by Fonda Lee
“Now that is a humble, respectful champion, right there,” Gant said proudly.
“Speaking of War of the Worlds,” Brock Wheeden called from his seat, “there’s already a lot of hype around this event, and no lack of Systemnet discussion about whether Terran fighters are going to be able to put on a good showing on Surya, or whether Martian body design is going to be too big of an advantage to overcome.”
Gant said, “I’m very excited about this event, because, coming from Mars myself many years ago, I can tell you, I think our Terran zeroboxers”—and he looked pointedly at Carr—“are up to the task. On average, are the Martians going to have an advantage in reach and endurance? Probably, and we’re already thinking about that and training for it. But Martian genetic traits are strictly designed and regulated. Terrans are all over the map, and the population of Earth is so much greater. Who’s to say the best fighters from our planet aren’t as good, or better, than what Mars can offer?”
A riffle of eager head nodding and whispered agreement ran through the room. It was impressive, Carr thought, how deftly Gant said “our fighters” and “our planet,” as if he were a Terran himself instead of the only Martian in the entire room.
Brock Wheeden’s voice rose up in another question. “Carr, as the most well-known zeroboxer from Earth, do you feel any extra pressure to win against the Martians?”
Carr tried to recall the numerous scripted “talking points” that Risha had run him through, served up with the unhelpful admonition that he ought to “put it in his own words.” He felt as if the fight had knocked most of it out of his head, but he recalled the general gist. “Handling pressure is something every zeroboxer has to get good at, so I don’t know if I’d say I feel ‘extra pressure,’” he said. He leaned forward again. “Are you asking me how motivated I am to win? Every time I get into the Cube, I have one-hundred-percent intention to win. Now, on top of that, I’m representing the ZGFA, and my home planet, and the whole Terran race. That’s a huge honor and responsibility. I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”
Dozens of microphones and cameras captured his words. Reporters scrambled onto their cuffs to transmit them instantaneously. At the back of the room, a face caught Carr’s attention, and he froze like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk.
Mr. R, or Rhystok—whatever he called himself—was standing by the back wall. As Carr watched in horror, he started clapping. The other people in the room didn’t turn to see who’d started the applause, but they followed his lead and joined in enthusiastically, all of them nodding, showing their approval of Carr’s words, of his acceptance of his role as their champion.
Uncle Polly paused the holovid and the two small Martian fighters froze in mid-projection. Carr swiped the scene and watched the previous ten seconds again. “Damn, he’s fast with that corner reversal,” he said. “Has everyone else seen this? They ought to.”
“I shared it with the other trainers yesterday,” Uncle Polly said. “We’re already talking about it.”
Carr nodded and leaned forward, studying the motionless image. All Martian fighters looked similar to him—tall, dark, fine-featured, all catlike sinew and skin that caught the light like fish scales. But this one he recognized easily now: Kye “the Samurai” Soard, the reigning Martian lowmass champion for three (long, Martian) years running and the man Carr was most likely to meet in the Cube should he make it to the finals in his division. Soard was a demigod in the Martian zeroboxing world; he owned three orbital gyms and had an engineered plant species named after him, which, on Mars, was apparently some kind of governmental honor for philanthropy. Carr wondered if people on Mars studied Terran history and if Soard’s Cube name referred to the ancient Terran samurai, or if it alluded to the military corps of the Upper Valles, which had taken the name in a nod to Terran heritage some generations ago.
Carr bit his thumb knuckle, an unfamiliar anxiety crawling around his midsection. From the footage alone, it was clear that Soard was pound-for-pound faster and stronger than anyone he’d faced so far, even Henri Manon. His moves were crisp and clean. He moved on the walls the way the best zeroboxers did, like he was skimming them, and at any second he could fly into the air like a feather, or drop solid as a steel post to deliver knockout power. The man had grace, plenty of it. If only Carr could devote himself completely to training, he could break apart Soard’s style, his signature moves, find his weaknesses and figure out how to beat him. And Soard was just one fighter; Carr needed to study the WCC’s entire lowmass lineup and be prepared to fight any of them. That would take time.
