Zeroboxer (6 page)

“He said that?”

Risha took a bite of chili, leaned back, and smiled, as if she'd won some match he didn't know they were having. His thoughts ping-ponged between how he was going to break Dunn's face, and how exotic and beautiful she was. Before he could stop himself, he said, “How old are you?”

Catching her off-guard gave Carr a twinge of satisfaction. He even thought he saw her blush, though he couldn't be sure—it might just have been the pink fountain ligh
t reflecting off her skin, like sunset off a wet seal.

“Eleven,” she said. “Martian years.”

He blinked at her. “So … twenty-one?”

“Twenty. Why are you smiling?”

“No reason. Just a little bet with my coach.”

She angled her shoulders away from him and fiddled with the spoon in her bowl. “I skipped two grades when I moved to Earth.”

“You're crazy smart, is what you're saying.”

“That is not what I said. Martian schools are academically ahead of Terran ones.” She gave him a mildly exasperated look. “You seem intent on turning our conversations around on me. Do you enjoy unbalancing me professionally, or are you just sexually attracted to me?”

“Both,” he said without hesitation. He could still feel the tingling hot spot on his arm where she'd tapped him with her finger earlier. “Don't take it the wrong way. You're doing a good job as a brandhelm, really.”

Risha opened her mouth to reply, but someone began shouting and they both turned toward the sound.

“SINNERS! We have sown the seeds of our destruction. Engineered life is impure life, promised to the devil!” A man had climbed up onto the ledge of the light fountain. He had several days worth of stubble on his unwashed face and a thinning thatch of unkempt hair, which he kept repeatedly running his hands through as his tirade grew louder and more incoherent. A large, scrawled sign hung around his neck:

Soldier X —Veteran and GUINEA PIG

Renounce Repent Be PURE!!!!

God gives it a body as HE has chosen
—
1 Corinthians 15:38-39

Most people near the man shifted away hastily, and passersby made wide circles to avoid him. The two men who'd been in the
tzuka
chili line with Risha, the only other Martians in sight, were seated at a nearby table. Their tan uniforms and banded sleeves marked them as crew of Interplanet Freight, one of the three main shipping companies that came through Valtego. One of the crew members scowled in disgust, then touched his thumb to his front upper teeth and flicked it toward the man in a Martian gesture of contempt. “Ah, shut up and eat dust!”

The ranting man's eyes, darting and unfocused, high on bliss bombs or sweet dust, swiveled around. “Abominations!” he shouted at the Martians.

The crewman's eyes slitted and he started up from his seat. “Say that again, earthworm.”

His companion waved a hand lazily. “Sit down. That vacck-head's not worth it.”

“Unholy and impure!” shrieked the man on the fountain ledge.

Carr stood up. “Let's go,” he said to Risha. “You don't need to listen to this.”

Risha got to her feet. The man caught sight of her and pointed a rigid finger. “
Abomination,
” he hissed again, dragging the word out into each of its syllables.

Carr put a hand under Risha's elbow and his body between her and the crazy nut as he steered them away from the center of the food plaza. He spared a glance behind, long enough to see two security guards hurrying toward the commotion, one of them talking down the crewmen, the other approaching the man on the fountain with a drawn stun stick. The occasional drifter could show up on Valtego and be largely ignored, but any incident that antagonized one of the big Martian shipping firms would probably land the man in a cell or on the first police transport back to Earth. Keeping his grip on Risha, Carr navigated them past tables and food vendors, away from the crowds and the light.

In a few minutes they were walking down a residential street, apartment complex tubes descending on either side into
swanky penthouses with unobstructed views of space. There was high-quality simulated night in this neighborhood—a very natural softness to the dusk, the fragrance of blooming trees in the air. Carr climbed his hand from Risha's elbow to her tense upper arm and stroked it. The sheen of her skin paled a little under the pressure, then came back again when he moved his hand away. The effect made him want to do it again. “Hey,” he said, “forget that nut.”

She turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the starlight from the expansive sky windows. “He couldn't really be a Soldier X case, could he?”

Carr shook his head. “No way. That scandal happened before he was born.” Decades ago. He vaguely recalled learning about it in modern history class. Thousands of private sector soldiers had consented to genetic tampering that was supposed to improve their executive reasoning and reflexes, but instead gave them a degenerative neurological disorder. Criminal charges, lawsuits, and massive settlements ensued. “Maybe he knew someone who was part of it. Or he was just plain delusional and vacuum-headed on bliss.”

Risha's mouth was still grim. “Vaccked or not, there actually are Terrans who believe the same as him.”

“That we should all join the Purity Movement and reject even basic gene therapy? That Martians aren't human?” Carr wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, sure, there are people who believe all sorts of crap.”

They sat down on a bench tucked into a small garden of artificial plants. Even a few live ones grew in hydroponic containers, and there was the gentle, recorded burble of water. Carr tried to think of a way to steer the conversation back in the pleasant, exciting direction it had been going before the whole raving-lunatic incident.

“Where are you living?” he asked, chagrined that he hadn't bothered to check on how she was settling in on Valtego. “Do you have a place?”

Risha smiled a little, her shoulders relaxing. “I think I've found an apartment I like in the inner ring. I've been staying with a friend in the meantime. She lives in the Celestial on Eighth, not far from here.”

“I'll walk you back there,” Carr offered. He wasn't that familiar with this part of Valtego; he checked his cuff for directions and a red directional arrow appeared in the corner of his vision. They walked in silence for a few minutes. He stole glances at Risha, achingly aware of her nearness, but she seemed lost in thought.

“Martians aren't just different in the way Terran races are different from each other,” she said finally. “We did it to ourselves. We turned our backs on the old planet and
chose
to make ourselves different. Maybe even better
.
That's what the average person on Earth thinks.” They reached the entrance tube of the apartment complex and she turned to face him, hugging her own arms though he knew she wasn't cold. Her armor of competence was down; beneath it, he caught a glimpse of something pensive, even anxious. “In school I learned that if it wasn't for genetic designers, the Martian colonies probably wouldn't have survived after Earth stopped supporting them. But when I moved to Earth, I learned that Terrans thought Martians were arrogant, trying to dominate the solar system, acting above God and whatnot. How does that happen? How do people conveniently forget history?”

Carr shook his head, feeling ludicrously compelled to say something in defense of his planet. “Terrans aren't just a bunch of stupid bigots. Earth has so much more history, so many people, there's religion, and poverty … ” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I grew up in a poor, shitty neighborhood in Toronto, and the kids I knew, they didn't have big, bright, hopeful futures. I'm lucky, because I
made it here. I heard that something like eighty percent of Terrans have never left the planet surface. All those other billions of kids down there, they hear that livable space on Mars is growing while on Earth it's shrinking, that all the major discoveries are being made off-planet, and so are the jobs. No wonder some of them turn out like the guy in the food plaza.”

She was silent for a moment, dark eyes roaming over him thoughtfully. “So what makes you special?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were lucky because you made it here. How did you do it?”

He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. “Wanting it enough, I suppose. Working my ass off.”

She nodded several times, her eyes glistening. “Yes.”

He didn't see why his answer was exciting to her, but he decided the slow, breathless way she'd said “yes” might be the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. He hoped she didn't invite him inside, because he would have to accept immediately.

“Risha,” he said, “Look. I know I haven't been a great client so far. Or even a friend. After next week, maybe we could, you know, spend a bit more time together … ”

“I'm your brandhelm. We'll be spending plenty of time together.”

Was that smile a promise?

He watched her slender, white-clad form disappear into the apartment. His mind was acting like an inexperienced zeroboxer in the Cube, bouncing unsteadily from wall to wall: BB Dunn, ImOptix, Terrans, Martians, Risha. He felt, suddenly, as if Risha was counting on him. Depending on him, even. That when he met his opponent in the Cube next week, he wouldn't just be fighting for himself, or for Uncle Polly, but for her as well. And as smart and driven as she was, she needed someone to fight for her.

