by Fonda Lee
“Soard and Kabitain, you’re up,” the official said.
DK started for the locker room. Carr called after him. “Hey, DK … good luck.” He pulled himself over so they were face to face. He had no anger left for DK, not with everything else that had happened yesterday. He regretted losing their friendship, for ignoring him and leaving him behind, and he couldn’t even fault the man’s jealousy and resentment. “Let’s make it a Terran final.”
The corners of DK’s mouth twitched up. He was older and more jaded than the DK of a few years ago, but his voice held a touch of familiar good humor. “I never figured I’d have to get through the Martians for a shot at you.” He kicked off down the hall.
It was hard to pinpoint how a man could swagger without gravity, but Yugo Macha pulled it off. He nodded after DK. “I know how it feels to always be in another man’s shadow. I get sick of Soard taking all the glory.” His mouth curved in a smirk. “But today, I get to be the one to break Terran hearts.” He turned and made his way in the opposite direction, toward the locker room on the other side of the stadium.
“I don’t like him,” Uncle Polly muttered. “He’s got a desperate look.” Carr frowned after Macha in silent agreement. A man like that, all sharp edges and bitterness, could be wild and illogical in the Cube.
The entire zero gravity center seemed to be vibrating with energy. Above them, through the thick floors and walls, he could hear the throbbing noise of the crowd as the bell rang, ending the midmass semifinal. On the nearest wallscreen, Danyo “Fear Factor” Fukiyama swayed in stunned relief as the referee raised his arm, announcing a split decision victory that advanced him to the final. The Terrans in the stands screamed in excitement. The cameras zoomed in to capture one of them unhooking his tether in clear violation of the posted signs. His friends threw him clear and he went soaring upward, cycling his arms all the way to the clear netting above the seats. A couple of security guards with mini-thrusters retrieved him and pulled him from the stadium.
A few minutes later, the interlude of hypnotically deep bass Martian trench music faded out. Over the hubbub of the crowd, a taller, skinnier, Martian version of Hal Greese announced the first lowmass semifinal match.
“What are you waiting for?” Uncle Polly snapped Carr back to himself. “Go get dressed and warmed up!”
They made it to the locker room in time to see the opening launch of the fight. On the screen, DK propelled himself up and around the corner like a shot, punching his heels toward Soard in a signature double kick. Soard twisted his long body nimbly and let DK’s momentum carry him past, then landed a well-braced body blow that sent the shorter man spinning. Captain Pain tucked and found the wall, rebounded, and came back at the Martian without a hitch.
“Come on, DK,” Carr found himself urging under his breath as he changed into his shorts. He kept an eye on the screen while Scull taped his hands and helped him pull on his grippers. “You’ve got to cut angles around his reach,” he muttered.
After the first round, the camera cut to Xeth Stone and Jeroan Culver, their heads bent close together to hear each other. Xeth’s animated voice filled the locker room. “I’m impressed! Kabitain put on several kilos expressly for War of the Worlds, but it hasn’t slowed him down. He looked strong in this first round, against a very tough opponent.” The camera shifted to focus on a knot of about twenty Terrans in the stands, all of them with DK’s big ears and bronze skin, waving signs: WE LOVE OUR CAPTAIN! “There’s Kabitain’s cheering section,” Xeth exclaimed. “Quite a family turnout!”
“You’ve heard me say this before,” said Jeroan Culver, scolding, “but Danilo Kabitain is one of the most underrated zeroboxers in the ZGFA, and at age twenty-three, he still has a promising career ahead of him. In fact, people forget that he was an up-and-coming star in the feathermass division before Carr Luka became a household name.”
“Wouldn’t that be something, to see him versus Luka in the final here on Surya station!” Xeth exclaimed. “There’s a match-up that would make Terran fans in this crowd and back on Earth very, very happy.”
The first half of the second round went well for DK. He landed plenty of technical blows, bracing and climbing well and attacking from all angles, minimizing Soard’s advantage of reach.
