Tenise

Time of contact: 15:05:01

Impact Force: 6000 Newtons

Serve speed: 135mph

Distance travelled: 25.5m

Angle: 60 degrees to horizontal

Velocity: 82m/s

Required service return response: Ten paces left moving forward 30 degrees, commence swing at 15:05:03, apply 5500 newtons of pressure in a topspin forehand shot with an upward trajectory of 35 degrees to the horizontal.

That’s what the voice of the AI vocoder instructs inside me head, for the umpteenth time this session, an’ who am I ta argue? It’s not like I’m important. Not like I was ever a champ, much as I came close. Nah, I’m just a chump, now more than ever, prancin’ around the ryegrass on me hydraulic legs, returnin’ the volleys o’ the hottest new prodigy-on-the-block, tailor-made ta appeal ta Gen XX. 

In today’s case, in this exhibition match’s case, in this latest ‘exercise in humiliation of a former tennis pro now referred ta as a legacy player but nevertheless expected ta lie down an’ be shamed by an AI-driven, Tekla-encased wunderkind designed for clicks and likes’, me opponent is a silver-plated female with a digital display for a face that portrays flutterin' anime eyes an’ a head o’ artificial dreadlocks. Silver sequined tennis dress that just about covers a polished butt. Pink Banditas solar-powered shoes that transfer energy inta speed through sole-based combustion. 

Sole-based. 

Cos that’s the only ‘soul’ that robot has. 

The only soul this ‘game’ has anymore, since AI took over in the 50’s, machines became the players-du-jour an’ humans abandoned the game cos they couldn’t compete. 

Well. The smart ones did. The ones who didn’t sell out. The losers still chasin’ that win. The stubborn ‘didn’t-know-what-else-ta-do-with -their-lives-after-tennis’ morons like me.

An’ now I’m here in Wimbledrone, facin' off against 10-N.I.S Inc’s latest creation, the embarrassin'ly named (I don’t wanna say it, don’t even wanna think it but I can’t help it cos it’s painted in chrome letters on her arm an’ she screams it every time I throw a point.) Tenise.

Ten. Ise.

Get it? Like Denise but…with…cos...

Yeah.

That’s the best one o’ the biggest promoters in modern day ‘sport’ (or Neural Integrated Sport as they call it) could come up with.

Anyway, here I am fulfillin’ an obligation o’ the ill-advised contract I entered inta when 10-N.I.S didn’t wanna sponsor me for tournaments anymore, pretendin’ I’m here for a ‘comeback’ (the fourth this year if anyone’s countin’) while in actual fact here ta make ‘Tenise’ famous. 

Jesus. I still can’t believe someone thought Tenise was a clever idea. An’ it took them eight years ta come up with it.  

But if it keeps the ‘fans’ followin' the sport, if it keeps the heart o’ Tennis beatin' long after Badminton an’ Golf an’ frikkin’ Darts have breathed their last, that’s the important thing, right? Physical sports for humans have been goin’ the way o’ the chariot race for decades thanks ta VR, an’ nobody cares. Except those of us who have it in our DNA. An’ all we had ta do ta keep playin’ was mutilate our bodies with mechanical limbs and armour plates, 10-N.I.S controlled neural uplinks, computerised smarteyes and carbide jaws, fibreglass ribs, atomic-powered hearts an’ a willin’ness ta do what we’re told. 

Simple, right?

What self respectin’ tennis pro wouldn’t want ta go that extra mile ta keep competin’?

And competin’ I am, if you can call it that, so, as the vocoder says: Ten paces forward at 30 degrees, swing at 15:05:03, 5500 newtons o’ pressure in a topspin forehand shot with a trajectory o’ 35 degrees it is.

And there’s the contact. And there’s the return at a whoppin' 140mph. And there’s Tenise, movin' ta intercept in line with guidance from her interface, dreadlocks whippin', skirt liftin', metal ass glintin' in the sun while her polymer-crystal based titties jut out in front like guided rockets. Of course she moves perfectly ta return the shot, the in-built speaker where her mouth should be screechin’ another tirade: “Think you’re gonna cease Tenise’s peace? Try again stinky, old has-been McEnrobo!”

“It’s McEnroe! Fuck’s sake, if that bitch says McEnrobo one more time I swear ta Christ I‘ll…”

Thwack! Tenise swings and volleys.