The thought settled into him, made him feel warm, and lengthened his strides as he headed for home.

SEVEN

C
arr went into the fight with BB Dunn wishing he could have had another three weeks to prepare, but it turned out he
didn't need
them. The fight went as Risha had foreseen. Dunn came out flying and didn't let up. He attacked fast, from every angle, employing every tactic to spin, throw, and disorient his oppon
ent. Against Jaycen Douglas, it would have been the perfect strategy. Against Carr, it was completely flawed. Unlike Douglas, Carr had a space ear to rival, perhaps even surpass, Dunn's, and he had the staying power to climb, fly, and trade blows for a whole round without getting winded, and without a hint of nausea or dizziness.

By the third round, Dunn realized his error and turned to his submission game, but Carr had spent the previous week drilling his ability to break and counter Dunn's moves. With three minutes left on the clock, he choked Dunn out while floating.

When the two fighters met back on the deck and the referee raised Carr's hand, the packed stands went wild. For the ninety-five percent of humanity living on planets, no sport was as thrillingly superhuman as a zeroboxing match between two spectacular fliers at the top of their game. Dunn v. Luka had been such a match, topped by a rousing underdog victory. The fight lit up on the Systemnet, shared and replayed the second it ended.

Dunn looked to be in shock, as if he didn't yet realize that the match was over and he had lost. “You got me, kid,” he muttered as they clasped hands. “You're something else. You got me.”

Carr was better prepared for the crush of fans and journalists this time. He had Blake and Scull run interference to keep them at bay until he could get to the locker room to recover and celebrate. Risha came down, yelling with excitement, and she and Uncle Polly hugged each other wildly, spinning around together in the air like an exuberant human caduceus. Carr drank in the sight, letting its sweet flavor infuse his euphoria. Victory was a better high than a hundred bliss bombs. Perfect and real, lasting for days, even weeks, before being polished and stored in its own special nook of his soul, each win unique and everlasting, wanting nothing except more neighbors.

The post-fight press conference was standing room only. Carr wore his new Skinnwear top and jacket. The only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how he was now the youngest-ever contender for the division title and when that fight would happen. How did he explain his success? How had he prepared for this fight on such short notice? Did he have anything to say to Henri “the Reaper” Manon?

“Just be yourself,” Risha had counseled him moments before, her words whispered into his ear as soft and close as if she were in his receiver. “People already like you. They think you're tough but gracious. Play to that.”

Carr nodded at the journalists. “I'd say the Reaper has to start looking over his shoulder.” He said it with a smile, and no nastiness. There was a lot of frenzied cuff-jabbing as the quote went flying out into the ether.

The after-party was held at Aloft, a low-g dance club. Carr was pleased that he had the perfect post-fight face: undamaged around the eyes and mouth but stitched above his left eyebrow, so he could wear his fight prominently without looking like a troll in photos and video clips.

The dance floor throbbed with wanton energy. Sweaty bodies leapt high, rippling in the darkness with liquid tattoos and skin dye and shifting hair color. At the bar and on the couches, where people could mute their receivers and have audible conversations, Carr was plied with drinks. DK, fresh from a narrow victory over Titus Stockton two days earlier, bought a round. Blake and Scull did more than their part to keep the booze flowing, especially after Adri and a bunch of her friends showed up. There was a seemingly endless parade of fellow zeroboxers, sponsors, and ZGFA brass for Carr to accept congratulations from. He could not possibly remember all their names and faces and hoped his new optics were capturing it all so he could figure it out later.

From the corner of his eye, Carr caught a glimpse of someone he'd seen before. At first he thought he must be mistaken, but when he swung his head back around, there he was—the pale, waxen-faced man from the tour group. He was leaning against the bar with a glass in one hand, watching Carr from across the room.

What was
he
doing here? Carr frowned and took a small step forward, angling his head to see through a cloud of artificial mist. Two ImBevMC Keg Girls blocked his view as they sallied past in front of him, handing out drink coupons.

