by Fonda Lee
“Tzuka chili,” she explained. “Comfort food from the Valles. The most authentic version I’ve found in Terran orbit so far. You should try it when you’re not on a pre-fight deprivation diet.”
Carr snorted noncommittally. “Every zeroboxer has had tzuka beans.” They were a staple superfood, designed by Martian agricultural scientists. Red Planet residents relied on the stuff all winter, but it had never been very popular on Earth.
“You haven’t tried them like this,” Risha insisted. “Valles cuisine does amazing stuff with tzuka beans.” They claimed a small table near the light fountain at the edge of the plaza. Carr unpacked his carefully proportioned dinner: brown rice, chicken breast strips, a cup of chopped kale, and a custom-formulated supplement shake that the label told him included Zinc Ultrahigh, Max Vita, Enzyme Pulse, Adrenal Blast, and a dozen other things including chocolate flavoring. Risha looked at his meal and said, “I’ll take tzuka chili any day.”
They tucked into their food. “Do you miss it?” Carr asked. “Mars, that is.”
She shook her head. “I left when I was a child. It doesn’t feel like home to me anymore.” She looked out across the plaza for a quiet moment before turning back to him. “But I don’t belong on Earth either. I’m not designed for it; I don’t fit in.” She gave a helpless shrug. “On Valtego, it’s never too hot. Martian and Terran ships come through every day. I can eat shrimp or tzuka.”
Carr nodded. “Planet life is overrated.”
Her lips moved in the beginning of a smile, parting as if she was going to say more. Then she reached for her thinscreen and unfolded it. “We do have business to talk about. Aren’t you curious as to what your brandhelm has been up to?”
“I was planning on asking you, eight days from now.”
“You now have InBevMC and Skinnwear confirmed as sponsors, and two others close to signing. The reason I need to talk to you is ImOptix—I’m positioning them as a tentpole sponsor and they want you broadcasting with their newest, highest-resolution optic implants. So you’ll need to go in to upgrade, and you can’t be hit in the head for forty-eight hours afterward.”
Carr opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I … what? No, I don’t have time to go in to upgrade my optics.”
“It’ll only take an hour. Two max. Can you do it tomorrow morning?”
“No.”
“Morning after tomorrow, then. Otherwise we’ll run out of time. And no head impact for two days, remember.”
“That’s crazy. I have a fight in seven days. How do you expect me to—”
“Gant approved my proposed brand campaign. I got your pre-fight interview spot extended from five to ten minutes.”
She was like a verbal zeroboxer, throwing moves too fast to counter. Carr let out a slow breath. How had she gotten so much done in such a short amount of time? “I’m impressed,” he said finally.
“So you’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice? I promised to trust you on all this stuff.” Carr glared. “If I don’t win … ”
“Do you think you’ll win?”
“I’m not about to jinx myself.”
“I think you will.”
“Based on what special zeroboxing knowledge that you possess?”
“BB Dunn thought he was going to be fighting Jaycen Douglas. Douglas is nothing like you. Now Dunn has three weeks to train to fight you, just like you have three weeks to train for him. But in his mind, he’s taking a step down, fighting a consolation match when what he really wanted was a Douglas rematch.” Risha tapped Carr on the bare forearm with her index finger. “You’ve been training non-stop; he’s been trying to salvage the lost hype by trash-talking you. He was just on Cube Talk with Brock, saying that he really feels sorry for you, it must be scary for a young fighter pulled in as a replacement, and he looks forward to teaching you a few things.”
“He said that?”
Risha took a bite of chili, leaned back, and smiled, as if she’d won some match he didn’t know they were having. His thoughts ping-ponged between how he was going to break Dunn’s face, and how exotic and beautiful she was. Before he could stop himself, he said, “How old are you?”
Catching her off-guard gave Carr a twinge of satisfaction. He even thought he saw her blush, though he couldn’t be sure—it might just have been the pink fountain light reflecting off her skin, like sunset off a wet seal.
“Eleven,” she said. “Martian years.”
