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 boots. 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.”