A Planet for Rent (12 page)

Arno doesn’t even try to keep the voxl; he passes it to me, and the ogre pivots and comes after me. He’s not going to have enough time. Kowalsky tries desperately to get out the trap. But the Slovskys have learned their lessons well; they’re impenetrable.

Sheesh, this Colossaur is fast for his size. He’s almost on top of me already. Now, the surprise: when the magenta mound reaches me, I pass to Arno. Who’s totally free. The Colossaur is on top of me... I curl into a ball to protect myself, while I glimpse Arno out of the corner of my eye controlling handily. This is going to be a rude awakening.

One, two... pain. The impact twists my back, something seems to break. I scream. Darkness. And from far away, over my headphones, my team shouts victory.

Black, everything black and hot.

Goal for Earth!!! Five to Eleven!

Time out: Daniel Menéndez, Captain of Team Earth, out for injuries. Substitute Jonathan Henderson joins play.

“That was a brave play. Even suicidal, I’d say. Like trying to stop a charging bison. You were lucky to get out of there alive,” Gopal’s voice comes across the void.

He’s proud of me, old man...

I emerge from unconsciousness for good when he claps me on the shoulder. The electrodes of the medical monitor are tickling me. I can’t feel my legs, but that’s nothing new.

“Four?” I ask with a smile. My mouth feels woolly.

“Not that bad, just three broken vertebrae. I told you, you were lucky to get out alive. A couple of minutes in the defracturing machine and back into the game with you. You still have a good induced regeneration quotient. It would take Arno twice as long to recuperate—he’s really abused his body.”

“I take pretty good care,” I sigh, relieved, trying to sit up and watch the holoimage of the game that’s monopolizing the former Delhi Wonder’s attention. But I can’t manage. It hurts too much. “What are they doing now?”

“Arno’s leading them, they’re trying to do the trident,” Gopal explains, lost in thought. It isn’t so easy to take in the whole picture of the game from outside. “Don’t wriggle so much. Now you’re getting a hundred milligrams of regidrine. Daniel, that play turned out well, but we can’t repeat it. I have to protect them.” He looks away from the hologram and smiles at me. “You’re the best captain I’ve ever had. None of the others would have sacrificed like that for a goal. Facing down the Colossaur by yourself was crazy.”

“But it worked,” I smile. That’s it; it’s on his conscience, since he’s the one who suggested it to me. “And it was my decision, not your fault.”

“Obstinate as ever. The first time I saw you, I knew you were the sort who’d never stop till you made it,” he says, not listening to me. “Oh, Daniel, if the rest of the team had your heart...” He watches the holoimage and clicks his tongue, disgusted. “Look, they made them fall for the old shell trick... Mvamba still has lots to learn. Nobody’s going to keep them from letting the League score another goal.” He looks at me and sighs. “Ready, champ?”

“Let’s go,” I answer; I’m ready. I can feel my toes again.

He helps me suit up a second time. “This time, try leaving the Colossaur unguarded... If you can block his passes, all his strength won’t do him any good. Good luck, champ!” he sends me off with a pat on the back.

I return to the court at the same time the announcement comes over:

The League scores the fourth goal of the game. Scoreboard: Fifteen to Five. The captain of Team Earth is back. Substitute leaves the court.

Yes, Gopal was right: once they let them form the shell, they could kiss that fourth goal goodbye.

I gather the team around me.

“Hey, let’s not let it get us down. We can do better, am I right? Gopal thinks we should leave the de-shelled giant unguarded.” Skeptical whistles. “You’re right, it’s crazy. So let’s just pretend to do it,” I crack my knuckles enthusiastically. “At the moment of truth, let’s have the twins against the Colossaur, Mvamba and Arno against the Cetians, I’ll take on Kowalsky, which leaves Yukio free to score. And, heads up, a little bird told me that if the shell worked for them last time, they’ll most likely try the cross next. That’s what the Hussars always did, remember?” Confident laughter.

That’s my team.

Like I’m a fortune-teller. They try to fake us out by starting off with the trident (copycats!), but then they form the cross. Kowalsky up the side, one of the clones up the middle, the other on the other wing, the Colossaur bringing up the rear.

Mvamba and Arno play against the Cetians, the twins pretend to be confused and leave the Colossaur behind, unguarded. Kowalsky shoots forward and here he comes, handling the voxl. He’s going to pass it, he can’t resist the temptation. Now!