He blinked at her. “So … twenty-one?”
“Twenty. Why are you smiling?”
“No reason. Just a little bet with my coach.”
She angled her shoulders away from him and fiddled with the spoon in her bowl. “I skipped two grades when I moved to Earth.”
“You’re crazy smart, is what you’re saying.”
“That is not what I said. Martian schools are academically ahead of Terran ones.” She gave him a mildly exasperated look. “You seem intent on turning our conversations around on me. Do you enjoy unbalancing me professionally, or are you just sexually attracted to me?”
“Both,” he said without hesitation. He could still feel the tingling hot spot on his arm where she’d tapped him with her finger earlier. “Don’t take it the wrong way. You’re doing a good job as a brandhelm, really.”
Risha opened her mouth to reply, but someone began shouting and they both turned toward the sound.
“SINNERS! We have sown the seeds of our destruction. Engineered life is impure life, promised to the devil!” A man had climbed up onto the ledge of the light fountain. He had several days worth of stubble on his unwashed face and a thinning thatch of unkempt hair, which he kept repeatedly running his hands through as his tirade grew louder and more incoherent. A large, scrawled sign hung around his neck:
Soldier X —Veteran and GUINEA PIG
Renounce Repent Be PURE!!!!
God gives it a body as HE has chosen—
1 Corinthians 15:38-39
Most people near the man shifted away hastily, and passersby made wide circles to avoid him. The two men who’d been in the tzuka chili line with Risha, the only other Martians in sight, were seated at a nearby table. Their tan uniforms and banded sleeves marked them as crew of Interplanet Freight, one of the three main shipping companies that came through Valtego. One of the crew members scowled in disgust, then touched his thumb to his front upper teeth and flicked it toward the man in a Martian gesture of contempt. “Ah, shut up and eat dust!”
The ranting man’s eyes, darting and unfocused, high on bliss bombs or sweet dust, swiveled around. “Abominations!” he shouted at the Martians.
The crewman’s eyes slitted and he started up from his seat. “Say that again, earthworm.”
His companion waved a hand lazily. “Sit down. That vacck-head’s not worth it.”
“Unholy and impure!” shrieked the man on the fountain ledge.
Carr stood up. “Let’s go,” he said to Risha. “You don’t need to listen to this.”
Risha got to her feet. The man caught sight of her and pointed a rigid finger. “Abomination,” he hissed again, dragging the word out into each of its syllables.
Carr put a hand under Risha’s elbow and his body between her and the crazy nut as he steered them away from the center of the food plaza. He spared a glance behind, long enough to see two security guards hurrying toward the commotion, one of them talking down the crewmen, the other approaching the man on the fountain with a drawn stun stick. The occasional drifter could show up on Valtego and be largely ignored, but any incident that antagonized one of the big Martian shipping firms would probably land the man in a cell or on the first police transport back to Earth. Keeping his grip on Risha, Carr navigated them past tables and food vendors, away from the crowds and the light.
In a few minutes they were walking down a residential street, apartment complex
tubes descending on either side into swanky penthouses with unobstructed views of space. There was high-quality simulated night in this neighborhood—a very natural softness to the dusk, the fragrance of blooming trees in the air. Carr climbed his hand from Risha’s elbow to her tense upper arm and stroked it. The sheen of her skin paled a little under the pressure, then came back again when he moved his hand away. The effect made him want to do it again. “Hey,” he said, “forget that nut.”
She turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the starlight from the expansive sky windows. “He couldn’t really be a Soldier X case, could he?”
Carr shook his head. “No way. That scandal happened before he was born.” Decades ago. He vaguely recalled learning about it in modern history class. Thousands of private sector soldiers had consented to genetic tampering that was supposed to improve their executive reasoning and reflexes, but instead gave them a degenerative neurological disorder. Criminal charges, lawsuits, and massive settlements ensued. “Maybe he knew someone who was part of it. Or he was just plain delusional and vacuum-headed on bliss.”