“Another round of splatter shots!” Uncle Polly was being that most awkwardly entertaining of creatures, an old man acting as giddy as a kid, telling stories he'd told before, only louder. Someone pulled Carr back into the circle and pressed a glass into his hand. “One … two … three!” They threw their shots into the air, the liquid flying up in wobbly forms before descending slowly, all of them craning to catch theirs in their mouth and suck it down before it hit the table, the floor, their clothes or face.

Carr looked back toward the bar, but the man was no longer there.

Risha did not get drunk. Carr had done his job in the Cube; now it was her turn. She introduced him to Skinn­wear's Director of Sports Marketing, two ImBevMC
executives, and a number of zeroboxing commentators, all the while keeping up a witty banter with Brock Wheeden. Carr watched her as she worked the room, smiling and chatting, her cuff flashing continuously with exchanged linkage codes.

Carr realized that he'd suddenly achieved something he had fantasized about since the age of thirteen. When he stood still, he was soon surrounded by attractive women. Soft bodies lined up to press against him for photos and clips, exposed cleavage leaned toward him, coy smiles and scented necks vied for his attention. It was irony beyond all comprehension that he was impatient for them to be gone. He had groupies now; he had to get free of them.

“You've got to help me here,” he begged DK. “You and the guys have got to help me with these girls.”

DK, still sporting a swollen eye as his own fight scar, saw where Carr's gaze wandered and laughed. “Leave it to us,” he promised.

Carr wove through people and caught Risha's wrist. He took her drink from her and set it down on the magnetic bar top. Then he pulled her toward the dance floor, away from the man she'd been speaking to, who opened his mouth as if to protest but didn't.

“Carr,” she said, “that was the PR Director for the entire city-station of Valtego.”

“Then I'd say tonight he owes me.”

On the dance floor, Carr's optics kicked in, overlaying his vision with sparkles and strobing light effects that pulsed in time to the music. His receiver amplified the heavy beat, picked up and added harmonic chords. He drew Risha close. “Could you stop being my brandhelm for just a few hours?”

“A good brandhelm is always looking out for her client's interests,” she said.

He slipped his hand into hers, their fingers interlacing. “I could tell you what my one interest is right now, and it doesn't include any PR directors.” His face heated in the darkness. He was presuming too much. Perhaps he was just a client to her. Just a kid, just a fighter. But victory made him reckless.

Risha laughed and relaxed, moving to the music, leading him deeper into the crowd. She was taller than every other girl on the floor and danced as enchantingly as he'd imagined, at ease in low gravity, barely touching the ground. She turned heads, drew interested stares and jealous glances. The mist wove around her limbs, the light glinted off her skin.

Carr followed her without speaking, anticipation coiled inside him like a spring. He smiled to himself as people shifted out of his way. No man was going to challenge him tonight. Tomorrow he would feel all the places where bones had been jarred, where fists or feet had done damage, where muscles had been strained and skin bruised. But tonight he was invincible.

Bodies and warm darkness folded in around them. He put an arm around Risha's waist, pressed his palm into the small of her back, his heart thrumming like a bird's. She draped her arms over his shoulders as they danced. Everything else fell away; everything except the movement of R
isha's hips under his hands and the nearness of her body.

He kissed her. Her mouth opening for him, and the heat of her satin skin, thrilled him nearly to the point of pain.

She drew her lips away and whispered into his ear, “I want to take you somewhere.”

Anywhere.
“Now?”

“Yes.” She tugged him off the dance floor. They hurried out the rear entrance of the club before anyone could see them making an escape. The music and pulsing lights fell away. Laughing at their own stealth, they clambered into a waiting taxi. Risha gave it directions, and it slid into motion. Then they were alone in the car, and kissing again, and if the taxi's thrusters had failed and left them stranded, floating indefinitely, Carr would not have minded.

He was disappointed when they reached the inner ring's lively streets after only a few minutes, but when he saw where the taxi had taken them, a grin crawled across his face. “You're brilliant,” he said.