“You’ll what, Mike? Pull a stunt like your namesake from last century? I don’t think so,” says Nora, me manager, the other annoyin’ voice inside me head.

Thwack! I follow instructions and lob the ball back. 

“Oh, and did you forget about matching the speed of Tenise’s shots? You’re 5mph faster than her. Stick to the playbook.”

Thwack! Tenise with some digital gruntin’.

“What’s the matter, Nora, can the new dolly not take the heat?”

“Oh, she can take it. I had her set to slow for you.”

Thwack! Me, without so much as a pant.

“But if you want to go faster...”

“Pile it on,” I spit, through diamond, implant teeth. “Youse spent all this money powerin’ me up, may as well let me employ it.”

Thwack! Tenise.

“Show off you mean, like an old boy trying to stay relevant. Tenise, ball velocity cap disengage.” 

Smarmy bitch. I’m more relevant after forty years in this game than any o’ 10-N.I.S’s androids. Like Bjorn Bot. Or Android Agassi. Or Robot Federer. What happened ta them when the novelty wore off? An’ don’t get me started on Steffi Graphics, unless she’s considered relevant for poppin’ a gasket an’ decapitatin’ people with her racket.

The chip in me brain tells me how ta return the ball that’s rocketin’ towards me an’ I dutifully oblige, channelin’ more energy inta me piston-powered, omni-directional shoulder.

Thwack!

“150,” says Nora. “Fuck me, you’re asking for it. Rebellion is frowned upon. The board won’t be happy.”

“Like they weren’t happy about Steffi? That happened on your watch, right? Hope I don’t get you in trouble.”

Thwack! Tenise, whoopin', 155 return.

“Fuck off, Mike, don’t remind me. Steffi wasn’t ready. I was forced to play her. Because S-Port were debuting Virus Williams. It was a PR disaster we barely survived.”

Thwack!

At a speed of 157mph, I send back the ball, an’ fanboys in the audience boo at the stinky, old man-droid who dared think he could take on their idol. But that’s okay. I didn’t really think it. I’m not here ta win. I’m just here for the paycheck. Ta do what 10-N.I.S. need. Promote their new star. Increase her follower base. Raise revenue.

For the future o’ the sport.

But nobody cares about that. Not like I did as an up-and-comin’, then a contender, then a pro an’ almost a champ. Even when I failed in six finals, lost me edge, dropped out o’ the rankin’s an’ was relegated ta the local leagues, it didn’t matter. I loved tennis. It was all I knew. An’ I wanted ta win. Just once. Even when the robots took over. I couldn’t let it lie. Couldn’t do what Megan said an’ quit. Fuck that, I said. I’ll compete ‘til I win or I die, even if it means modifyin’ me body so I can enter the robot leagues. Cos flesh an’ blood didn’t cut it anymore. Not with the greater stakes. With robots takin' each other’s arms an’ legs off, punchin’ holes in each other for the pleasure o’ fools. 

Yeah. McEnroe had ta stay in the game.

Even when Megan left cos I became a freak.

And now look at me.

A meme. 

A salesman.

A phoney.

Thwack! Tenise returns the ball and cavorts, shoutin': “Take a piece of Tenise and decease!”

“What’s with these poems, Nora, they don’t make any sense.”

“Not my idea. Head’s up, Mike, comin’ atcha!”

On autopilot, followin’ instructions, I move, swing, strike with even more power. 

Tenise cranked it up ta 160. I hit it back at 165.

“Ugh. Board aren’t happy, Mike. Told ya. There’s a termination contract for you to sign…after you finish this set.”

Thwack! 

“Duck, McEnrobo! Tenise strips the fleece from the geese!”

170.

 “One more game after this, to give Tenise a 6-0 finish in her debut appearance. You should slow down. You’ve got an old model A-heart, they’re volatile if they overheat.”

Thwack! 

175 back at the missile-titted bim-bot.

Beads o’ sweat on me forehead, one o’ the few human parts o’ me left. Haven’t felt that in a while. It’s…nice.

“Okay, you’re not listening. Time you lose your jaw, Mikey, and maybe break an ankle when you fall.”

Thwack! “Still 40-15 to Tenise, but Tenise will increase!”