Risha’s mouth was still grim. “Vaccked or not, there actually are Terrans who believe the same as him.”
“That we should all join the Purity Movement and reject even basic gene therapy? That Martians aren’t human?” Carr wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, sure, there are people who believe all sorts of crap.”
They sat down on a bench tucked into a small garden of artificial plants. Even a few live ones grew in hydroponic containers, and there was the gentle, recorded burble of water. Carr tried to think of a way to steer the conversation back in the pleasant, exciting direction it had been going before the whole raving-lunatic incident.
“Where are you living?” he asked, chagrined that he hadn’t bothered to check on how she was settling in on Valtego. “Do you have a place?”
Risha smiled a little, her shoulders relaxing. “I think I’ve found an apartment I like in the inner ring. I’ve been staying with a friend in the meantime. She lives in the Celestial on Eighth, not far from here.”
“I’ll walk you back there,” Carr offered. He wasn’t that familiar with this part of Valtego; he checked his cuff for directions and a red directional arrow appeared in the corner of his vision. They walked in silence for a few minutes. He stole glances at Risha, achingly aware of her nearness, but she seemed lost in thought.
“Martians aren’t just different in the way Terran races are different from each other,” she said finally. “We did it to ourselves. We turned our backs on the old planet and chose to make ourselves different. Maybe even better. That’s what the average person on Earth thinks.” They reached the entrance tube of the apartment complex and she turned to face him, hugging her own arms though he knew she wasn’t cold. Her armor of competence was down; beneath it, he caught a glimpse of something pensive, even anxious. “In school I learned that if it wasn’t for genetic designers, the Martian colonies probably wouldn’t have survived after Earth stopped supporting them. But when I moved to Earth, I learned that Terrans thought Martians were arrogant, trying to dominate the solar system, acting above God and whatnot. How does that happen? How do people conveniently forget history?”
Carr shook his head, feeling ludicrously compelled to say something in defense of his planet. “Terrans aren’t just a bunch of stupid bigots. Earth has so much more history, so many people, there’s religion, and poverty … ” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I grew up in a poor, shitty neighborhood in Toronto, and the kids I knew, they didn’t have big, bright, hopeful futures. I’m lucky, because I made it here. I heard that something like eighty percent of Terrans have never left the planet surface. All those other billions of kids down there, they hear that livable space on Mars is growing while on Earth it’s shrinking, that all the major discoveries are being made off-planet, and so are the jobs. No wonder some of them turn out like the guy in the food plaza.”
She was silent for a moment, dark eyes roaming over him thoughtfully. “So what makes you special?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you were lucky because you made it here. How did you do it?”
He wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. “Wanting it enough, I suppose. Working my ass off.”
She nodded several times, her eyes glistening. “Yes.”
He didn’t see why his answer was exciting to her, but he decided the slow, breathless way she’d said “yes” might be the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He hoped she didn’t invite him inside, because he would have to accept immediately.
“Risha,” he said, “Look. I know I haven’t been a great client so far. Or even a friend. After next week, maybe we could, you know, spend a bit more time together … ”
“I’m your brandhelm. We’ll be spending plenty of time together.”
Was that smile a promise?
He watched her slender, white-clad form disappear into the apartment. His mind was acting like an inexperienced zeroboxer in the Cube, bouncing unsteadily from wall to wall: BB Dunn, ImOptix, Terrans, Martians, Risha. He felt, suddenly, as if Risha was counting on him. Depending on him, even. That when he met his opponent in the Cube next week, he wouldn’t just be fighting for himself, or for Uncle Polly, but for her as well. And as smart and driven as she was, she needed someone to fight for her.
The thought settled into him, made him feel warm, and lengthened his strides as he headed for home.
SEVEN
Carr went into the fight with BB Dunn wishing he could have had another three weeks to prepare, but it turned out he didn’t need them. The fight went as Risha had foreseen. Dunn came out flying and didn’t let up. He attacked fast, from every angle, employing every tactic to spin, throw, and disorient his opponent. Against Jaycen Douglas, it would have been the perfect strategy. Against Carr, it was completely flawed. Unlike Douglas, Carr had a space ear to rival, perhaps even surpass, Dunn’s, and he had the staying power to climb, fly, and trade blows for a whole round without getting winded, and without a hint of nausea or dizziness.
