by Fonda Lee
Carr looked back toward the bar, but the man was no longer there.
Risha did not get drunk. Carr had done his job in the Cube; now it was her turn. She introduced him to Skinnwear’s Director of Sports Marketing, two ImBevMC
executives, and a number of zeroboxing commentators, all the while keeping up a witty banter with Brock Wheeden. Carr watched her as she worked the room, smiling and chatting, her cuff flashing continuously with exchanged linkage codes.
Carr realized that he’d suddenly achieved something he had fantasized about since the age of thirteen. When he stood still, he was soon surrounded by attractive women. Soft bodies lined up to press against him for photos and clips, exposed cleavage leaned toward him, coy smiles and scented necks vied for his attention. It was irony beyond all comprehension that he was impatient for them to be gone. He had groupies now; he had to get free of them.
“You’ve got to help me here,” he begged DK. “You and the guys have got to help me with these girls.”
DK, still sporting a swollen eye as his own fight scar, saw where Carr’s gaze wandered and laughed. “Leave it to us,” he promised.
Carr wove through people and caught Risha’s wrist. He took her drink from her and set it down on the magnetic bar top. Then he pulled her toward the dance floor, away from the man she’d been speaking to, who opened his mouth as if to protest but didn’t.
“Carr,” she said, “that was the PR Director for the entire city-station of Valtego.”
“Then I’d say tonight he owes me.”
On the dance floor, Carr’s optics kicked in, overlaying his vision with sparkles and strobing light effects that pulsed in time to the music. His receiver amplified the heavy beat, picked up and added harmonic chords. He drew Risha close. “Could you stop being my brandhelm for just a few hours?”
“A good brandhelm is always looking out for her client’s interests,” she said.
He slipped his hand into hers, their fingers interlacing. “I could tell you what my one interest is right now, and it doesn’t include any PR directors.” His face heated in the darkness. He was presuming too much. Perhaps he was just a client to her. Just a kid, just a fighter. But victory made him reckless.
Risha laughed and relaxed, moving to the music, leading him deeper into the crowd. She was taller than every other girl on the floor and danced as enchantingly as he’d imagined, at ease in low gravity, barely touching the ground. She turned heads, drew interested stares and jealous glances. The mist wove around her limbs, the light glinted off her skin.
Carr followed her without speaking, anticipation coiled inside him like a spring. He smiled to himself as people shifted out of his way. No man was going to challenge him tonight. Tomorrow he would feel all the places where bones had been jarred, where fists or feet had done damage, where muscles had been strained and skin bruised. But tonight he was invincible.
Bodies and warm darkness folded in around them. He put an arm around Risha’s waist, pressed his palm into the small of her back, his heart thrumming like a bird’s. She draped her arms over his shoulders as they danced. Everything else fell away; everything except the movement of Risha’s hips under his hands and the nearness of her body.
He kissed her. Her mouth opening for him, and the heat of her satin skin, thrilled him nearly to the point of pain.
She drew her lips away and whispered into his ear, “I want to take you somewhere.”
Anywhere. “Now?”
“Yes.” She tugged him off the dance floor. They hurried out the rear entrance of the club before anyone could see them making an escape. The music and pulsing lights fell away. Laughing at their own stealth, they clambered into a waiting taxi. Risha gave it directions, and it slid into motion. Then they were alone in the car, and kissing again, and if the taxi’s thrusters had failed and left them stranded, floating indefinitely, Carr would not have minded.
He was disappointed when they reached the inner ring’s lively streets after only a few minutes, but when he saw where the taxi had taken them, a grin crawled across his face. “You’re brilliant,” he said.
“I know.” There was a smile in her voice as she led him inside.
The liquid tattoo artist at Living Ink was the best on Valtego and charged more than Carr had ever been able to afford. Carr lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, gazing at Risha, one hand linked with hers as the man worked. It took a long time; he should have felt sleepy given the hour, but sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Every time the artist was done with one section, Risha ran her fingertips lightly down the raw, tender skin and leaned in to touch it gently with her lips. The mingled pain and pleasure lit every nerve in Carr’s body.
