by Fonda Lee
“Hmmm.” She pulled back from him slightly. “I have a surprise for you too.”
“Yeah?” Carr hoped it was something she was wearing. Flimsy and made of lace.
No such luck. She checked her cuff. The schedule it displayed was color-coded according to some scheme mysterious to him. “First we have to go to HQ for an event. We’re supposed to be there in ten minutes.”
Carr looked longingly back at the bedroom but let himself be tugged out the door.
Several minutes later, they were hopping off the bus in front of ZGFA headquarters. It was located within easy walking distance of the gravity zone terminal, where vehicles queued in and out of the freeway tubes that led to the Virgin Galactic Center. The building was designed, fittingly, in the shape of a perfect cube and constructed with thin, translucent fiber-optic concrete so that under the artificial daylight of Valtego’s inner ring business district, it had a sheen that mimicked that of the real Cube.
“What is this event again?” Carr asked as they approached the entrance.
Risha glanced at him sideways from under her lashes. “Don’t you look at the itinerary I send to you every morning?”
“I was too tired this morning. You wore me out.” He slid a hand down to squeeze her bottom, still nursing his disappointment at having to leave the apartment.
She gave him a mock-stern look. “Behave yourself. It’s a school group. And a lot of Terran press.”
Carr groaned. “I thought we agreed to cut back on the school groups. This is the third one this month.”
“They’re important,” Risha said. “Did you know you’re the second-most-popular athlete among Terran boys aged eight to fourteen, and trending up week after week?” The doors slid open to admit them into a room packed with people. “Besides,” she whispered, “this group is special.”
Cameras and reporters swung around to track their entrance. Carr barely noticed the cameras anymore, they followed him around so often. He did notice Bax Gant standing in front of a group of about thirty kids who looked to be about ten to twelve years old. Gant was welcoming them and talking about the history of zeroboxing, gesturing around at the ZGFA’s land-training gym, which took up the entire first floor of the building.
As soon as they caught sight of Carr, the kids burst into excited shouts and ran toward him, forgetting Gant completely. In the midst of his name being called over and over, and the pleas for autographs and photos, and the crush of small bodies reaching out to touch his arms, Carr’s eyes fell immediately upon one familiar figure.
“Enzo!” He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length, bewildered. “You’re here?”
Enzo’s face split in a grin of delight. “My feed was named one of the top ten zeroboxing fan-feeds on Earth by ZGFA contest judges, and when they found out that I knew you, my school won a trip to Valtego.”
“That’s … fantastic,” Carr sputtered. Enzo looked different; gone were his thick, owlish glasses. “You look great,” Carr said. “Are your eyes … ?”
“Yeah. They’re fixed. New optics put in too—can you believe it? My first ones. And gene therapy for my asthma. Doctor says I won’t need my inhaler anymore.”
A lump formed in Carr’s throat. He pulled the boy to him and wrapped him in a tight hug. Dozens of cameras inched closer to capture the moment.
“I’m glad to see you, little man,” he whispered. He didn’t think that winning the championship belt could get any sweeter than it had been on that day, but finally seeing Enzo healthy, knowing that the boy wouldn’t have to go through the rest of his life carrying his genetic deficiencies like a public mark of shame … it made his victory even more worthwhile.
When they pulled apart, Enzo’s eyes were fixed on the ground. “I know what you did, paying for everything for me out of your title fight winnings. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it or how I could ever thank … ” His voice hitched. He swiped his new eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassed to meet Carr’s gaze.
“Are you kidding me?” Carr made himself laugh so he wouldn’t start getting emotional. “You were my first real fan.”
Bax Gant cleared his throat. He’d somehow migrated to stand directly beside Carr and was beaming at him and Enzo as if he were so very proud of both of them. Addressing the entire crowd, he said, “This is a special day, and a special moment, because for every one incredible success story like Carr Luka, there are thousands of kids who can’t realize their dreams because they were born without basic genetic care. The fact that Carr”—Gant put a hand on Carr’s shoulder—“cares so much about this issue proves that he’s a true champion, not just inside the Cube but outside of it too.”
Gant put his other arm around Enzo so the cameras could capture all three of them together. “That’s why I’m proud to announce that the Zero Gravity Fighting Association is a founding member of the Luka Foundation, whose mission will be to provide basic genetic screening and therapy to Earth’s most at-risk and low-income communities.”
Reporters started talking all at once, shouting out questions that Carr didn’t register. He was glad that fighting in the Cube had taught him how to stay cool, to keep any sign of vulnerability off his face. The Luka Foundation? Where had this come from? He sought out Risha, standing at the edge of the crowd. She smiled at him, but he felt annoyance well up and didn’t return her smile. Why hadn’t she told him? Relentless brandhelm that she was, she and savvy old Gant had sprung Enzo’s school visit on him and timed the whole thing for maximum publicity.
Gant was waving off more questions. “A press release will be out shortly,” he assured everyone with a smile. “These lucky kids have a schedule to stick to, and I don’t want to take away any more of their time with Carr.”