By the third round, Dunn realized his error and turned to his submission game, but Carr had spent the previous week drilling his ability to break and counter Dunn’s moves. With three minutes left on the clock, he choked Dunn out while floating.
When the two fighters met back on the deck and the referee raised Carr’s hand, the packed stands went wild. For the ninety-five percent of humanity living on planets, no sport was as thrillingly superhuman as a zeroboxing match between two spectacular fliers at the top of their game. Dunn v. Luka had been such a match, topped by a rousing underdog victory. The fight lit up on the Systemnet, shared and replayed the second it ended.
Dunn looked to be in shock, as if he didn’t yet realize that the match was over and he had lost. “You got me, kid,” he muttered as they clasped hands. “You’re something else. You got me.”
Carr was better prepared for the crush of fans and journalists this time. He had Blake and Scull run interference to keep them at bay until he could get to the locker room to recover and celebrate. Risha came down, yelling with excitement, and she and Uncle Polly hugged each other wildly, spinning around together in the air like an exuberant human caduceus. Carr drank in the sight, letting its sweet flavor infuse his euphoria. Victory was a better high than a hundred bliss bombs. Perfect and real, lasting for days, even weeks, before being polished and stored in its own special nook of his soul, each win unique and everlasting, wanting nothing except more neighbors.
The post-fight press conference was standing room only. Carr wore his new Skinnwear top and jacket. The only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how he was now the youngest-ever contender for the division title and when that fight would happen. How did he explain his success? How had he prepared for this fight on such short notice? Did he have anything to say to Henri “the Reaper” Manon?
“Just be yourself,” Risha ha
d counseled him moments before, her words whispered into his ear as soft and close as if she were in his receiver. “People already like you. They think you’re tough but gracious. Play to that.”
Carr nodded at the journalists. “I’d say the Reaper has to start looking over his shoulder.” He said it with a smile, and no nastiness. There was a lot of frenzied cuff-jabbing as the quote went flying out into the ether.
The after-party was held at Aloft, a low-g dance club. Carr was pleased that he had the perfect post-fight face: undamaged around the eyes and mouth but stitched above his left eyebrow, so he could wear his fight prominently without looking like a troll in photos and video clips.
The dance floor throbbed with wanton energy. Sweaty bodies leapt high, rippling in the darkness with liquid tattoos and skin dye and shifting hair color. At the bar and on the couches, where people could mute their receivers and have audible conversations, Carr was plied with drinks. DK, fresh from a narrow victory over Titus Stockton two days earlier, bought a round. Blake and Scull did more than their part to keep the booze flowing, especially after Adri and a bunch of her friends showed up. There was a seemingly endless parade of fellow zeroboxers, sponsors, and ZGFA brass for Carr to accept congratulations from. He could not possibly remember all their names and faces and hoped his new optics were capturing it all so he could figure it out later.
From the corner of his eye, Carr caught a glimpse of someone he’d seen before. At first he thought he must be mistaken, but when he swung his head back around, there he was—the pale, waxen-faced man from the tour group. He was leaning against the bar with a glass in one hand, watching Carr from across the room.
What was he doing here? Carr frowned and took a small step forward, angling his head to see through a cloud of artificial mist. Two ImBevMC Keg Girls blocked his view as they sallied past in front of him, handing out drink coupons.
“Another round of splatter shots!” Uncle Polly was being that most awkwardly entertaining of creatures, an old man acting as giddy as a kid, telling stories he’d told before, only louder. Someone pulled Carr back into the circle and pressed a glass into his hand. “One … two … three!” They threw their shots into the air, the liquid flying up in wobbly forms before descending slowly, all of them craning to catch theirs in their mouth and suck it down before it hit the table, the floor, their clothes or face.