As if on cue, his cuff vibrated a reminder. He let out a groan. “I have to meet Gant. He wants me to review the team roster.”
“Again?” Uncle Polly smacked a hand to the table. “You said that domie had it finalized.”
“The catch-mass format is making things messy,” Carr explained. For simplicity, War of the Worlds was to have only three, expanded, mass divisions—low, mid, and high—so zeroboxers who normally would not face each other would be potential opponents. “He’s trying to build our team lineup by figuring out who has the best chance against each of the top Martian fighters. Some guys are out on injury, some have contract renewals coming up, and he’s already over budget. It’s a pain in the ass.”
Uncle Polly made a grumbling sound. “Why you, all the time? Can’t DK handle some of this?”
“He does, but I’m the one who’s going to get asked about it.” Carr scrubbed a hand over his brow. Out of necessity, he and DK had fallen into a kind of stony, impersonal partnership. DK was a better captain, a better people-person, and a better all-round cheerleader for the other zeroboxers. He’d taken on the task of rallying the team and coordinating training schedules so the fighters could discuss and work together on ways to beat the Martians. But it was Carr who Gant called into his office, Carr who the media and the fans wanted to hear from, Carr who got interviewed about everything from fight strategy to the color of the team shorts.
Uncle Polly frowned. “You need to train.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Carr snapped, more shortly than he’d intended to. He sighed. “Sorry, coach.”
Uncle Polly shut off the projection. He didn’t look at Carr. “She told me she’s worried about you.”
“Risha? She’s crushed with work. We’ve barely seen each other all week.”
“That’s why she’s worried about you.”
Carr shook his head. “Risha doesn’t worry.”
“That’s what she’d like you to think. But she can tell something’s bothering you.” Uncle Polly turned toward Carr and paused. His face tightened, as if his cheekbones were hardening under the skin. He dropped his voice even though there was no need. “I saw him at the press conference, just like you did.”
Carr’s spine stiffened like a metal rod. His words came out flat. “His real name is Kaan Rhystok. A Genepol cop came around a few months ago and sat me down for a talk.” He stifled the urge to cringe at the memory. “Genepol is hunting Rhystok. The man has a big operation going on, a whole … portfolio of investments, if you want to call it that.”
His coach’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his face turning gray to match his hair. “What did the cop … ?”
“He didn’t arrest me, obviously,” Carr said. “He stopped just short of accusing me of being enhanced, but he didn’t exactly hide his suspicions either.” The anxiety in his chest seemed to be expanding, pushing against his ribs. “He wants me to cooperate, to help him nail Rhystok. He’s keeping an eye on me. They both are, I’m sure of it.”
Carr collapsed back into his chair. He’d told the reporter at the press conference that he knew how to handle pressure, but there was a difference, he now realized, between the sharp adrenaline of the Cube and this. This was not about his own expectations; it was about everyone else’s. Rhystok demanding that he toe the line, keep his mouth shut, earn o
ut his genetic potential. Detective Van corralling him to get to Rhystok, able to destroy his whole life with a simple court-ordered sequencing. Risha and Gant counting on him. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people following him on the Systemnet, watching his fights, inspired by the story of the poor, ordinary Terran boy who became a champion and rose to challenge Martian dominance on behalf of a whole planet.
He knew, with certainty, he was designed to handle the first kind of stress. The second kind was slowly corrosive, suffocating, claustrophobic. It was like forcing a greyhound to run a slow treadmill for days and days on end.
Uncle Polly knelt and took Carr’s face in his hands. He used to do this when Carr was a child staring at the floor, hurting after a bad practice, a loss, or his coach’s reprimands. Polly’s hands were cool and dry, rough and firm with knobbly knuckles. They were comforting still.
“Don’t think that I sleep well at night, knowing the fix you’re in,” he said.
