Zeroboxer

by Fonda Lee

  “Tomorrow then, earthworms,” said Soard cheerfully as they shook hands.

  Yugo Macha held onto Carr’s hands too tightly and leaned in with his voice lowered. He had a bony face, all jutting angles as if he had a metal cyborg skull under his dark glistening skin. “The feeds, they call you ‘a Terran treasure.’” He sneered. “You worms, your time is over. You just don’t realize it yet. You don’t stand a chance. When you turn out be a disappointment to a whole planet, you’ll wish you were never born.”

  Carr felt his lips twist in a rictus of irony. I don’t need you for that. He wished, suddenly, that the semifinal fight was right now, this very instant, so he could hit Macha in his smug domie kisser, and keep hitting him, and keep hitting him. It didn’t have to be Macha. It could be Soard. It could be anyone.

  Get a fucking grip. He was off-kilter, he knew. Bringing personal crap into the Cube—that was a mistake for amateurs. “Save your breath for the fight, domie,” he said, and turned his back.

  Gant gathered all of the Terran fighters together in the locker room. “It’s been a hell of a day,” he said. “I saw some good, hard fights, some of the best I’ve ever seen. Whether you won or lost, every single one of you ought to be proud just to be competing at this level.” He paused, his eyes drifting over the group. There were a lot of bruised and tired faces, and Carr could tell that despite the upbeat tone of Gant’s speech, everyone in the room was disappointed that at least a couple more Terrans hadn’t made it to the semifinals. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day, a big crowd. Those of you fighting, get enough rest tonight. We’re rooting for each and every one of you.”

  There was smattering of applause and people dispersed to change, get their gear, and, for most of them, to nurse injuries and the pain of loss. There was chatter about going out to one of the few Terran bars on Surya. Carr made his way over to Gant.

  “We did all right, Luka,” the Martian said when he saw Carr approach. “Could’ve been better, could’ve been worse.”

  Carr nodded. “Could I get some extra tickets?”

  “I haven’t got that many more, but for you, sure. What do you need? Three, four?”

  “Six ought to do it.”

  Gant grunted. “Some family or friends of yours decided to unexpectedly show up?”

  “Sort of like that.”

  Uncle Polly got so angry at Risha that Carr got angry too and told him to shut up and not call her the things that he’d been calling her himself a few hours ago. Then he said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore and asked Polly what he thought of Macha and Soard’s qualifying fights earlier in the day. They sat around the small table in Carr’s hotel room, studying the videos. Carr was hydrating like mad, trying to clear his head and flush the nasty green Ceresian antifreeze from his veins. He had to get up every fifteen minutes to piss blue electrolyte solution. Tournaments were hard; there was no time for repair nanos between rounds. They would get picked up in pre-fight screening.

  “Soard had easy fights,” Carr said. “He’s not even trying yet. But he’s striking a lot more than he’s grabbing.”

  “Martian joints and bones aren’t as solid as Terran ones, even if they do self-remineralize,” Uncle Polly said. “Might be why he’s avoiding joint locks.” He paused, rubbing one of his leathery hands across his forehead. “You already know all this. You’re better off getting some extra sleep.”

  Carr was silent for a minute. “Okay.”

  Polly stood up and looked down at him for a long moment. “You’ll be all right?”

  “You’re asking if I can fight tomorrow? Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “That wasn’t what I was asking.”

  Carr swiped the holovid off the table and raised his eyes to his coach. He was surprised to see an aching softness in the old man’s eyes. Uncle Polly had been married once, though it had ended before Carr had known him. He didn’t have any kids of his own, and besides his brother Morrie, he didn’t talk about his family. Carr realized, a little painfully, that most of the time he was Uncle Polly’s family. His coach’s life was as linked to his as Risha’s had been. Had he long ago trapped Polly in the same way he’d more knowingly trapped Risha? Was Uncle Polly angry at Risha for his sake, Carr wondered, or just resentful that she’d escaped—done the right thing—when he had not?

