running and evened out his stride.

The finish line. He ran 25 meters injured, with a minimal loss of speed. But even that fractional loss was enough. The Greek was first. With a headwind, it took 9.70 seconds! A second-fastest time in history, equaling the previous world record. 9.71 screamed in Tim's head, a hundredth of a second from victory. But he didn't think about it anymore – right after crossing the finish line, he collapsed to the ground and began writhing in pain, clutching his leg.

At that moment, the Greek, instead of celebrating his victory, ran to the American and helped him up, smiling broadly. The American heaved himself up, leaning on the offered arm, and smiled back. It was the first time he'd seen his most formidable rival up close. His smooth, handsome face looked as if it had been lifted from one of those ancient statues. His deep, blue eyes had probably mesmerized more than one woman. Although there was also something strange, inhuman about them, giving the impression of absence... Suddenly, it seemed to Tim that the Greek hadn't made that gesture for the press thronging around him, but genuinely wanted to help his rival. The American gave a thumbs-up and, with effort, managed to choke out, "OK!" and limped to the locker room. The Greek smiled once again, also gave the "OK" sign and, accompanied by photographers, began a lap of honour around the stadium.

As he walked to the locker room, Tim caught a glimpse of the coaching staff in the stands. "Son of a bitches!" he thought, and looked away. A Chinese athlete lay on the field. His name on the scoreboard was listed last, marked "PB." Before he hid in the stadium basement, the boy managed to spot several men in uniforms picking up the exhausted Chinese athlete and dragging him toward a separate exit for the home team. Only as he walked through the narrow corridors to the rooms assigned to the Americans did he realize he'd essentially failed miserably by failing to win the race, especially since, as he'd announced, he'd intended to sacrifice his sport for a scientific career, and this was his last significant start. What now? The government would surely want its exceptionally expensive equipment back. He recalled the painful surgeries to sew all those technological marvels into his body, followed by an intense and grueling recovery… The Greek phenomenon, the national hero, the demigod, was still fresh in his mind. Deep inside, he was happy to think that despite the American's superior technique, sportsmanship and humanity had prevailed.

In the locker room, besides the coaching staff, several men in dark suits were waiting. I wonder if they'll let me collect my medal yet, Tim thought. But the people waiting for him left him no time to dwell further on the silver medal and the Greek's cold, gleaming eyes, a similar color.