When it was finally done, he stood and flexed his shoulders gingerly.
Risha stepped away from him. “It’s perfect,” she said softly.
Carr studied himself in the double full-length mirrors. He felt as though he were looking not at himself, but the person he would become. A promise he’d signed into his skin. He closed his hand over Risha’s wrist and tugged her forward again. He imagined he’d proven himself to her today, that self-deprivation and hard work, physical trial and triumph, had made him worthy. Their lips met and he took flight, inked wings opening wide across his back.
“If you think I called you here to offer you a title shot, swallow your disappointment now.”
It was three days later, and Carr was in Bax Gant’s office, wise enough to be wearing a sweater this time. He’d started to sit down but paused. An older man, a long-faced Terran with bushy eyebrows and a smart suit, was already seated in a chair next to Gant’s desk, straightening his cuffs and regarding Carr intently. Carr looked back at the Martian as he sat slowly. “You don’t think I’ve earned a match against Manon?”
“Stars in heaven, Luka, a match between you and the Reaper seems to be the only thing anyone is asking me about these days,” Gant grumbled. “Personally, I think it’s too early. You took a short-notice fight against Dunn and blew it out of the water. You’re in a good place right now. Milk it a little. People have latched onto the romantic idea of ‘youngest champion ever,’ but there’s no need to rush into a title fight. The belt will wait.”
Carr was silent, his expression stony.
Gant threw up exasperated hands. “The fight will happen, but I can’t just snap my fingers and give it to you. Manon and his people have to agree, and they’ll want to pick when. I’ve got to juggle a lot of considerations.”
“So what is this meeting about then?” If all Gant wanted was to tell him he wasn’t getting a title fight, he could easily have called or messaged. Carr glanced at the long-faced Terran. “Who are you?”
Gant answered. “Mr. Larsen is a senior brand management specialist from Merkel Media.”
Mr. Larsen’s thick eyebrows waggled as he reached over to shake Carr’s hand, too firmly. “Please, call me Dean.”
“You’re one of the Merkel guys, huh? Maybe you know Risha Ponn, my brandhelm.”
My brandhelm. Heat trembled behind Carr’s navel. He loved the casually professional way that sounded when he said it out loud, even as his mind wheeled off to decidedly unprofessional places. What had Risha done to him? Turned his brain into a dedicated fan-feed that he couldn’t turn off. What was she doing for dinner tonight? Let there be some urgent business to discuss with him. How did she learn to dance so damn sexy? What was she wearing right now?
He said to Gant, “Is she coming to this meeting?”
As if on cue, Risha stepped into the office and took a seat in the last available chair. A smile lit up inside Carr, starting somewhere in the center of his chest. It petered out unexpectedly before it could reach his face. Risha’s expression was tight and downcast, as if something was bothering her and she was trying hard not to show it.
Gant didn’t seem to notice. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get s
tarted.” He turned to Carr. “I asked you here because we’re kicking off a major marketing campaign. It’s the right time to do it; zeroboxing viewership is on a steep rise, and marquee fighters are starting to become household names. We can ride the wave of your recent wins, really take the sport to the next level.”
Carr tugged his eyes away from Risha and back to Gant. He waited for what the man was getting at.
The Martian leaned forward, gesturing toward Carr expansively. “You’re going to be our brand ambassador. The face of the ZGFA. You’re Terran, you’re young and well-known, you’ve got grace in the Cube, and you’re not a bully or a volatile headcase. In short, you’re perfect for the job.”
Carr glanced at Risha again, but she didn’t meet his gaze, seeming oddly intent on studying the fight memorabilia on Gant’s shelves. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she think this was good news?