  “I don’t blame her.” Looking at his hands, Carr didn’t realize at first that he’d spoken out loud. “I just didn’t think it would happen this way. I thought I had time. I meant to tell her. I just … couldn’t.”

  Uncle Polly looked away from him for a moment. “I know how that feels.”

  “Do you think she’ll come back?” Carr asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Polly said. Honest. Carr could appreciate that. “What I do know,” Polly said, and he cleared his throat, “is that I couldn’t give you up. I almost did, when I learned what I going to be a part of. But I couldn’t. Not when I thought I should, and not anytime since. I don’t see how anyone else could either. Doesn’t matter who designed you and why.”

  Carr’s eyes stung. He dropped his gaze and managed to mutter, “Thanks, coach.”

  “See you tomorrow, champ.” Uncle Polly hadn’t called him that since he was a kid.

  When he was alone, Carr got into bed and lay with his head turned so he could look out into space. Against the backdrop of pinprick stars, Mars looked dark and dusky, like a dull copper coin he’d once seen at an antique store on Jarvis Street near his mom’s apartment. His cuff told him that it was late evening, but he wasn’t sure what part of Mars the station kept time with. And he had no idea what time it was back on Valtego, or in Toronto. Was his mom awake? Was Enzo madly posting to his feed?

  His bed felt large and empty, like an ancient ghost ship from the earliest days of spacefaring, long ago flung out of orbit, destined to travel beyond the reaches of civilization, into nothingness. He slept.

  When the rising tone of an incoming call played in the middle of the night, he jerked awake at once, slapping at his cuff to accept the call even before he’d opened his eyes to the dark room. “Risha?”

  Two beats of heavy silence came from the other end. Carr blinked, managed to focus on his cuff’s display, and realized his mistake.

  “Mr. Luka,” said Detective Van. “Meet me in the lobby. I need to speak to you.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Carr was silent for so long that Detective Van said, “Mr. Luka, did you hear me?”

  “What are you doing here?” It was all Carr could think to say. His voice sounded like sandpaper.

  “I will explain if you meet me in person.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. I have … ” Carr stopped himself. Was Van here to arrest him? Was that why he was being awakened, to be dragged off before he could fight in tomorrow’s match? He sat up fast, his mind sprinting in all directions, considering ludicrous options for escape.

  “The timing could be better,” the detective conceded, “but I just arrived.” As if reading Carr’s racing thoughts, he added, “I’m here to talk, nothing more. But it’s important that you meet me.”

  Carr hesitated. “Do I have a choice?”

  “I can use my police identification to have the security system give me access to your room, so I would say, no, you don’t.”

  Carr cursed under his breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay … just wait.”

  He threw on his clothes and made his way through the halls to the lobby of the hotel. It was brightly lit, austere and functional, having more in common with the entrance of a docking hub or a laboratory than with the opulent foyers of Valtego’s ritziest hotels. The walls were the color of red clay and all the furniture was matte steel. Very Martian. Detective Van was standing in the middle of it, looking utterly out of place in his sun-faded leather jacket and scuffed black boo
ts. He was alone; that must be a good sign, Carr thought. Surely, if he were being taken into custody there would be more people, wouldn’t there? Detective Van motioned him over to one of the small workspace/meeting booths on the far side of the lobby. “Have a seat.”

  Carr sat. Van sat down across from him. The man leaned his forearms on the table and pulled a small tin from his pocket. “Mint?”

  “What do you want from me?” Carr asked.

  Van popped a mint into his mouth and stowed the tin. His beard looked as if it could use a trim, and his eyes had the brightness of someone who’d been running on caffeine instead of sleep for a long time. “Kaan Rhystok has fled Earth. He’s charged with numerous violations of genetics laws, as well as fraud and extortion. We have enough evidence now, from all the years his ‘seed and farm’ ring has been operating, to make the case against him stick for good.”