The switch-up. The Slovskys stop the magenta mound practically cold; I’ll never get tired of saying it, those kids have talent. Arno squashes the ex-captain of the Hussars into a corner (I’ll have to kiss him for that steamroller move). I control one clone, Mvamba mixes it up with the other, and now Yukio has the voxl.

My samurai feints behind the Colossaur’s back (yes, he’s already cut free, a couple of two hundred-pound humans can’t hold 650 pounds of xenoid for long) and gets one bounce... Mvamba and the twins in a scrum with the giant, while I’m practically doing somersaults to block the clones. Kowalsky gets away from Arno (too slow and heavy to hold him) and rushes over, but Yukio screams “Banzai!” and wraps him in the serpent’s embrace. The voxl moves on its own, from inertia. Two... The third rebound is completed right in front of the Colossaur’s nose. Timed to the fraction of a second. I’d give half a million credits (if I had them) for his helmet to go suddenly transparent. A look of surprise, of rage, of both?

How do you like that, Gopal? In the end, we did leave him unguarded.

Earth scores the fifth goal of the game! Nine to fifteen!

We scream like crazy and hug in a frenzy. The magentas look at us without moving. They must be burning with anger.

Kowalsky comes over and turns off his helmet. His broad whiskers stick sweatily to his cheeks. He smiles. No fury, all pro. “Hey, kids, chill—it’s just a game.” He comes even closer and whispers to me, “But put a move on, mestizo,” he nearly spits the insult in my ear. “Win or lose, I make more in one day than you do in a year. I’m in the League, get it? Something you can only dream of. Don’t forget: I already made it to the top.”

I don’t answer, and he turns his helmet back on.

A crude psychological trick, insulting me. Yes, I’m mestizo—my skin is the color of café con leche, I can’t deny it. In pure logic, it would be stupid of me to feel insulted by what he said. But there was such contempt in his words...

Something is burning inside me.

Want the voxl, renegade? We’ll give it to you, but good. Let’s see if the guys in the League know how to lose.

I call my team over.

“Okay, they’re asking for it. Let’s drive them crazy with the tunnel. We’ll start by pretending to lose control right away, at the serve, and throw them off guard. And we’re going to erase those six points they’re up on us. Because, what are we?” I shout this last question.

“
The champions!”
they reply in unison.

Nothing in the universe can stop us now.

I pretend to mess up my control of the voxl and send it flying away from me at an odd angle, gaining velocity. They fall for it like fools, all chasing after it.

So Yukio easily reaches the other end of the court. And when a Cetian goes after the rebound, the line already has the field split down the middle. Arno crushes the clone, whose pass to Kowalsky goes wide. Lev Slovsky takes it, and there you have the tunnel effect: Slovsky—Mvamba—me. And Yukio, protected behind the wall of bodies, open for the goal. One, two... The Cetians crash into Jan Slovsky and me, Kowalsky tangles with Mvamba, and... What are they doing? But Arno isn’t even part of the play! The Colossaur is rushing at him full speed! Shit, no...!

“
Arrgghh
!” The Blond Hulk’s scream of pain blasts through the headphones. He didn’t have time to turn off his vocoder...

Sixth goal for Earth!!! Thirteen to fifteen! Defensive back Arno Korvaldsen injured. He leaves the court. Substitute Jonathan Henderson takes his place. Both teams past the ten point mark, pause for half-time.

The paramedics cart off Arno Korvaldsen, mercifully unconscious. His enormous back twisted into an impossible knot, his limbs convulsing. The doctor looks at me and shakes his head. He won’t get over this.

Sons of bitches, giving us the goal so they can take out our defensive back. It’s a diabolical strategy. Jonathan doesn’t have the weight it takes to be an effective substitute for the Blond Hulk. We’ll have to reconfigure the whole squad.

The Slovkys, helmets already off, look on in astonishment as they carry the Dane off the court. Apparently they believed he was simply indestructible. They’re deeply shocked—and so am I. Injuries in Voxl are as common as sweat. But ones as serious as this are pretty rare.

The magenta but unmistakably human silhouette of Kowalsky comes up to me. He turns off his helmet, smiling sarcastically.

