TWENTY-ONE

He shattered his own rule about drinking before fights. The strongest-looking stuff from the overpriced mini-bar was a bottle of some clear green Ceresian liquor as vile as antiseptic. Carr took masochistic swallows of it, storming back and forth across the room while calling Risha unmentionable names, then sat down on the edge of the bed in a stupor of regret. A barrage of hurtful, furious thoughts raced through his mind, and he pressed his fists against his forehead as if he could drive his knuckles into his brain and silence them. She never loved you. You were just a hot commodity, the star client that was her ticket to success. You were just business to her, the way you are to Rhystok.

No! That wasn’t true. She’d believed in him, worked tirelessly for him, been there for him after every fight. When they kissed, when they made love, he’d seen tenderness and passion in her eyes. She’d thought about marrying him.

But she left. When she found out you were useless to her, she left.

A call came in from Uncle Polly. Carr stared at his vibrating cuff in a daze. Two seconds passed, then three. He accepted the call.

“Carr, we’re just about done here. We need you back. Where are you? Did you find her?”

He stood up and let his feet carry him mechanically out of the room. “I’m on my way, coach.” He ended the call before Uncle Polly could say more.

On his way back to the stadium, he had the misfortune to be spotted by a group of half a dozen Terrans camped outside of the gravity zone terminal with signs that read, NEED TICKETS TO WOTW! They looked like they’d arrived on Surya with nothing but their bags and the clothes on their back and could all benefit tremendously from a shower. The Martians walking past on the terminal platform turned their faces away in distaste and gave them a wide berth.

“I think that’s Carr Luka!” one of the girls hissed, grabbing her companion’s arm and pointing.

“Really, you think so?” The boy sounded uncertain.

“What are the odds that there’s another Terran on this domie station that looks exactly like him?”

Carr stared straight ahead, willing the shuttle bus to appear. Please don’t come here please don’t come here please don’t

They came up to him, as eager and tentative as kittens to a saucer. “Hey, Carr! Mr. Luka? Is that really you?”

He turned to snap at them to leave him alone, but before he could do so, the girl, a teenager with violet-tinted optics and sandy-blond ringlets falling around her face, grabbed her friend’s arm and whispered loudly, “I knew it was worth coming in person! Even without tickets, it was so worth it!”

Carr clenched his jaw hard, forcing a lid onto his anger. His problems weren’t their fault. Risha had drilled into him over and over again the importance of “touchpoints” with his fans, and he couldn’t shake her adamant voice from his head, as much as he wanted to. “You guys here to watch the fights?” he asked.

They nodded in mute awe.

“You came all the way from Earth? How long did it take you?”

“Ten days,” said a skinny boy wearing a Skinnwear top in ZGFA colors. “Brenn’s dad works for Virgin Galactic and got us a deal on tickets to Phobos, but we hitchhiked to Surya.”

“That’s … really hard core.”

They all grinned. How childlike they seemed. They were teenagers—one or two of them looked eighteen or nineteen, around Carr’s own age—but to him, they all looked like Enzo, silly with enthusiasm. This was fun for them, traveling all the way here, sharing in the fandom, getting close to the drama of the Cube and the fighters they’d seen in holovid. Zeroboxing defined Carr’s life, in every way, good and bad, ecstatic and heartbreaking. He’d given his entire childhood to the sport. It had made him and aged him. But to them, it was all entertainment.

Another girl, with dimples and short, spiky black hair, said, “We figured some of your fans really ought to be here in person, so even though it’s mostly domies here, you’ll know everyone back home is rooting for you.”

The older teen the others had referred to as Brenn said, “Your story, man, your whole journey, it’s like, so inspiring, you know what I mean?”

The Skinnwear logo friend nodded vigorously. “Terran pride, man, all the way.”

The shuttle bus arrived, gliding into the terminal with a whoosh. “I hope I’ll see you in the crowd tomorrow,” Carr said. He boarded quickly. He glanced back as the vehicle began to move and caught a receding glimpse of them. They were practically jumping up and down on the platform, talking together excitedly.

Back in the stadium’s locker room, he found Uncle Polly livid with annoyance. “First that domie girl, and then you, taking off in the middle of the goddamn elimination rounds,” he growled. “A hell of a time to sneak off for some hanky-panky, don’t you think? What’s wrong with you? And where is she, anyways?”

“She’s not here.”

“Why not?” Polly leaned in close to Carr and his eyes lit with astonished fury. “Have you been drinking?”

“Coach,” Carr said. His pained look brought even Uncle Polly to silence. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Luka!” Gant bellowed from somewhere down the hall. “Someone seen Luka? We’re bringing all the semi­finalists up on deck!”

Carr stripped down to his fight shorts, jammed his feet into his grippers, and tugged his gloves on with his teeth as he launched himself up to the stadium entrance. The president of the WCC, a heavyset man by Martian standards, with thick fingers and thin eyes, was saying, “And last but not least, the final four combatants in the expanded lowmass division … ”

Carr grabbed the guide-rail and swung himself onto the deck next to DK. His teammate had a torn ear that had been hastily patched, but he flashed a triumphant, high-wattage smile and raised his hands to the crowd as the two of them stepped forward alongside Kye Soard and the other Martian semifinalist, Yugo Macha.

Carr didn’t hear much of what was said. His head felt stuffed with cotton. He scanned the rest of the deck, noting how the other divisions had shaken out. The final four in the men’s midmass had two Terrans in contention, the highmass had one Terran to three Martians. Adri, looking battered and a little shocked, had made it to the woman’s midmass semifinals. Six Terrans on stage, out of the thirty-two who’d made the journey.