“Second guessing yourself? It’s too late for that,” Carr said, his voice stiff. He wasn’t sure if he was saying it to himself or Uncle Polly. Same deal, really. They’d spent the majority of his life together, wanting the same things. Money and fame—yeah, sure, sometimes. Doing right by the people they loved—yes. Deeper than that: the Promise of Greatness. The incurable need to follow the voice that whispered, There’s more. There’s being better. There’s being The Best.
Now the promise wasn’t just theirs. It belonged to other people too. A lot of other people.
Uncle Polly dropped his hands, as if he’d heard Carr’s thoughts. “You’re going to think I’m a galactic-sized hypocrite, and you’d be right. But I’m going to say it: you don’t have to do this. Tell Gant you want off War of the Worlds. You’re going to take a break, think about your career, step out of the spotlight for a little while. You’re his star zeroboxer, so he’ll rant and rave, but what else can he do?”
“I can’t do that, coach.” Carr’s cuff vibrated again and flashed him an alert that he was off schedule and already supposed to be in the Martian’s office. He sent a quick message in reply and stood. “I know what I can do, though.” He headed for the door. “I’ll grab my gear and meet you at the Cube. If Gant comes looking for me, tell him that if he wants me to win, he’ll leave me alone.”
NINETEEN
The send-off by media and fans was something to behold. Gant and his Merkel Media cronies had somehow negotiated with the Valtego city council to close off one whole terminal of the docking hub and set up live streaming holovid projectors connected to zeroboxing fan gatherings all over Earth. The projectors beamed in images of crowds from Toronto, New York, Moscow, New Shanghai, and a dozen other cities, so as Carr and the thirty-one other ZGFA zeroboxers boarded the jumbo-cruiser Infinity, it looked as if the place was packed with tens of thousands of people, all cheering and waving, some with their faces painted blue and green, others holding up signs with slogans like WATCH OUT DOMIES and EARTH HAS LUKA ON ITS SIDE.
The team made slow progress through the section filled with live spectators, hampered by reporters’ questions and fan requests. Xeth Stone and Jeroan Culver, who would be making the journey with them on media passes, slowed it down further by holding on-the-spot interviews with each of the zeroboxers as they boarded.
By design, Carr was the last to get on. By the time he stepped onto the boarding ramp of the cruiser’s passenger deck, he felt as though an hour inside a sensory deprivation chamber would be a nice holiday. He was accustomed to crowds and noise and media attention, but this was a bit much.
“Carr,” Xeth Stone shouted over the tumult, “do you have anything you want to say to your many supporters here and on Earth?”
Carr opened his mouth and then closed it again. He could barely hear himself think. “I just want to thank them, and to ask that they watch and cheer for every man and woman on this team. Everyone has worked really hard for this, so you can expect to see some great fights,” he said. Someone prompted him to turn around and punch his fist into the air for the crowd one last time. Then the airlock doors slid tightly shut behind him, cutting off the noise like a blade.
A crew member, a young Martian man with a lilting Mars Hindi accent, escorted him to the first-class suite. When he reached it, Carr dropped stomach first onto the sofa, barely bothering to take in the surroundings. “Please tell me we have nothing scheduled for the next three days,” he said, voice muffled by the cushions.
“Well … barely anything.” Risha came over and snuggled in on the edge of the sofa, running a hand through his short hair, the heat of her fingers relaxing his scalp.
Carr turned over to face her. The room was large and lavish; it made him feel as though they were about to sail away on vacation without a care in the universe. There had been a time, not long ago, when he couldn’t have afforded a stowage ticket to Mars on one of those plasma propulsion cargo vessels that made the trip in forty days. Now he was in the best suite aboard a fusion jumbo-cruiser that would cover the distance in just over three. Sometimes it still didn’t seem real.
Risha shifted closer and, as if sharing his thoughts, said, “I can’t believe I’m going back. I haven’t been back in six years. Six years … It’ll be so different. Mars is always growing and changing so fast.” She propped her forearm casually on his chest, leaning over him. “My great-grandparents, it took them six months to make the journey. Can you imagine what it must have been like, sailing for so long to reach such a harsh and alien land?”