“Poor old Dane, he hurt his widdle backsy. They shouldn’t let the elderly play with us, the best guys in the League, no matter how big they are. Sometime unfortunate accidents happen... This is Voxl, mestizo. Let’s see how well you do now without your defensive back, Latino.” He turns his helmet back on and leaves.

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything to him. Didn’t break his neck, like I’d really love to do. He plays for the League, and when the game clock is stopped, he’s as untouchable as a god. Like all xenoids.

The last time a human Voxl player responded to a Centaurian’s insults and stuck four inches of steel between his ribs, the xenoids sprayed the entire Melbourne Astrodome with mushroom gas. Only five thousand people were killed, crushed in the panic to get out, but two hundred thousand humans were condemned to a slow, horrible death, watching their lungs rot for the next ten years, until the end came. There are worse things than mere death...

And the worst part is, the Centaurian didn’t even die from the stabbing. There’s no justice in this world.

Gopal comes over, his expression inscrutable, and whispers, “It isn’t worth regenerating that body. Multiple head injuries, eight vertebrae pulverized, six broken ribs. Worst of all, brain dead. They’ll have to autoclone him—his insurance will cover the expenses. When was the last time he recorded his consciousness?”

I sigh. “Arno was a meticulous guy. Right before the match. How long will it take?” I finally ask.

“An hour, I think...” Gopal shrugs. “Mechanical wombs are getting faster all the time. And it’s been a long time since I saw anything like this...”

Yes... When you play Voxl, you know it could happen to you at any moment. At first it’s very scary, but after a while you get used to the idea. When all is said and done, if your insurance covers it, and the worst is never going to happen to you... And then, all of a sudden, it happens near you. Very near. And you realize that you’re never going to get completely over the fear of dying. Because it’s horrible. It always will be, even if the darkness only lasts for a while. Even if resurrection is guaranteed.

Arno won’t see how this game ends.

I call the team. I can see in their faces that they already know.

“An hour,” I tell them anyway. “You know already. He’ll wake up plenty of pounds lighter, he’ll have to get his new body ready all over again, more hormones, more training, special diets and all that... A Voxl player’s body doesn’t just depend on his genes. It’ll be at least half a year before he can play again. So I really want, as a gift when he wakes up, for us to be able to tell him, ‘Arno, we won. We did it for you, Great Dane.’ What do you think?”

We shout.

We are the champions.

Of course we’ll win!

Full of faith, we run to the hydromassage tank.

We’ve already reached a point no human Voxl team has gotten to in decades of matches against League players. Thirteen to fifteen. The last time a Team Earth got past the ten point mark against xenoids was twenty-six years ago, captained by the Delhi Wonder—our very own Mohamed Gopal.

All the executives of Planetary Transports Inc. must be patting themselves on the back for sponsoring us. In exchange for their large and risky investment, now they have exclusive rights to the five minutes of half-time advertising in the game of the millennium. Worth billions.

Like all the other annual Voxl matches between humans and xenoids, this one is broadcast via holovision to the five continents of Earth, to all the worlds that comprise the League, and even to those colonies that have their own orbital hyperantennas. At this moment, more than four fifths of the entire human population must be in front of their holoscreens, praying to their gods for our victory. And probably a good fifth of the entire galaxy is paying attention to the outcome of the game, though, of course, more out of curiosity than because they’re fans.

We’re going to show them that Earth is more than a mere tourist trap.

Though, without Arno, we’ll be walking a tightrope.

“Remember the Chinese box?” I ask the team while the vibrations of water massage our overexcited muscles. “It hasn’t been used in a long time... They might not be taking it into account.”

“That’s staking the whole match on a coin toss. Too risky,” Jonathan hesitated. His hands are shaking. He sure goes all or nothing. “I don’t know... If we score, it’ll only put us at sixteen. But if they stop us, counterattack, and score, we lose everything. We should be more cautious...”

“Screw cautious!” Mvamba sits bolt upright, sending water splashing everywhere. His eyes shine with the determination of youth. His ebony body, like a beautiful statue, is still trembling from the emotions of the game. “I say let’s do it!”

“Let’s do it. For the Blond Hulk,” the twins say in unison, square jaws jutted forward.

Yukio, narrowing his lips, nods in agreement.

Jonathan raises his hands, gives up, nods with them.