“The plan is still in development,” Gant continued, “but there’ll be several integrated components.” He swiped at his wallscreen, pulling up a diagram of concentric circles like a bull’s-eye. In the center was an image of Carr, overlaid with the words EXPLODE THE SPORT OF ZEROBOXING BY LEVERAGING KEY ASSETS.
“You’ll star in a feature documentary, a multi-platform ad campaign, and a global publicity tour. We’re also working on how to offer a more premium experience to your subscribers.” As Gant spoke, his voice gaining momentum, the outer rings of the bull’s-eye filled in with labels matching each of his examples until the small picture of Carr was surrounded by words in all caps. The Martian paused, fixed Carr with a meaningful stare. “We’re going to make you big, Luka. Real big.”
Carr stared at the screen. His pulse had begun racing alongside his imagination, and he shifted in his seat uneasily. The Martian sure knew how to nudge a man’s ego. “What about my matches?” he asked.
“You’ll get your fights,” Gant reassured him. “Maybe a little less frequently. Naturally, more responsibility will mean more pay. More than what you make in the Cube.”
Dumbfounded excitement expanded in Carr’s chest and vied against a vague dread in his stomach. Two months ago he wasn’t sure he’d have his contract renewed. Now, all this. He would be an idiot not to jump at the opportunity, but the idea of being followed around by a movie crew, or being trekked around Earth on some public relations campaign, sounded an awful lot like giving group tours to planet rats, times a thousand. That wasn’t his thing. What he knew was training, and fighting, and winning. Rinse and repeat. He put his elbows down on Gant’s desk and bit his thumb knuckle.
Gant exchanged a glance with Dean Larsen. He looked back at Carr. “Listen,” he said, more serenely now, as if they were drinking buddies having a heart-to-heart over a beer. “This isn’t just about getting more people to watch Cube matches and growing the ZGFA. Though of course we’re going to do that. What we’re really doing here is selling hope. Hope for all those kids living in Toronto, or Moscow, or Beijing, wondering if they have a future. What would inspire them?”
Enzo sprang to Carr’s mind. Enzo, with his asthmatic wheeze and crappy inhaler, whose mom spent her money on lotto tickets instead of the gene therapy he needed. Enzo, who followed his fights religiously, whose personal feed, tracked by nearly no one, was peppered with zeroboxing references.
Gant leveled a finger at Carr. “I’ll tell you what those kids need to see. Someone who shows them that not all Terrans are planet rats. Someone who proves that with hard work and grit, an ordinary guy born on Earth can beat the odds.”
Carr blinked. Gant’s words echoed in his head, oddly familiar. The conversation he’d had with Risha outside Mia Terra food plaza … this was her doing. She’d seized upon what he’d said and used it to build a campaign, to cement him in the spotlight with the Martian. He swiveled his gaze to her again, his mouth going slack, impressed and grateful and mildly horrified.
She met his gaze, finally, and gave him a strange, forced little smile, as if she was reassuring him.
“Bran Merkel is completely on board with our strategy,” Gant continued. “It’s such a high priority that he’s assigned Mr. Larsen here to lead it.”
Dean Larsen smiled at Carr, too widely. “I’m looking forward to personally handling your profile from now on.”
“Handling it how?”
Gant explained, “Mr. Larsen will be your new brandhelm.”
“I already have a brandhelm.”
Dean Larsen gestured to Risha without looking at her. “Ms. Ponn has done a commendable job so far, but she is a junior brandhelm. Given your elevated profile, it would be best if you were managed by someone with a great deal more experience from now on.” He held up a hand of reassurance. “Don’t worry, I’m sure there’ll be a job waiting for Ms. Ponn back on Earth.”
A miserable shadow passed briefly across Risha’s face. She spoke, finally, her voice quieter than normal. “I’ll be staying on through next week, to make sure the whole transition goes smoothly.” She looked as if she wanted to say something else to him, but she stopped, pressing her lips together tightly.
Carr turned on Gant. “I don’t want him. I want Risha to stay on as my brandhelm.”
