Zeroboxer (17 page)

“I think ‘boy god' sounds prissy.”

Jo Nesta laughed, a surprisingly pleasant sound, then dropped her voice, feigning a conspiratorial tone. “Shockingly, not everyone seems to be a fan. Some of your fellow zeroboxers have suggested that your popular success is as much about your crack marketing team and the media campaign that the ZGFA has put behind you as it is about your athletic ability.”

C
arr's eyes narrowed, his veins growing hot even as he kept an unconcerned smile plastered to his face. He knew who “some of your fellow zeroboxers” referred to. Jo
was parroting the words DK had used at his most recent press conference, in the lead-up to the superfight. Carr said, “Anyone who thinks that is welcome to meet me in the Cube.”

Nesta leaned back, switching to a solemn tone. “Speaking of unfortunate press, let's talk about what happened earlier today. There's a clip making its way around the Systemnet of you knocking a man unconscious in the middle of the street. I've heard of people taking their work home, but isn't that going a bit far?”

Carr wrapped his fingers around the armrests of the chair. He'd known Nesta would go there, but he was still having a hard time thinking about it calmly enough for an interview. “We—my girlfriend and I—got caught near a protest. People were gathering in front of this hotel on Valtego—”

“The Regency Lagrange,” Nesta supplied. “Fabulous egg salad.”

“The protesters, they were angry about Martians taking jobs and converting Terrans. It was getting out of hand. We tried to steer clear, but this guy started going after Risha and yelling at her. He threw a can and it hit her.”

“That's when you punched him in the face.”

“Yeah. I'm not sorry I did it, either.” Was that a bad thing to say? Was he going off-script? He couldn't remember and he didn't care.

“Your girlfriend is Martian, is that right?”

“Half-Martian.”

“Hmmm.” Nesta nodded to let the idea sink in, her eyes twinkling as if she'd been digging for treasure and just felt the clang of her shovel hitting metal. “Let's talk about that. Aren't you in an awkward spot? Your fans are overwhelmingly Terran, and we all know how tense relations
are between Earth and Mars right now. Trade disputes, accusations of ‘scientist poaching,' the controversy over mandatory genetic modifications for Terran immigrants to Mars … ” She tallied the issues on her fingers. “I could go on, and it just seems to be getting worse. Do you worry that being seen as sympathetic to Mars is going to cost you fans?”

The loaded question annoyed Carr. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and shook his head. “I'm not a politician—I'm just an athlete. I was born and raised in Toronto. I'm more Terran than dirt. How does my girlfriend make me ‘sympathetic to Mars,' whatever that means? She—” On a sudden impulse, Carr stood up and searched out Risha's figure standing off-stage, hugging her arms and watchi
ng. “Risha,” he said, waving her over. “Risha, come out here.”

He couldn't help but feel a little jolt of satisfaction at seeing her lips part in a small “o” of surprise. He waved at her again, insistently. She hesitated, then squared her shoulders and walked out in front of the cameras. A stagehand quickly set another chair beside Carr's and she sat down in it, sliding a questioning look toward him even as she put on a beautiful smile for Jo Nesta and the viewers. Carr reached out and put a hand over one of hers. He said, speaking to the host but looking at her, “Risha's face isn't on any ads. She's not followed by cameras and she doesn't have any fan-feeds. But she's my cornerman, always. When I'm in the Cube, it's like I'm fighting for both of us.” He turned to Jo Nesta, his face hardening. “For some guy to cuss at her, and hit her, just because he's mad at a whole planet … What was I supposed to do, huh? What would any guy do?”

Remarkably, Nesta appeared to be at a loss for wry or sarcastic comments.

Carr said, “As for costing me fans? My fans respect me for my performance in the Cube. All I know is, when I'm in there, I don't care what the guy looks like, or where he comes from, or what his government is. All I care about is what he can do. If he's there to fight, hard and clean, I respect that. Sports are simple that way. If people are going to judge me for something else, I can't do anything about it.”

Jo Nesta nodded and smiled into the camera. “Well, if only the leaders of Earth and Mars could get in a Cube to solve their problems. That would be a diplomatic exchange worth watching.”

On the shuttle ride home, Carr leaned his head against the side of the wall and closed his eyes. He felt tired and a headache was crawling up the base of his skull. Risha, flicking throu
gh views on her thinscreen, said, “You absolutely nailed it. Your popularity trending stats took a dip in the hours before the interview, but since then they've climbed to even higher levels than before. The poll on your feed shows that eighty-five percent of your subscribers approve of what you did, and seventy-six percent view you ‘more favorably' than b
efore.”

