In the years leading up to 2164, as technology advanced beyond previously imagined capacity, society began a painful regression back into the dark throes of prejudice and hatred. As a whole, the population had grown much taller; seeing seven foot men prowling around town was not an altogether uncommon occurrence. Because tall was the new black, so to speak, society began to hate with such a burning, fiery passion anyone below six feet. Some historians have declared 2160s America’s practices akin to the slavery and oppression of African people in the 1800s or the anti-Jewish fervor of Nazi Germany. Others contend that this behavior was simply a natural, evolutionary progression, relating directly to the concept of “survival of the fittest.” The shorter people could not perform on the same level as those two feet taller; therefore, they deserved to be heaped haphazardly onto the lower rungs of the societal ladder.

Truth, however, is in the eye of the beholder, and each person is entitled to his own opinion regarding the heightest society seen by America in the 2150s and 60s. Whatever one believes about the way the “little people” were treated does little to reverse the past hardships they endured.

Those close to the six-foot mark were often destined for hard, manual labor. They would work day and night at farms, factories, refineries and even inside houses, producing enough food, clothing, and comfortable technology for the giants of the world, themselves barely eating, wearing, and sleeping enough to survive. While significant technological developments had been made in the past century, short people did not benefit from these. The possessions that made life easier belonged to those of an “agreeable” height; smaller people were believed to have been cursed into smallness and therefore were deemed unworthy to share in the happiness and abundant wealth of society.

The wealthy, like the wealthy in any society, loved to be entertained. One of the most beloved pastimes enjoyed by the tall and the beautiful was human tennis. Much like regular tennis, human tennis was a game commonly played between two or four people, with an object being hit back and forth by large metal rackets. The object in old-fashioned American tennis was a fuzzy green ball; in human tennis, the elite game of the twenty-second century, the object was a short, tiny, often beautiful female person.

Why the game so enthralled the tall and privileged is a question often mulled over by critics of the era. Many have deduced that the simple idea of being better than someone else, at least by society’s superficial standards, instilled a sense of pride in the audience as well as the players. And nothing feels so good as pure, unquestioned pride.

The best human tennis player was Malcolm Surdunsky. At nine feet, he towered over even the most elite in society. He had crisp, glowing bronze skin and sleek, wavy blonde hair, which he flipped tantalizingly back from his forehead before every game, to the adoring oohs and aahs of all the pretty seven-foot girls in the stands. Those who did not want to date Malcolm at least wanted to hold his hand, or have him smile their way, or catch one of the roses he tossed after each of his winning games.

The younger boys would not admit it, but many were highly attracted to Malcolm’s Gamepiece, as the human tennis balls were called. At five feet, she was overwhelmingly tiny; even most of the short people in the society still exceeded that wretched height. It had even been rumored that those below five feet were routinely purged; people did not question this rumor, and why should they? In a society where height was directly correlated to worth, shortness equated worthlessness. Ridding the world of its tiniest specimens could only make it a better place, right?
Malcolm’s Gamepiece was known as Mia Ludlow, another attribute that made her unique. Most Gamepieces were nameless. Mia was, for a while, simply referred to as Gamepiece Number 657, until Malcolm’s rise to fame and fortune. His domineering presence and inimitable skill on the tennis court made announcers and commentators most eager to distinguish him from all the other players. With his fearsome height and cheesy post-game routines, he already possessed a most distinctive character; naming his Gamepiece proved the only other way society could set Malcolm Surdunsky apart.
The day everything changed was August 13, 2164. It was an excruciatingly scorching afternoon. Spectators’ skin blistered and baked in the sweltering heat. They could practically hear the tennis court sizzling in the crisp sunlight. Malcolm’s skin glistened with sweat as he hoisted his fearsome, six-foot long racket above his head.

He was poised and ready to take the national championship. The match was almost over. As was common during human tennis, Mia’s faced had become so battered and bruise by the utter force of Malcolm’s high-speed racket. Blood was oozing from gashes in her face and mingling with sweat to form dripping, smelly pools on the court. Everyone in the stands watched with awe as Malcolm lithely sidestepped the pools of blood and sweat, whacking Mia back to his opponent with an eerily comfortable ease.