The whole time he signed his name and pressed his thumbprint to cuff displays, posed for photos and clips, and answered random questions ranging from “If you could fight any famous person in history, who would it be?” to “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Carr kept glancing between Enzo, so happy and normal-looking now, Risha and Gant standing together with satisfied glows, the reporters and cameramen, and the handful of zeroboxers in the background who were using the land-training equipment but had paused to watch the goings-on. It was hard to reconcile how genuinely happy he was about helping Enzo and seeing him here, with the staged veneer of it all.
He had a lot to learn and get used to when it came to the celebrity of being a champion.
Finally, teachers began to usher the kids toward the exit and Risha and Gant drew Carr all-too-willingly in the other direction.
“Message me and I’ll find you again before you leave, all right?” he made Enzo promise, then hugged him again while half a dozen boys stood around in an awestruck and jealous semi-circle. As they followed their school group, the other kids surrounded Enzo eagerly, vying to talk to him and walk closest to him.
“Come up to my office, both of you,” Gant said, striding ahead of them.
Carr started to follow, then paused and turned back. “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He’d spotted DK coming off of the gyroscopic trainer, a machine that developed a zeroboxer’s space ear while working cardio and flexibility in 360 degrees of motion. It would make most Terrans ill after about eight seconds, but DK stepped off it casually, threw a towel around his neck, and was crossing the floor filled with machines and trampolines when he spotted Carr coming toward him. His step slowed.
“DK,” Carr called. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Where’ve you been hiding?”
The man smiled, but it was small and forced, not the flashy white grin Carr was used to. “I guess we’re on different schedules now.”
“Yeah, well, I’m all over the map. I barely know my own schedule.” He stopped just short of DK, but the man didn’t extend his hand or clap him on the shoulder, and Carr felt awkwa
rdly unable to make the first gesture. “So,” he said, “you got your next fight lined up?”
DK was silent for a couple seconds, then said stiffly, “I just came off my last fight.”
“Aw, hell, of course. I forgot.”
“I lost in a split decision,” DK said, “in case you forgot that too. Or if you didn’t know, being real busy and all.” He started walking past Carr toward the locker room.
“C’mon, man, I didn’t mean to … ” Carr called after him. “Look, sorry to hear about your fight. Let’s at least fly together sometime, yeah?” But DK was already disappearing through the door.
Carr ground his teeth, then shot a glower around the gym, furious that others had just witnessed his humiliation. He caught sight of Blake watching the exchange impassively from over by the water dispenser. Carr strode up to him, fuming. The man didn’t make a move forward or backward, just watched Carr’s approach with his pale eyes.
“What’s with him?” Carr demanded.
Blake blinked as if it ought to be obvious. “He just ate a loss.”
“I know it’s not just that. Ever since I got back from Earth, months ago, he’s been acting like I fucked his mother.”
Blake raised the cup of water to his lips and drank it in one long swallow. When he was done, he tossed the cup into the dematerializing bin. “What do you think?” he said. “He’s the Captain. He was here before you. He took you under his wing, showed you the ropes. Can’t blame him for figuring he ought to be the one popping up on holovid ads, getting dedicated Systemnet feeds, racking up sponsors and fans. Instead, it’s you. And you haven’t looked back, not once.”
Carr felt a rush of anger turn his stomach. Fine. So it was true—he hadn’t been keeping up with his flymates. He’d been obsessed with the title fight, and now, well, there were a lot more things demanding his attention. Blake’s words, as blunt and hurtful as a hammer, showed he just didn’t understand, any more than DK did.
“Jealous, huh?” Carr said. “Didn’t think Captain Pain would be so petty.”
Blake shrugged. “He’s trained his whole life for something he’s watching you walk away with. How would you feel?”
I’d hate it. I’d be jealous as hell. “The Cube doesn’t work that way,” he said. “It doesn’t matter who you are or how long you’ve trained. It only matters if you win.”
“Doesn’t hurt to have a pretty face and a good Cinderella story, does it?”
Carr snarled. “Those things are just noise. I won the belt. That’s what matters here.”
“You don’t think he knows that? Everyone knows that.”
“I would’ve thought friends would be happy for each other,” Carr said, but it sounded pathetic even to him.
“I’m happy for you,” Blake said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill you sometimes.” He smiled his slow, slack smile, but the reckless twin blue fires of the Destroyer’s eyes flared for an instant. He could have been teasing, or he could have been dead serious; likely both. Gathering his towel and practice gloves, Blake turned away. “See you around, Carr.”
Carr was still in a foul mood when he got to Gant’s office. Although the ZGFA offices filled two entire floors of the building, the only one he’d ever been in was Gant’s. He wondered what all the other people did—they worked away so anonymously. No one ever paid attention to them, never trained a camera on them. They probably did the same sort of thing every day, their lives as smooth as a slow solar yacht cruise, never feeling ecstatic highs or crippling lows. It was hard to imagine.
Risha was alone in Gant’s office, having a conversation with the invisible person on the other end of her call. “The press release goes out today,” she was saying, “but we hold on revealing the Luka Foundation logo until Carr has approved it. I have to go. Send me the trending stats once you have them.” She touched her cuff to end the call and said to him, “Gant just stepped out. He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Carr demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me Enzo was going to be here? Or about this whole Luka Foundation business? Don’t you think I ought to know if I’m getting a foundation named after me?”