“Now, Luka … ” There was a warning note in Gant’s voice. Did he think that Carr was being unreasonable? Talking from his cock instead of his head? Carr didn’t care. He didn’t like Dean Larsen’s eyebrows or the way the man emphasized certain words for no particular reason. He liked Risha. He really, really liked her. He liked looking at her. He liked how someone so smart could exist in a body that turned him so stupid. He liked the way she spoke to him, and the way she made him walk a little taller, and the fact that the dull world outside of the Cube seemed sharper when he was with her.
This whole thing was her idea, and she was getting shafted.
“I haven’t said yes,” Carr said. “You need me to cooperate.”
“We are talking about a level of personal branding that few athletes achieve,” Dean Larsen sniffed, his wide smile gone. “Any of your peers would eagerly take your place.”
“Sure they would. But who’s going to make your big strategy work? You guys have thought this whole thing through too much to go changing your main ingredient.” Hesitation showed on their faces; he was right. He faced Gant and plowed on, feeling out of his depth and compensating the way he knew how, by looking mean: squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin. “I want to do this, and I’ll work hard for you, but we have to do it my way.”
Gant scowled, but he was listening.
“Risha stays on as my brandhelm. I want my matches, on schedule. We work around my training. For the eight weeks before I fight, I won’t leave Valtego.” He paused. “And I want my title fight.”
Silence. Risha’s mouth was soft and slightly open, her astonished gaze like the heat of the sun on the side of Carr’s face. Dean Larsen began to sputter something in protest, but Bax Gant held up a hand.
“Damn,” he said. A slow grin seeped across his face. “What did I tell you, Larsen? The kid is a born fighter.” He pointed a finger at Carr and another at Risha, snapping his scowl back into place. “Get your shit ready. You leave on tour next week.”
EIGHT
It was Carr’s first trip back since he’d left the planet on a one-way ticket to Valtego, flying economy class with two Lunar stopovers. The return journey, nearly two years later, was an express flight made in VIP seats on a J-class Virgin Galactic super-cruiser. As the green and blue planet loomed up, impossibly large, the cloud-wrapped outline of Western Europe filling the entirety of his window view, Carr struggled to take deep, calm breaths—and not just because of the g-forces from atmospheric reentry. Pulling away from the docking hub of Valtego and watching the city-station recede and then disappear behind the Moon had made his gut roil with anxiety.
The previous night he’d had a nightmare in which he was, for some unknown reason, stranded on Earth. In his dream
, he was supposed to be competing in a fight, but instead he was watching a sports news-feed in which some other fighter had taken his place in the Cube. He’d woken in a panic and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.
When he told Risha about the dream, he’d expected her to laugh it off reassuringly. Instead, she said that when she was on Earth, she had nightmares in which the sky was crushing her.
She’d come by his apartment to pick him up and was sitting on his bed, her packed suitcase next to her, watching him cram clothes into a duffel bag. He paused to tackle her to the mattress. She yelped as he rolled on top of her, covering her body with his. “Don’t worry,” Carr said. He kissed her temple. “I won’t let the sky fall on you.”
Her shoulders and chest jiggled pleasantly under him in soft laughter. “You would beat it into submission.”
“I would. Make it tap.” He pressed his hips down over hers. He wanted to have sex with Risha so badly it sometimes made his vision swim.
Her sigh of wonder came out hot against his neck. “You’re my client. You’re Terran. You’re younger than me—you’re not even eighteen yet.”
“I will be in a couple months. Why does that matter?” He pushed up on his elbows, worried. For the past week, he’d been catching himself wondering if this—the two of them—felt as real to her as it did to him. Would her next words be, “So we should keep this relationship professional”? Because it was too late for that. For him it was.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m doing something hasty, taking advantage of you somehow.” But she smiled, lifting her head to kiss him, and he relaxed a little. “A couple months isn’t long,” she said.