  “Congratulations,” Carr said.

  The detective snorted. “Congratulate me after we’ve caught him. He’s left Terran space, and getting the Martian authorities to cooperate with us on anything right now is difficult given the political situation. Fortunately, I’m sure he’s here. On Surya.”

  Carr’s mouth went uncomfortably dry. “Why would he be here?”

  “To watch you fight in War of the Worlds. I would put money on him being at the semifinals tomorrow.”

  He wished he hadn’t agreed to meet Van after all. When he managed to speak, each word came out flat. “What makes you so certain?”

  Detective Van let out a long sigh that smelled of spearmint. “Come now, Mr. Luka, we both know what you are.”

  When Carr didn’t answer, Van shifted forward and fixed him with a no-bullshit gaze. “Last month, a teenage music prodigy came clean on being enhanced, told us everything he knew about the scheme his parents were part of, which wasn’t all that much we didn’t suspect already. He volunteered for a full sequencing, which proved that his official genetic profile was fake. We traced the geneticist’s license number on the fake profile and discovered that it doesn’t exist; it’s on a list that Genepol has now compiled of expired and rescinded license numbers that were cleverly and fraudulently used during a five-year period, right around the time you were born. I pulled up your public profile and sure enough, your geneticist’s license number is one of the ones on our blacklist. Your genetic profile is as fake as wood on Mars.” Van tapped his green government cuff. “In the hour it takes to get a message to Earth and back, I could have a court order for you to be sequenced.”

  Carr felt vaguely ill. He was watching his future evaporate with every word out of Van’s mouth. How was it possible, he wondered, to lose everything in such a short period of time?

  Quietly, he said, “Why do we have these chats, detective?” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “If you’re here to arrest me, why don’t you just do it?”

  “I’m not going to arrest you. You need to fight tomorrow as if nothing is different.”

  Carr choked back a laugh. “So you can ruin me more publicly afterward?”

  The skin around the detective’s eyes wrinkled, his expression incredulous, impatient, and slightly pitying all at once. “This isn’t all about you, Mr. Luka, though it may seem that way, to someone with the ego of a celebrity athlete. My first priority is bringing Kaan Rhystok to justice. My second is not setting off a political and media firestorm to get it done. The story of a Genepol manhunt is barely a blip on the news-feeds, but half of Earth is watching you fight. You think I’m going to spook Rhystok and throw the entire carefully conducted investigation into the public eye on the eve of a huge Terran-Martian sporting event?” Van shook his head. “My two boys, they’re ten and twelve years old. They have no idea what I do, but they sure as heck know what you do. They’ve watched all your fights, and all three parts of that cheesy documentary. They have your posters on their walls and your Skinnwear line in their closets. Illegally enhanced or not, you’re on our side, you’re one of us, you’re Terran. You may be alone in that Cube, but combat has always been tribal. You have to finish this tournament.”

  Carr was silent.

  “I’m sending you an authorized police alert code. Fight your match. Rhystok will show himself to you at some point tomorrow. When he does, try to get close to him, speak to him, delay him if you can, and send the coded alert from your cuff-link. It will go straight to me, and to the Surya station police.”

  “He might not show up,” Carr said.

  “He’ll show. He’s an extremely meticulous and careful man, but he has a weakness, a kind of pathological interest in the people he’s designed. He thinks of them as his creations. His children, in a way. He attends their performances, follows their feeds, keeps tabs on them. I think he’s particularly fond of you.”

  A shudder of distaste ran through Carr, along with a strange and immense fatigue. Why was all this happening to him? There was a time, not that long ago, when things were a lot simpler. When he knew who he was, and what he wanted, and the world seemed like the sort of place that would reward him if he worked hard enough, and each step he took went forward, toward something better.

  He studied his hands. They were slightly curled, permanently so, from countless hours spent climbing the Cube. A couple knuckles were misshapen. The skin was pale and soft from being marinated in sweat under gauze and gloves. What good were these hands for, if not zeroboxing?