Risha looked surprised and hurt by his tone. “Weren’t you glad to see Enzo? And to learn about the Foundation? I think it’s brilliant. And a worthy cause.”
“It … it is, but I should have been told it was coming, don’t you think?”
“If you’d known beforehand, the moment wouldn’t have been genuine. That’s what you are: genuine. It’s why people love you. People are too savvy and skeptical these days; they would know if it was rehearsed. Everyone there could tell how you really felt when you first saw Enzo without his glasses. And they’ll understand why the Luka Foundation is important.”
Carr dropped into the chair next to her, scowling. She reached over and rubbed his leg soothingly. He felt the heat of her fingers through his pants. As usual, he was freezing in Gant’s office, and she was in a printed, asymmetrical tank top. She’d grown her dark hair long, and it hung over her bare shoulders. Try as he might, it was really hard to stay mad at her.
“When I told you I paid for Enzo’s treatments,” he said, “I wasn’t offering it up for my brandhelm to use as a media stunt. I was telling you—Risha—because … ” He spread his hands in exasperation. “Because I trust you. I thought … I mean … isn’t what we have special? I don’t want to think that everything I tell you might show up on a news-feed.”
She drew her hand back but leaned in, her delicate features set solemnly. “You can trust me. I’m your brandhelm and it’s my job to show the world who you are. But I love you, Carr. I would never do anything I thought you wouldn’t approve of. I would never hurt you.”
He sighed and reached up to run his hand down her smooth, toned arm. “Why do you do what you do?” he asked quietly. “Why a brandhelm, always promoting someone else?”
She considered for a moment. “Because I’m good at it.”
“I’ve heard that line before,” Gant said, stepping into his office and dabbing the sweat off his forehead. “I don’t know what’s more vicious—zeroboxing or marketing. It’s got to say something unflattering about me that I’m eyeball-deep in both.” He poured himself coffee and glanced at the two of them with a smirk. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
“No,” Risha said. “We were just talking about the Foundation and what a worthy cause it is.”
Gant sat down and shook his head. “I don’t get Terrans. They ban anything resembling enhancement, but they let poor, uneducated parents mess up their kids lives with bad genetics. You did a really charitable thing, Carr, helping that boy out. But who knows what other problems he has, that he might not even know about yet? He might need therapy his whole life for things that could easily have been prevented before he was born.” He made a sad noise of disgust and pointed an accusing finger at Carr. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen on Mars.”
“Why are you pointing at me?” Carr said. “I represent the Terran people now?”
“In this room, I guess you do.” He took a sip of coffee.
“To be fair,” Risha said, “Earth didn’t have the luxury of being founded by scientists and engineers. Humans there evolved over millions of years, not a few generations. They never needed genetic technology just to survive on their planet. So there are millions of people who still think it’s okay for a person’s fate to be determined by some random combining of sperm and ova.” She looked at Carr thoughtfully. “I guess I can see why leaving things up to chance has a certain romantic appeal. Sometimes the results are surprising, and just as beautiful.”
Gant snorted. “You’ve been off Mars too long if you’re starting to see things from their point of view. Though I’m not one to talk. My friends back on the Red Planet think I’ve gone native out here.” He gestured at all his wood furniture, his mug of coffee.
Carr felt his insides squirming at the conversation’s direction. “Can we get back on topic? Who’ve you got lined up for me?”
“Single-minded, aren’t you?” Gant said. “Every time you’re in my office, it’s ‘who am I fighting next?’ You just got off a fight and it’s all you want to talk about.”
“Living on a city-station,” replied Carr dryly, “kind of eliminates the weather as a subject of conversation.”
“Look, I don’t know yet. It’s getting hard to find opponents for you.”
Carr had had two other fights since winning the title. They’d come on fast, from guys eager to take first crack at the new champion. Carlos “Berserker” Diaz’s coach had pulled his battered and exhausted fighter after two rounds. Jaycen “Sandman” Douglas had come back from post-surgery rehab raring to prove he was the division contender who should have fought Manon to begin with. He’d challenged Carr against his trainer’s advice. Carr had put him back in rehab.
“Jackson,” Carr said. “I told you I want Ray Jackson.”
Gant made a face. “Jackson doesn’t want to fight you. Why would he? He beat you before.”
“He doesn’t think he can do it again?”
“I’d say he likes his record as it stands.”
“Offer him more money.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
Carr rubbed a hand across his face. “Then take it out of mine. I’ll do the fight for half.”
“Are you crazy? That’s a ridiculous amount to offer a mid-ranked zeroboxer like Death Ray. Save your money. Move on.”
Carr didn’t say anything, just gazed at Gant steadily. That one loss was a glaring blemish on his record, unsightly as a hairy, puckered mole. Every time he saw his stats on a screen, or heard them announced, it was there. He wasn’t going to give in.
Seeing this, Gant sighed. “Have it your way. I’ll see if the man will jump for a big-enough carrot. But after that, I don’t know. If you’re ready to move up a mass division and fight welter, I could put you up against Blake Murphy.”