“I know.” There was a smile in her voice as she led him inside.

The liquid tattoo artist at Living Ink was the best on Valtego and charged more than Carr had ever been able to afford. Carr lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, gazing at Risha, one hand linked with hers as the man worked. It took a long time; he should have felt sleepy given the hour, but sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Every time the artist was done with one section, Risha ran her fingertips lightly down the raw, tender skin and leaned in to touch it gently with her lips. The mingled pain and pleasure lit every nerve in Carr's body.

When it was finally done, he stood and flexed his shoulders gingerly.

Risha stepped away from him. “It's perfect,” she said softly.

Carr studied himself in the double full-length mirrors. He felt as though he were looking not at himself, but the person he would become. A promise he'd signed into his skin. He closed his hand over Risha's wrist and tugged her forward again. He imagined he'd proven himself to her today, that self-deprivation and hard work, physical trial and triumph, had made him worthy. Their lips met and he took flight, inked wings opening wide across his back.

“If you think I called you here to offer you a title shot, swallow your disappointment now.”

It was three days later, and Carr was in Bax Gant's office, wise enough to be wearing a sweater this time. He'd started to sit down but paused. An older man, a long-faced Terran with bushy eyebrows and a smart suit, was already seated in a chair next to Gant's desk, straightening his cuffs and regarding Carr intently. Carr looked back at the Martian as he sat slowly. “You don't think I've earned a match against Manon?”

“Stars in heaven, Luka, a match between you and the Reaper seems to be the only thing anyone is asking m
e about these days,” Gant grumbled. “Personally, I think it's too early. You took a short-notice fight against Dunn and blew it out of the water. You're in a good place right now. Milk it a little. People have latched onto the romantic idea of ‘youngest champion ever,' but there's no need to rush into a title fight. The belt will wait.”

Carr was silent, his expression stony.

Gant threw up exasperated hands. “The fight will happen, but I can't just snap my fingers and give it to you. Manon and his people have to agree, and they'll want to pick when. I've got to juggle a lot of considerations.”

“So what is this meeting about then?” If all Gant wanted was to tell him he wasn't getting a title fight, he could easily have called or messaged. Carr glanced at the long-faced Terran. “Who are you?”

Gant answered. “Mr. Larsen is a senior brand management specialist from Merkel Media.”

Mr. Larsen's thick eyebrows waggled as he reached over to shake Carr's hand, too firmly. “
Please
, call me Dean.”

“You're one of the Merkel guys, huh? Maybe you know Risha Ponn, my brandhelm.”

My brandhelm.
Heat trembled behind Carr's navel. He loved the casually professional way that sounded when he said it out loud, even as his mind wheeled off to decidedly unprofessional places. What had Risha
done
to him? Turned his brain into a dedicated fan-feed that he couldn't turn off. What was she doing for dinner tonight? Let there be some urgent business to discuss with him. How did she learn to dance so damn sexy? What was she wearing
right now
?

He said to Gant, “Is she coming to this meeting?”

As if on cue, Risha stepped into the office and took a seat in the last available chair. A smile lit up inside Carr, starting somewhere in the center of his chest. It petered out unexpectedly before it could reach his face. Risha's expression was tight and downcast, as if something was bothering her and she was trying hard not to show it.

Gant didn't seem to notice. “Now that we're all here, let's get started.” He turned to Carr. “I asked you here because we're kicking off a major marketing campaign. It's the right time to do it; zeroboxing viewership is on a steep rise, and marquee fighters are starting to become household names. We can ride the wave of your recent wins, really take the sport to the next level.”

Carr tugged his eyes away from Risha and back to
Gant. He waited for what the man was getting at.

The Martian leaned forward, gesturing toward Carr expansively. “You're going to be our brand ambassador. The face of the ZGFA. You're Terran, you're young and well-known, you've got grace in the Cube, and you're not a bully or a volatile headcase. In short, you're perfect for the job.”