“Those colonists were tough,” Carr said. “They had to be.” He reached up to touch the dark curtain of her hair, looping a thick strand of it around his fingers. “Does it feel strange to be going back on the other side? As part of the Terran team?”
“I’m not on the Terran team,” Risha chided. “I’m on the Carr Luka team.” Then she fell silent, because they both knew that it had become a meaningless distinction, at least for most people. Not for everyone though; Carr knew he was disparaged by some Terrans for literally sleeping with the enemy, and criticized by others for promoting a spirit of interplanetary animosity. He did his damned best not to read or listen to any of it, but it was hard to avoid it all the time.
Risha shook her head. “It used to be simpler, didn’t it?”
Carr made the shape of a box with his hands. “Two guys go into a Cube. They fight. One of them beats the other. How much simpler can it be? People don’t have to make it more than it is.” They both knew he was being facetious, but he believed it too.
Risha drew a finger down his nose. “That’s why you’re the zeroboxer. And why you need me to think about all that other stuff.”
He shook his head. “That’s not the only reason I need you.” Firmly, he drew her down so she lay next to him, their bodies pressed together lengthwise. Risha was like an instant energy pill. Roused, he pulled her closer, trying to squeeze away the little space between them.
The room began to vibrate as the ship lifted out of dock. Through the full-ceiling windows, they watched the stars begin to move: slowly at first, crawling across their view. The air in the room shifted, and their limbs, then their bodies, started to rise off the sofa as the Infinity pulled away from Valtego’s gravity. An alert ping went off in their room and a voice reminded them to please remain stationary and harnessed during the transition to weightlessness. They ignored it. Above them, the stars turned into streaking white lines, a rushing river of light.
Carr reached for a handhold to secure them in place, floating entwined. The room was well designed: rounded furniture, tastefully textured walls, thoughtfully placed handholds and guide-rails, magnetized tabletops, drawers and closets. True, it didn’t make the best use of the wall and ceiling space, but by keeping everything oriented in one direction, it ensured any planet rat could handle this place.
Taking his time, like a man about to enjoy a fine meal, Carr tugged off Risha’s shirt. He released it with a fli
ck of his wrist and it drifted off, silky lemon yellow sleeves waving a slow goodbye as it swam away from them. Risha pulled off his top and sent it chasing lazily after her own like an errant lover. The heat of her breasts pressed against him set Carr’s heart churning, brought the blood to the surface of his skin. His liquid tattoo wings darkened and raced across his back and shoulders, down his biceps, inked feathers unfurling as if ruffled by a nonexistent wind. She ran her hands across them and bent her lips to his shoulder. Her fingers laced into his.
“Look at us,” she said, holding up their forearms, side by side. “We’re so different.” His arm was hard and defined—a light, sallow, olive hue covered with thin, dark hairs. Hers was smooth and soft as a baby seal’s, the color of dark tea, and iridescent.
“We’re not different,” Carr said. “We’re alike.” He kissed her neck, and the line of her jaw, and pulled her mouth to his.
Her feverish lips sent a wave of fire down his torso into his groin. He marveled that after more than a year together, she still excited him so easily. Before Risha, girls had been like key lime pie—something to be craved, and indulged in on occasion. Always somewhat alien. Risha, though, who was alien, down to her engineered DNA, understood him better than anyone except Uncle Polly. He would not be who he was today without her, he knew that. She had given him his wings.
It occurred to Carr, then, that if he won this tournament he would ask her to marry him.
Once they were engaged, she would move in with him and he would give her whatever she desired. They might be young, as even Uncle Polly sometimes reminded him, but that didn’t matter. Carr had always been precociously single-minded about what he wanted, and he wanted Risha. He knew he always would. He would prove to her how serious he was. The idea filled him with happiness and lust and terror.
Risha read his racing heart only as arousal and smiled, pushing against him weightlessly and straddling his hips.