“I just want to sleep, babe.”

But he couldn't. It was late evening by the time they landed on Valtego. Standing at the corner of the docking hub's shopping plaza, Carr called for a taxi. The transportation services AI system returned a message saying there would be a five-minute wait. Simulated night had darkened the streets, but there were still plenty of people out, browsing the night markets, packing the open-air restaurants and bars, clustering around the bright lights of the casinos and theaters.

“How could DK say that about me?” he wondered out loud. “I feel like I don't even know him anymore.” Maybe he didn't. It rankled him when he thought about it, but he didn't see how it could be helped. The course the two of them had once been on had diverged, spun them off on different trajectories.

“Don't let it bother you.” Risha slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. “You're a champion, and champions are targets. People are always going to be coming after you now, wanting what you have.”

Her words rang true, and they were not pleasant to contemplate. Last year, not a day went by when Carr didn't envision defeating Henri Manon and winning the belt for himself. Who, right now, was training with the single-minded goal of doing the same to him? Who was imagining his face at the end of a fist? Who was fantasizing about
his
championship belt? Guys he didn't even know yet, who he passed in the gym maybe. His heart started pounding just thinking about it. He knew, rationally, that few people hung on to the top spot for very long, much less forever, and that he too would one day be dethroned. B
ut his gut cried out differently.
Never. Not me. I'm different.

The taxi arrived, and when Risha climbed in he set the destination for her and leaned through the doorway without getting in. “I'm going to the gym for a while.” When she started to protest, he said firmly, “I just need to burn off everything from today. Clear my head.” She opened her mouth again, then closed it and nodded. He shut the door and watched until the vehicle had glided silently down the street.

He wanted to go to the Cube, but he didn't have his gloves or shoes with him. Half an hour on the gyroscopic trainer, then. Maybe after that he'd be able to sleep peacefully. He walked to ZGFA headquarters, moving through the crowds purposefully, with his head down, and was relieved that no one saw his face long enough to recognize him. At one point he hurried right past a large image of himself, playing on a holovid banner. It was the arms-spread,
Earth Born, Not Earthbound
ad, with the date of his next fight—against Blake “the Destroyer” Murphy—in ten weeks. Tickets now
on sale.

At night, the building's translucent outer walls were lit bluish, just like the Cube under stadium spotlights. As he neared the entrance, a figure stepped forward from the shadow of the entryway. For a second, Carr thought it was Uncle Polly leaving the building, and he felt the urge to run to his coach like a little boy. He could talk to Uncle Polly and his coach would set him straight. Polly would remind him of what was important and focus him on his next fight—take him back to where things were simple and made sense.

His steps quickened, but it only took another second to see that it wasn't Uncle Polly. The man had the same height and build, but he was a stranger. He was wearing a dark coat and square-toed boots, even though there was no need for either on a climate-controlled city-station. At Carr's approach, he said, “Carr Luka?”

Carr paused. “Who are you?”

The man lifted his arm to display the identification code on the underside of his green, government-issued cuff. “My name is Detective Van,” he said, just as Carr's optics matched the code and the man's face and flashed an
ID confirmed
message into the corner of his vision. “I'm from the International Commission on Genetics. Genepol.”

SEVENTEEN

F
or a second, Carr felt as if he had taken Henri Manon's killer left fist straight to the face again. His brain bounced around inside his head, bruising itself against the inside of his skull, even as his feet stood rooted to the ground as if he were wearing magnetic shoes a hundred times more powerful than his grippers.

“What can I do for you, detective?” he heard himself say. He was surprised that he spoke calmly and without any thought at all, like raising an arm to ward off a blow.

“May we speak somewhere privately?” Detective Van's voice hinted at nothing; it was as neutral as the voice of an AI program in a car or a house. He was a lean, solid man, the detective, with an accent that sounded European and a short dark beard that made it hard to judge his age. He looked so obviously Terran it was almost caricature. His clothes were made of natural materials—cotton
and leather—and his skin was rough and sun-spotted, his nails thick and blunt from working with his hands.

All these things Carr made distant note of, his mind going through the reflexive motions of sizing up an adversary. He
looked toward the doors of the building. No, not in there. If there was anyone inside using the training floor, he didn't want them to see this. To see him being led away in handcuffs. He said, “There's a noodle shop across the street.”

“That's fine. I won't take much of your time.”