It all happened in such a blur. To this day, no one quite knows what happened first, or which event triggered the next. Just as Malcolm’s opponent slipped on the slick courts, his racket flew up into the air. Mia, ostensibly, flew up with the racket, and both landed with a resounding crack on the net. Half of the spectators went wild, thrilled that Malcolm had won. Another quarter of the stands booed and hissed for the other player’s loss, while the remaining quarter rushed onto the courts. Several of the girls ran to Malcolm, hoping to intercept one of his flying roses before anyone else had a chance. Two young brothers, both about six feet three inches in stature, rushed toward Mia, however, who lay in a bloody, broken, nearly lifeless clump on top of the net.

Sam, the older of the brothers, had been in love with Mia for several years. He knew he shouldn’t like her; she was much too short for an elite like him. Yet he could not help but become charmed by her grace on the field, her sleek, tiny body, and the ease with which she handled the adversity inherent in a Gamepiece’s job. Even as she lay with the life fairly bleeding out of her, he still found her the most beautiful girl in the world.

This feeling may have been what drove Sam to stand up then and make history when he said, “She needs a doctor! Someone get her a doctor, and hurry!”

Everyone froze where he was. From out of the crowd of people, the giant Malcolm whipped his head around and glared at the insurgent little boy. He stomped his size twenty feet in Sam’s direction, and the young boy, although quite tall himself, trembled.

“What did you just tell me to do?” Malcolm Surdunsky demanded.

“S-she needs a d-doctor,” Sam replied, his voice trembling. “She’s going to d-die.”

With a single movement, Malcolm lifted Mia off the ground. Sam cringed as he heard her broken bones moving inside her tiny body. “Mia!” Malcolm yelled in her face. “Mia! Answer me!” He shook her violently, but little Mia did not reply for several seconds. As a crowd gathered around, Sam’s view was greatly obstructed, but he did not miss the sound of the still, small voice that came from Mia’s blood-encrusted mouth.

“I won’t be bullied anymore.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath, fully expecting Malcolm to fling his Gamepiece onto the court, swearing that the sassy little ingrate received exactly the punishment she deserved. But Malcolm, surprisingly enough, was not the first to respond. One of the girls who had gathered in an adoring circle around him moments earlier spoke up first.

“Did she just…call you a bully?” the girl asked incredulously.

Before Malcolm had a chance to respond, Mia replied again. “Not just him,” she whispered faintly, but somehow, nobody had trouble hearing. “All of you are bullies. All of you except the little boy over there.” She extended a badly broken arm in Sam’s direction and gave him a weak, bloody smile.

Suddenly, Malcolm laughed. Everybody glanced around nervously, unsure what the laugh meant. It was the first time Sam noticed the cameras trained on the scene. He stepped closer to his little brother, protecting him not only from the press, but also from the next nasty words that might erupt from Malcolm’s mouth.

“Mia called him little,” Malcolm said softly, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “He’s not little, Mia. You are.” His tone, surprisingly enough, did not seem condescending. In fact, something close to tenderness was evident in the way he corrected Mia.

“I may be little,” Mia croaked. “But I’m tough. Tougher than any of the rest of you. I bet none of you could have survived so long being pushed around like I have.” She winced as a rattling breath escaped from her body, followed by a bubble of blood. “Never,” she wheezed to no one in particular, “never let anybody play this stupid game anymore.” She coughed violently. “Remember…remember that little people are…still people. Still people…” she whispered again as her voice faded and her heartbeat stopped.

Mia Ludlow was buried in the elite cemetery. She was nestled in among the graves of eight-foot tall human tennis players, presidents, trainers and actors. On her grave were written the words: LITTLE PEOPLE ARE STILL PEOPLE. Those words, and Mia’s legacy, lived long after her earthly body expired. Short people began attending school, working with, and living beside tall people, as it once had been many years before. People socialized across height ranges. Mia’s grave was littered with flowers and notes and special little trinkets, but one of the most striking items placed there clearly illustrated the impact she had had on the future generations. A tall man, closer to ten feet than nine, lovingly embraced a girl certainly no taller than five feet, four inches. She had probably once been a Gamepiece, but that mattered little anymore. Now maybe discrimination will never be completely eliminated, for every person judges, whether he admits to judging or not. But perhaps Mia Ludlow’s death and the grisly era of human tennis games will remind society that the little people, whether they are literally small or represent an otherwise oppressed minority, do not deserve a smaller chance than the big people.