This is the bit that wrecks me noodle. Havin’ ta let meself be torn apart. Cos that’s what the peeps wants ta see. Destruction an’ mayhem, players busted up, pieces scattered. It’s alright, cos it’s just robots.

Robots an’ crazy, old bastards.

Funny, after two years of this performatory bullcrap, in this particular match, against this particular droid…I think I’ve finally awoken.

“Maybe not,” I say, as the ball careens toward me at 180. The vocoder is deliverin’ instructions ta ensure I mistime me swing.

I’ve played this out dozens o’ times. Always in the next ta last game. Play well ‘til then, make it look like I might win, then fuck up and let the newbie triumph. I’m sick o’ it. An’ I don’t fancy losin’ today. Not ta a robot named Tenise. So I ignore the vocoder an’ instead o’ deliberately missin’…I try ta actually send the ball back.

It doesn’t work. 

I’m old, I don’t have me own reflexes, tryin’ ta override the instructions downloaded inta me brain takes effort I’m not used ta. So even though I have a decent stab at it, the ball still hits me in the face, not quite square like it should but still with the force of a bullet. Hinges snap, carbide cracks, screws and cogs go flyin’ as the metal jaw tears from me face, rippin’ muscle an’ skin from me cheeks as it tries ta come free.

I don’t want ta break me ankle an’ I consciously try ta avoid it, but the way I pirouette ta the ground makes it fait accompli. It doesn’t hurt. The leg’s not mine. It’s a carbon-based replacement, filled with cables an’ pistons. Metallic blue, like all me robot limbs. But like a real leg, when the ankle joint snaps, it’s no use.

 “Take that McEnrobo! 40-30!”

“Did you seriously try to ignore a direct instruction from 10-N.I.S after what I just said?”

Nora, in me ear, well pissed. Tenise doin’ jumpin’ jacks and whistlin’. The crowd on their feet, cheerin’ an’ laughin’ at the old boy down on the ground.

“Fuck off, Nora. I’ve had…enough.”

It’s not easy ta talk with me jaw hangin’ crooked an’ blood from me cheeks fillin’ me gob. But she seems ta understand me gargled lingo.

“Oh really? Okay, well, I was going to let you get up before Tenise resumed play, but screw that. And I’m not sending mechanics to fix you. You can finish your career on your ass and… McEnroe? Stay down. I’m warning you.”

I don’t need two mechanical ankles ta stand. Don’t need a broken robot foot. Two twists an’ a tug is all it takes ta rip the thing off with me metal arm. An’ then I use me racket ta get up, hoppin’ on one leg, holdin’ me severed foot in me left hand. 

The foot with the sock o’ jagged metal where it broke at the ankle.

Tenise has already served by the time I’m upright. Me vocoder is silent. No information about the approachin’ ball. No instruction on how ta intercept. It’s all gone quiet except for Nora. 

I swing me racket aimlessly an’ miss. The ball slams inta me chest at 190mph and knocks me flyin’, down on me ass again, an’ I carve up the ryegrass with me buttocks while the crowd point an’ laugh.

Yeah, laugh it up you useless geebags. Like any of youse fat fucks ever swung a racket.

“40-love! 5 games to nil! Tenise spins, Tenise grins, Tenise wins!”

“Stay down, McEnroe. If you sit the rest out, I’ll make sure she grounds the balls around you not on you.”

“I told ya…fuck off... Do ya not…listen?”

I shake me head an’ blood an’ oil geyser from me maw.

Me severed foot an’ racket are still in me hands. The racket like a crutch helps me up, as wires snake through a crack in me chestplate. The shoe in me left hand goes ta me ear, the ear with the implanted comms link. Me ear is real. Flesh and blood. One percent o’ the 30 percent that’s still me. An’ I don’t care.

“Mike, what are you doing? I swear I’ll…”

I don’t know what she swears she’ll do cos I stab the sharpest shard of metal on me foot inta the space between me ear an’ me noggin, plunge it deep, scream as I saw and I slice, blood blottin’ the grass red beneath me. I carve an’ I cut an’ I hack an’ when I’ve done as much as I can, I cast the shoe aside an’ use the pincer-like fingers o’ me metal-plated hand ta grasp an’ pull.

Skin an’ cartilage tear as the ear leaves me body, an’ I forehand it inta the audience, not cheerin’ or booin’ anymore but givin’ me all their attention. 

That’s nice but too little too late.