They walked over to the very same place he and Risha had first sat down together after she'd abruptly appeared in his life last year. An eternity ago. The view through the sky windows was the same, just with different ships. An invisible but searing jolt of despair raced through Carr. His worst nightmare was coming true—suddenly, without warning, like an asteroid out of nowhere. Van knew what he was. He was going to be arrested. His mom and Uncle Polly would go to jail. He would be stripped of his title. They would take his belt right off the wall of his new apartment and hand it back to Henri Manon and, in a few hours, he would be nothing.

Detective Van touched the table's menu-screen to order a soda with ice, but Carr shook his head. He felt enough like throwing up as it was. The detective asked, “Are you familiar with what Genepol does, Mr. Luka?”

Carr forced himself to shrug. “You enforce international laws on genetics. Something like that, right?”

Detective Van nodded. “Most of it is rather boring. Working with national governments to ensure uniform licensing and inspection standards for genetics service providers. Ensuring that all new chromosome packages coming to market are independently audited. That sort of dull stuff. I work on the interesting part, the investigation of genetic crimes.”

Carr wondered if the man could hear his pulse, it seemed so loud. “What do you need to talk to me for?” he asked, masking his fear as impatience. He kept his hands under the table, so if they trembled Van wouldn't see.

The detective unfolded a thinscreen, similar to Risha's but a smaller model. He called an image up and set it down in front of Carr. It was a photo of Mr. R. The image was a little grainy and the man looked younger, with longer hair, but Carr knew it was him. “Have you seen this man before, Mr. Luka? Perhaps at zeroboxing matches or other ZGFA events? He may have identified himself as a prospective sponsor, or an athletic scout.”

Carr's thoughts were racing wildly. He pretended to study the image carefully, as if trying to rack his memory. Would the detective be able to tell if he was lying? He'd heard or read somewhere that some police-grade optic and cochlear implants could read a suspect's facial reactions and analyze speech to detect signs of deception. Is that what was going on behind the man's cool, inquisitive gaze?

Slowly, Carr shook his head. “I meet a lot of people, detective. I'm not good at remembering all of them.”

“Perhaps your optics would have captured him at some point?”

“I cycle through my transmission capacity pretty fast.
If I've seen him before, it wasn't recently enough to still be on my feed.” Carr gazed steadily at the detective. Eye contact was a sign of sincerity, he thought, and he hadn't technically lied, not yet. “Who is he, anyways? You mind telling me what all this is about before you keep asking me questions?”

“He goes by several aliases, but his name is Kaan Rhystok. He's the leader of an international ‘seed and farm' ring that's been evading prosecution for many years.”

Carr swallowed. “Seed and farm?”

A service droid nudged up with Van's soda. He took it and stirred, his eyes still on Carr. “For a long time, we split genetic crimes into two categories. Discrete crimes are pretty straightforward. Like the case a few years ago, of a cult geneticist who sold a dozen people on the idea that he could design their children with wings so they'd be born as angels. You get some sad cases of really deformed kids, but the perpetrators are usually easy to identify. Organized crimes are trickier. There might be rogue governments involved—there's always a motive to enhance soldiers, or spies, or for those in political power to try to make themselves and their offspring better than everyone else. For the most part, though, we know who has the means and motive to be included on that list. Then there's the third kind of crime.” The detective took a long sip of his soda.

“And that is?” Carr asked despite himself.

Van leaned back. “Do you go back to Earth much, Mr. Luka?”

“Sometimes. For meetings, publicity stuff.” Carr wanted to scream. This was some kind of slow torture.

“Do you ever go out into the country, into the agricultural areas?”

“No.”

“Well, you ought to. See Earth as it really is. The cities are almost as unnatural as space settlements, in my opinion. My family owns a few acres on Greenland. It's not much, but every year I plant a bunch of seeds. Carrots, sweet peas, bok choy, artichoke … I try something new every year. The soil is wonderfully fertile, but the weather is unpredictable. I never know what will grow well and what won't, but I can always be assured that
something
will pay off for me
.”

“I don't have all night, detective,” Carr said. “What are you getting at with this gardening story?”

“Rhystok's ‘seed and farm' operation works the same way. He custom-designs enhanced embryos, usually sourced from people who can't afford a geneticist, then waits for them to develop into musical prodigies, superstar athletes, powerful politicians, wealthy businessmen … whatever it is they're meant to be. Then, when they're far enough along in their careers, irretrievably invested in their giftedness, he extorts them. It's a unique model because instead of profiting at the time he provides enhancement, he's reaping its benefits years down the line. It's extremely
difficult to prosecute him because his victims have no interest in exposing him.” Van stared straight at Carr. “Many of them don't even know what they are until he pulls them into his scheme.”