Carr stretched and jogged the walls of the warm-up area. It was bigger and brighter than the one back home, but he was careful to start out more slowly. The cool air stung as he drew it in, warmed it with his lungs, pushed it back out. He knew he ought to be concentrating on his own upcoming match, but he kept drifting over to the wallscreen.
The third time he did so, Uncle Polly threatened, “I’m going to turn this off.”
Carr motioned for him not to. “I want him to win. He deserves it.” Terran fans should have a champion. One that won’t let them down.
With a minute left in the second round, Kye Soard shifted into high gear. From a crouch, he spun up into a kick that sent DK into an airborne head-over-heels spin. DK tried to stop his dizzying rotation, but as soon as his reaching fingers found traction, Soard’s power-launch plowed him in the other direction and sent the side of his head into the wall with a smack that made the entire stadium suck in a collective breath. For the rest of the excruciatingly long Martian minute, DK fought just to hold off Soard until the bell. When it rang, the cameras zoomed in for a shot of the competitors’ faces. DK looked dazed as he went to his corner. Soard drifted through his hatch lazily, took some water, and bounced on the balls of his grippers.
“What happened?” moaned Xeth. “Captain Pain was doing so well, but Soard just clobbered him in the final minute.”
“Unfortunately, Xeth, this is where you see Martian physique become an advantage,” Jeroan mused. “Soard relied on his endurance. He waited until he saw Kabitain start to tire, then just closed in and swarmed him.”
As the two commentators kept talking, the camera panned across the stands, zooming in on sections of the crowd. Carr picked up his pace but kept watching the screen with a queasy apprehension. Every time he saw a Terran man, he half expected it to be Rhystok. Whenever the camera settled on a Martian woman, he felt the sting of it not being Risha.
Thirty seconds into the final round, Carr could see DK was outgunned. Soard keep pummeling his lower body, his thighs and shins, which didn’t end the fight but wore DK down and crippled his ability to launch or climb, or do anything, really.
Carr sliced his hand across the front of the screen angrily, shutting it off. “Time me.”
“Three minutes,” said Polly. “No more than that.”
Carr ripped across the training space, ping-ponging from wall to corner, up, down, and around, throwing himself into fast launches that gave him only a second to execute full turns and changes of direction as he pummeled each of the suspended targets. When Uncle Polly called time, he’d started to break a comfortable sweat and the warmth had reached his fingertips. As he pulled himself over to the bench, he heard the muffled roar of the mostly Martian crowd and knew that DK had lost.
Uncle Polly helped him out of his thermal top, then checked his gloves and grippers, refastening them more out of habit than necessity. “What do you remember from watching Macha in the videos?”
“He runs his mouth off in the Cube, tries to mess with people’s heads, gets them to make stupid mistakes.”
Polly nodded. “Are you going to let him do that to you?”
“I’m not, coach.”
“No matter what he says or does. Don’t let him get to you, don’t get drawn into his game. What else?”
“He takes risks, opens himself up to try and land big moves.”
“That’s right. Stay steady and patient in there; sooner or later, he’ll get twitchy or cocky and leave himself open.”
The same official who’d done the drawing thrust his upper body into the locker room. “Luka, you’re on in five.”
�
��Things could get crazy out there,” Uncle Polly said. “This crowd, it won’t be like on Valtego. They won’t be on your side. You’re going to have to block all that out. Stay focused.”
“I’ll be fine, coach.”
Uncle Polly clapped his fists down over Carr’s, but there was still a worried set to his mouth. Carr wondered at what point in the last year the shift had happened between them. Before every fight in his childhood, Uncle Polly had been the one pumped up with boundless energy and optimism, completely confident of winning. Was it that he’d never worried back then, or that Carr had never noticed?
Before he reached the entrance to the deck, DK came through, his coach and cornerman supporting him on either side. He saw Carr but looked away quickly, his expression shattered. Carr swallowed whatever lame words of sympathy had started to form in his mouth. A loss this bad and this fresh was something a zeroboxer needed to be alone with for a while. It would take months, maybe a year or more, to find out if Danilo Kabitain could come back from it.