“Tomorrow then, earthworms,” said Soard cheerfully as they shook hands.

Yugo Macha held onto Carr’s hands too tightly and leaned in with his voice lowered. He had a bony face, all jutting angles as if he had a metal cyborg skull under his dark glistening skin. “The feeds, they call you ‘a Terran treasure.’” He sneered. “You worms, your time is over. You just don’t realize it yet. You don’t stand a chance. When you turn out be a disappointment to a whole planet, you’ll wish you were never born.”

Carr felt his lips twist in a rictus of irony. I don’t need you for that. He wished, suddenly, that the semifinal fight was right now, this very instant, so he could hit Macha in his smug domie kisser, and keep hitting him, and keep hitting him. It didn’t have to be Macha. It could be Soard. It could be anyone.

Get a fucking grip. He was off-kilter, he knew. Bringing personal crap into the Cube—that was a mistake for amateurs. “Save your breath for the fight, domie,” he said, and turned his back.

Gant gathered all of the Terran fighters together in the locker room. “It’s been a hell of a day,” he said. “I saw some good, hard fights, some of the best I’ve ever seen. Whether you won or lost, every single one of you ought to be proud just to be competing at this level.” He paused, his eyes drifting over the group. There were a lot of bruised and tired faces, and Carr could tell that despite the upbeat tone of Gant’s speech, everyone in the room was disappointed that at least a couple more Terrans hadn’t made it to the semifinals. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day, a big crowd. Those of you fighting, get enough rest tonight. We’re rooting for each and every one of you.”

There was smattering of applause and people dispersed to change, get their gear, and, for most of them, to nurse injuries and the pain of loss. There was chatter about going out to one of the few Terran bars on Surya. Carr made his way over to Gant.

“We did all right, Luka,” the Martian said when he saw Carr approach. “Could’ve been better, could’ve been worse.”

Carr nodded. “Could I get some extra tickets?”

“I haven’t got that many more, but for you, sure. What do you need? Three, four?”

“Six ought to do it.”

Gant grunted. “Some family or friends of yours decided to unexpectedly show up?”

“Sort of like that.”

Uncle Polly got so angry at Risha that Carr got angry too and told him to shut up and not call her the things that he’d been calling her himself a few hours ago. Then he said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore and asked Polly what he thought of Macha and Soard’s qualifying fights earlier in the day. They sat around the small table in Carr’s hotel room, studying the videos. Carr was hydrating like mad, trying to clear his head and flush the nasty green Ceresian antifreeze from his veins. He had to get up every fifteen minutes to piss blue electrolyte solution. Tournaments were hard; there was no time for repair nanos between rounds. They would get picked up in pre-fight screening.

“Soard had easy fights,” Carr said. “He’s not even trying yet. But he’s striking a lot more than he’s grabbing.”

“Martian joints and bones aren’t as solid as Terran ones, even if they do self-remineralize,” Uncle Polly said. “Might be why he’s avoiding joint locks.” He paused, rubbing one of his leathery hands across his forehead. “You already know all this. You’re better off getting some extra sleep.”

Carr was silent for a minute. “Okay.”

Polly stood up and looked down at him for a long moment. “You’ll be all right?”

“You’re asking if I can fight tomorrow? Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking.”

Carr swiped the holovid off the table and raised his eyes to his coach. He was surprised to see an aching softness in the old man’s eyes. Uncle Polly had been married once, though it had ended before Carr had known him. He didn’t have any kids of his own, and besides his brother Morrie, he didn’t talk about his family. Carr realized, a little painfully, that most of the time he was Uncle Polly’s family. His coach’s life was as linked to his as Risha’s had been. Had he long ago trapped Polly in the same way he’d more knowingly trapped Risha? Was Uncle Polly angry at Risha for his sake, Carr wondered, or just resentful that she’d escaped—done the right thing—when he had not?

“I don’t blame her.” Looking at his hands, Carr didn’t realize at first that he’d spoken out loud. “I just didn’t think it would happen this way. I thought I had time. I meant to tell her. I just … couldn’t.”

Uncle Polly looked away from him for a moment. “I know how that feels.”

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Carr asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Uncle Polly said. Honest. Carr could appreciate that. “What I do know,” Polly said, and he cleared his throat, “is that I couldn’t give you up. I almost did, when I learned what I going to be a part of. But I couldn’t. Not when I thought I should, and not anytime since. I don’t see how anyone else could either. Doesn’t matter who designed you and why.”

Carr’s eyes stung. He dropped his gaze and managed to mutter, “Thanks, coach.”

“See you tomorrow, champ.” Uncle Polly hadn’t called him that since he was a kid.

When he was alone, Carr got into bed and lay with his head turned so he could look out into space. Against the backdrop of pinprick stars, Mars looked dark and dusky, like a dull copper coin he’d once seen at an antique store on Jarvis Street near his mom’s apartment. His cuff told him that it was late evening, but he wasn’t sure what part of Mars the station kept time with. And he had no idea what time it was back on Valtego, or in Toronto. Was his mom awake? Was Enzo madly posting to his feed?

His bed felt large and empty, like an ancient ghost ship from the earliest days of spacefaring, long ago flung out of orbit, destined to travel beyond the reaches of civilization, into nothingness. He slept.

When the rising tone of an incoming call played in the middle of the night, he jerked awake at once, slapping at his cuff to accept the call even before he’d opened his eyes to the dark room. “Risha?”

Two beats of heavy silence came from the other end. Carr blinked, managed to focus on his cuff’s display, and realized his mistake.

“Mr. Luka,” said Detective Van. “Meet me in the lobby. I need to speak to you.”