Carr felt as if he were watching something not real. A holovid of himself and the detective having a scripted conversation, each playing a role the other could see through. He said, “What makes you think this man is involved in zeroboxing?”

“I've been tracking him for a long time, Mr. Luka. I know he's made a number of trips to Valtego, and on this city-station, there's no bigger sport than zeroboxing.”

“I told you I haven't seen him.”

“Can I count on you to keep an eye out for him? To call me if you see him?” He set his drink down and sent his cuff's linkage code to Carr's.

Carr's cuff flashed a response, which he ignored. “Sure. Happy to help.” Sounding indifferent, he added, “If what you say is true, then the people he … designs, what happens to them?”

The detective didn't miss a beat. “That depends on their involvement. The courts have ruled that a person who falls outside of legal genetic parameters through no fault of his own can't be prosecuted,
unless
”—and here he paused—“unless he knowingly uses his genetic enhancements in an illegal manner. Such as, say, competing in an athletic event. That's why it's extremely important that anyone contact
ed by Mr. Rhystok cooperates fully with the authorities.”

There was long silence between them. Finally Carr said, with a very real edge of anger in his voice, “Are you suggesting something, detective? Because for the record, my genetic profile is clean.”

“It does look clean, from what I can see in the public file. I can't subpoena a full profile or request a court order for a full sequencing on a person just for being exceptionally talented.” He actually smiled. It was a surprisingly warm smile. Carr imagined it was the sort of smile neighbors in Greenland exchanged. “I sincerely hope this whole conversation will never concern you, Mr. Luka. But we're getting close to catching Rhystok and putting his operation out of business. It's only a matter of time. If you ever have to choose between helping us or hindering us, I suggest you do the right thing.”

Detective Van stood up, but Carr didn't move, ludicrously afraid that anything he did might crack his mask and give him away. The detective said, “I've taken enough of your evening. Good luck in your next match. You should know one other thing, though. Have you heard the story of Fillip Bryght, the champion swimmer?”

“I don't know the first thing about swimming,” Carr said.

“Fillip Bryght, until a few years ago, was the most decorated competitive swimmer in recent history. He broke a dozen world records, won every competition there was to win, and racked up plenty of endorsements. Two years ago,
he got into a sailcar racing accident and shattered his hip. Terrible story, it was in the news-feeds for a while. Surgeries, nanos, rehab, nothing could make him what he used to be. He became depressed, started drinking, and fell under a lot of debt. Six months ago, he died in an apparent suicide.
”

“Tough break.”

Van nodded. “Two weeks before he died, he contacted the police, claiming to be a victim of extortion and telling them his life was in danger. He wouldn't give details. I'm sure he couldn't stand to lose his legacy, his reputation—it was all he had left. But he was broke and had no earning potential anymore. I suspect he died because he was a loose end, a potential liability. Rhystok and his accomplices claim they're helping people, that enhancement is an extraordinary gift. But they don't think of people as people. They think of them as profit generators doing exactly what they were designed to do.” Van tugged on the bottom of his jacket, straightening it. “Good night, Mr. Luka.”

Carr waited until the detective had left the noodle shop and disappeared into the flow of people coming out of the gravity zone terminal and making their way down the streets, calling taxis and piling into buses. He waited until his heart rate came back down to normal and his hands steadied and the sick fear in his stomach had gone. It didn't take long, but it took longer than anything he could remember.

He walked back to the ZGFA building in a kind of fierce, defiant haze. He got on the gyroscopic trainer, then the trampoline, and the weights, trying to lose himself, to wear himself down until he was too exhausted to think. He staggered out near morning just as others were starting to arrive. He took a taxi home, crawled into bed, and slept.

He dreamed, again, that his match was about to start. The crowd was shouting, “LU-KA! LU-KA!” but he was still stranded on Earth, watching the whole thing on screen with mounting panic. He had to get back to Valtego, and, in dream logic, a fast-enough sailcar could surely escape gravity. Only now the vehicle was speeding out of control, and the AI unit wasn't responding, and the manual controls were shot to hell, and the whole contraption was starting to whine and shudder as a horrible burning smell filled the narrow cockpit. When he looked up, Mr. R was sitting next to him, impossibly, and said with a reptilian smile, “You're acting far more concerned than necessary.”