“And now … the second semifinal match of the expanded lowmass division,” boomed the announcer’s voice. “In the blue corner, at seventy-four kilograms, hailing from New Nanjing, Elysium Minor, and representing the WCC … YUGO ‘THE MANIAC’ MAACHAAA!”
Macha landed on the deck in a dramatic crouch, then stood and thrust his arms up, screaming something unintelligible as he exhorted the crowd to get crazy. The Maniac, Carr had heard it said, lived for three things: fighting, fucking, and fame. He’d once offered up, as a stunt, a zero gravity combat match between himself and two Elysian Rottweilers. His antics on the deck now were met with a wild cacophony of cheering and booing. Even in a mostly Martian crowd, it seemed he had about equal numbers of fans and haters.
“In the red corner, at seventy-three and a half kilograms, all the way from Valtego station, and hailing from Toronto, Earth, representing the ZGFA … CARR ‘THE RAPTOR’ LUUKAAA!
As Carr flew out onto the deck, sections of the stadium erupted in wild cheering and others with deep boos, so the two sounds melded together into an indistinguishable slurry of noise. He saw the multiple screens cut between him and the crowd, landing on a cluster of enthusiastic Terrans in the stands. It was the group of teens he’d met on the terminal platform yesterday. Had it really been just yesterday? They’d nearly had seizures when he’d returned to the terminal platform that evening with tickets for them. The girl with the curly hair in ringlets held up a sign: VIDA TERRA, VIDA LUKA.
Risha, are you out there?
The first round went pretty much as Carr had expected. Macha was a lot of bluster and dangerous energy, like a piece of sharp machinery set on too high a setting, jittering and spitting bits of shrapnel. “Come on, earthworm,” he shouted. “Hit me. Come on, try to hit me, wormie!” When this didn’t get a rise out of Carr, Macha got creative. “Hey, wormie, I hear you have a Martian girlfriend. You like to be fucked by Martians? I’ll fuck you! Come on, then!”
I can’t believe this guy, Carr thought. I’m going to beat the piss out of him. He held his ground while Macha bounced around, daring him. When the man slipped into range, Carr feinted a strike, then dove in close to clinch. Macha leaped and sprawled his limbs in defense, but Carr adjusted and went for Macha’s leg instead. He threw it hard, forcing his opponent into an uncontrolled spin. Carr sank his hands into the wall and shot both legs out, punching the man in the back with his heels and sending him flying to the other side of the Cube.
After that, Macha talked less and fought more, though he still spat profanities and insults whenever they weren’t trading blows. As much of an asshole as he was, the man was a strong zeroboxer, frustratingly good at defending against Carr’s grabbing, and wicked fast. He gave a lot of deliberate openings that Carr quickly learned to recognize as traps that led to being hit. At the bell, it was still anyone’s fight, though Carr thought he’d probably won the first round, narrowly.
“You’re doing everything right,” Uncle Polly said into his ear, and again in person back on the deck. “Stay cool, pick him apart, just like you’re doing.”
In the middle of the second round, Carr landed a punishing series of blows and a flying knee that started Macha’s nose bleeding. The blood oozed onto his face like a giant, nasty red blister, but some of it floated free, half a dozen small dark bubbles drifting in front of the man’s angry snarl.
Carr couldn’t help himself. “A little harder to talk now, domie?”
Macha’s face went scary dark. He started going for big hits, launching from weird angles, anything he could to land something on Carr. And he was relentless. Carr felt his heart rate skyrocket. But his mind grew calm. It hummed, found the pattern of the fight. He saw Macha’s exuberant moves coming and threw himself into answering them. He still couldn’t manage to grab and submit the man, but he was picking his places, landing strikes and the occasional throw. By the time the bell rang, he was pulling for air as hard as he ever had in a fight but confident he’d dominated the round.
Uncle Polly worked his hands over Carr’s shoulders. “Breathe for me, Carr. Take it all the way in, let it drop out. That’s it.”
Carr looked past his coach’s head, out across the crowd. It was unruly; people shouting, throwing their squeeze bottles, or releasing big floating globs of beer into the air. An announcement came over the speakers, sternly reminding everyone that untethering from their seats was strictly prohibited and would result in expulsion from the stadium.