Sayonara, left ear, I’ll miss ya nearly as much as I missed me left nut when the bastards castrated me for...

The fluorescent yellow ball slams inta me nose, drivin’ the metal shield that’s screwed ta it inta me skull an’ pulversin’ the bone underneath. An’ that’s not the worst o’ the damage done, by the first volley in the final game o’ the set, which has kicked off without any warnin’. Nora’s shut down me vocoder, not that I care, about that or the fact me right eyeball was knocked from its socket by the impact an’ is danglin’ by a fibre optic cable, swingin’ like a pendulum an’ smearin’ the blood from me nose all over me cheek. 

“15-love! Tenise defeats elites with receipts!”

Does anybody hear this shite? Who programmed this bitch an’ why can’t she read the feckin’ room? Everyone’s on their feet but not a peep outta one o’ ‘em. Robots smashin’ robots is fine, but when the colour o’ the splatter is red instead a’ black, it’s a whole different ball game.

Like when Steffi Graphics ran amok. Won’t be long ‘til they’re tarrin' Tenise with that brush an’ runnin’ for cover.

Thwack!

I have ta turn me head ta seek out the incomin’ ball with me good eye, but it’s movin’ so fast, over 200mph, that it’s hit me racket hand before I find it, not just hit but carved through, loppin’ it off at the wrist. 

“30-love! Tenise is the Beast from Venice!”

You’re no beast, you’re not from Venice an’ that’s not how ya say it. Little wonder today’s the day I decided ta pack it in. This really is the nadir. 

Down on one knee, no foot, no ear, busted nose, danglin’ eye, no racket or even a hand. But I don’t need one. Me arm’s more useful without it. Cos the blade-like spike at its end can slip inta a rupture in me chestplate, allowin’ me ta prise it open more.

“McEnroe!”

Nora’s voice reaches me an’ I wonder how I can hear it until I notice she’s now standin’ at the sidelines, wringin’ her manicured hands an’ shootin’ me daggers.

“Alright, Nora? Come ta applaud?”

Thwack!

The ball hits me square on the forehead an’ busts me metal skull like an overripe melon, knockin’ me flat on me back ta spill blood an’ brains on the lawn. 

“40-love! If you can’t beat the heat, take a seat in the street for Tenise!”

Me vision flickers. Me few remainin’ nerve-endin’s scream. I grimace but ignore the pain. I need ta concentrate on what I’m doin’ before Tenise finishes me off, if not with a ball then another o’ those God Awful poems.

“What are you doing?!” I hear Nora shout, as me left-hand side armour plate pops grantin’ access ta me chest.

“What I…shoulda done…ages ago…” I manage to utter, before drawin’ me right arm back and stabbin' its spear through me ribs. 

“Re…fuckin…tirin’...”

I gasp as I probe inside me chest, usin’ me arm like a fondue fork ta fish for a mallow in a vat full o’ thick, bloody sauce.

“Tenise is the knees of the bees!” Tenise is chirping ta the crowd, who are fillin’ the stadium with screams an’ stampin’ their feet, not in appreciation o’ the spectacle before them but in panic as they try ta escape. 

“McEnroe, have you lost your mind, you’re…oh…shit.”

Nora sounds closer than before an’ from the corner o’ me danglin’ eye I see her approachin’. Good. She’s gonna want ta witness this.

The termination o’ me contract.

An’ the literal extraction o’ me heart. Me bio-organic heart with the atomic core, installed in place of me real one ta keep pace with the robots. It comes out through broken ribs on the end o’ me arm, which has pierced it with its spear-like, jagged tip, causin' it ta vibrate an’ hum.   

“Ya wanted me ta make your girl famous?”

“Mike, your heart’s ruptured, it’s not safe!”

“Tenise serves up treats with techniques!”

“I’ll make her feckin’ famous.”

“Motherhub! Stand down! Tell Tenise to stand…”

Thwack!

She musta said ‘down’ but nobody heard it. Tenise’s ball collides with the volatile heart I’m holdin’ out at 250 miles an hour, an’ as me regrets an’ me remainin’ humanity an’ me misguided, stubborn-as-fuckness go all up in flames, I finally find meself peace.

Content in the hopes that Tenise and 10-N.I.S. won’t survive today’s PR disaster.

How d’you like that for a comeback.