  “If I do what you ask,” he said, slowly raising his eyes to the detective’s, “is there anything you can do for me? Or am I done? Is this tournament the last time I’ll fight?”

  The detective’s chin tilted; he’d expected the question. His brown eyes were not without sympathy. “I can’t make you any promises. The law isn’t clear about how to handle a case like yours. And Genepol has no say in how the ZGFA decides to deal with you.” He paused, tugging his beard. “I can keep the nature of your involvement under wraps until well after the tournament. It’ll give you time to come to grips with what you are before the rest of the world has to.”

  “My coach,” Carr said. “And my mom?”

  Van gazed at him, solemn. “Help us tomorrow, and I can make sure they get off quietly.”

  Slowly, Carr nodded. That was the important thing now. His heart felt as heavy as a lump of ore in the center of his chest. He wanted to hate the man, this country farmer cop who was ruining his life, but he was too numb.

  A group of people staggered through the hotel lobby, bantering loudly. The booth shielded them from view, but Carr recognized the voices. His fellow zeroboxers, the ones who’d lost in the elimination rounds earlier today—or was it yesterday, now?—were returning from a night of revelry, having drowned their defeat in drink and camaraderie. One of them exclaimed, “Shitty domie food, what does it take to find a cheeseburger around here?” and the others laughed.

  Burning envy skewered him. Those guys didn’t know how good they had it. They’d lost today, but there would be other days, other matches, whole careers still ahead for them. He was nineteen years old and staring at what felt like the end of his world.

  Detective Van rose from his seat. “I’m sorry to have to do this right before your big match. It couldn’t be avoided. You understand why.” He truly did look sorry. Unmovable as rock, but still sorry. “Even knowing what you are, maybe even because of it … I’ll be cheering for you tomorrow.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Only sheer emotional exhaustion enabled Carr to catch a couple more hours of fitful sleep before he was on his way back to the Dr. Drew Ming Athletic Mall. Normally, the morning of a fight day brought with it a crystalline mental focus. Not so this morning. As he stared out the window of the private car, Carr’s thoughts were sluggish and jumbled; whenever he started to dwell on any one of them, it threatened to swell to psychologically unmanageable dimensions.

  The vehicle drove them past the mass of people waiting in line for the shuttle buses t
hat ran a doubled schedule to the stadium. Mixed in with the sea of tall Martians were rowdy clusters of die-hard Terran fans, their faces painted, carrying signs, shouting, and jostling for space. They were jostled back, and not in a friendly way. Heavy lines of security droids enforced orderly entry onto the loading platform, and watchful Surya policemen were everywhere.

  They made it to the athletes’ lounge without incident, where they waited for the draw to be determined. Scull kept patting down his drifting hair and checking and rechecking all their supplies, which, Carr wanted to tell him, did nothing to ease anyone’s nerves. Uncle Polly was a lot quieter than he usually was on a fight day and kept stealing concerned glances over at Carr, who did his best to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. If his coach thought what had happened with Risha yesterday would compromise his ability in the Cube, the man certainly did not need a whole additional level of worry.

  Risha. She hadn’t come back at all last night. She hadn’t called or messaged, and she’d blocked her cuff signal so he couldn’t track it. Was she even still on Surya? Was she watching?

  The WCC official came in and had each of the four lowmass semifinalists reach into a metal container and pull out a small magnetic ball. “Blue goes first, red second,” he said. The two Martians chose first; Soard wiggled his fingers dramatically as if choosing a piece of candy from a jar. He reached in and pulled out a blue metal sphere. Macha drew red.

  The marbles were replaced. Carr put his hand through the cut-out rubber lid and his fingers touched the cold round marbles stuck to the bottom of the box. He pulled one off and it floated free before he closed his hand around it and brought it out. It was red. Macha nodded, fixing Carr with a pleased, predatory expression.