Someone on or near the deck yelled, “Macha, you SUCK! Quit fooling and knock the earthworm out already!”
Scull toweled Carr off and took the ice pack from his neck so he didn’t cool too much. “You’ve got this one,” Uncle Polly whispered, fast and excited. “One more round just like that last one, and you’ve got it. Don’t do anything crazy, don’t get distracted, just keep the pressure on. Keep it on and keep scoring the way you have.”
Carr nodded. His heart rate and breathing recovered. He unhooked his feet from the bar, stood up, and dove back through the flashing hatch.
There was a kind of frantic, darting hatred in Macha’s eyes now, and a grim madness in the set of his lips. His skin, slippery with sweat, rippled with light when he moved, like that of a dark, wet eel. He stalked toward Carr murderously. His nose had stopped bleeding and his face had been cleaned off, but he sounded nasal when he spoke. “No Terran is going to win in this Cube.”
“Is that so.” Carr launched up and around a right angle, his cocked fist flying down at Macha’s face.
The man barely slid his head out of the way, but Carr had the follow-up knee strike ready. They collided, grabbing for each other in a tangle of limbs, and as Carr’s knee went into the man’s stomach, Macha’s right fist connected with his ribs.
He knew right away something was wrong. The left side of his body erupted with unusual pain, as if a metal tool had been driven into his flesh. Macha hit him again and he jerked, tried to kick the man away. The Maniac—so aptly named—held on and punched him a third time, the impact landing like a hammer on a slab of meat, then nearly took forward control. Carr drove his knees up and his hips back with all his strength and the two of them flew apart.
Carr swiveled to get into position for a rebound, but his torso screamed at the movement and didn’t complete the turn. He wondered if his ribs were cracked. He caught the wall with his stretched hands, his shoulders and arms straining to check his momentum, and the rest of him hit the wall flat. He pulled his feet back up under him before the impact could throw him off the surface, but Macha was coming at him again, like a comet. Carr brought his arms up to defend his face and the blow came down across his forehead, like the lash of a steel rod. He reeled in confusion, saw Macha still advancing, and dove out of the way, throwing himself into free space.
The Cube blurred and spun. He stretched his feet to the nearest incoming wall and bent his legs to stick the landing. Warmth was spreadin
g across his brow, and when he put his hand up to his forehead, the fingers of his gloves came away dark and wet. He wiped again and a stream of blood came off into the air, a wobbly red worm breaking into segments.
“Carr!” Uncle Polly was saying, “What’s going on in there?”
“His gloves,” Carr said, although without his cuff, his coach couldn’t hear him. “He’s wrapped something in his gloves.” Weighted them with something sharp and heavy. Easy enough to do. Completely illegal. “You domie prick.” Carr held up his hands, trying to signal to the dour Martian referee, but all he managed to do was shout, “Hey, stop the—” before Yugo Macha flew at him with a barrage of strikes.
Carr grabbed for his opponent, tried to pull him close to jam up his attack, but the man’s momentum was too great; he slammed into Carr and threw both of them free of the surface. Instead of trying to work his way into a proper submission hold, Macha held on to Carr’s neck with one hand and swung deliriously with the other, hitting any part of Carr he could.
“Are you crazy?” Carr screamed at him. He’d lost track of the hits. Couldn’t anyone see what was going on? Why weren’t they stopping the fight?
“No … worm … beats … me,” Macha ground out between blows.
Carr’s brain fired hot with rage. Macha wasn’t out to win, just to maim. Even if he lost, or got disqualified and thrown out, he’d consider it a job well done to send Carr to the hospital. End his tournament run, one way or another.
He pushed past the pain lighting up all over his body and slammed his hands down on Macha’s shoulders, heaving himself in the other direction. It didn’t separate them, but it got his face away from the man’s fists and Macha’s head down to the level of Carr’s chest. He landed an uppercut before they both collided with the wall. Carr got his feet in place first and planted his grippers hard, throwing his body into a blow that connected with Macha’s kidney right before the Martian’s fist opened another cut above Carr’s eye.