Zeroboxer Page 10

  “Carr,” he said. “Come in. We have a lot to talk about.”

  TEN

  Carr took two steps into the apartment. He turned his shoulders and chin to speak to Sally, but he kept his eyes on the man. “Who the hell is this guy, Mom?” Dread scuttled up his back like a spider. “Is he … he’s not my … ” He couldn’t get the word “father” out without choking. “ … my donor, is he?”

  His mother stared at him for a second, then flushed to her ears. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Carr started breathing again. “Do you owe him money, then?”

  “Carr,” she said sharply. “That’s not a tone to take. And with a guest here?” Flustered, she wiped her palms on the waist of her black pants and, seemingly at a loss for what else to do with her hands, brought them together. “Mr. R came a long way to see you. Why don’t we all sit down?”

  “A fine suggestion, Sally,” said Mr. R.

  Uncle Polly shouldered into the room. “You’ve got no right, ambushing us like this.” His bony fists were clenched, his face reddened to the roots of his gray hair. “You should’ve let me decide when, instead of just showing up. You’ve got no right.”

  Carr’s eyes jumped between the two men. “Coach, you know this guy?”

  “No right, Pol? I don’t have the right to see and speak to Carr whenever I wish?” Mr. R’s voice was soft, but the gaze he fixed on Polly was as hard as marble.

  Uncle Polly seemed to flinch. “It’s not the right time. We have a title fight now.”

  “Yes. Congratulations.”

  “It’s not the right time,” Polly repeated.

  “It’s the perfect time.” The stranger turned his back on them and walked over to the lumpy sofa, planting himself in the center of it as if he owned the apartment. He crossed an ankle over his knee and gestured to the seat across from him. “Have a seat, Carr.”

  Carr didn’t move. “Why have you been following me?” Whoever he was, Mr. R had a precise, efficient manner that made his flesh prickle, as if he were being watched by something old and reptilian at the top of the food chain.

  “I’m in the … athletic scouting business,” the man said. “I have a unique business partnership to discuss with you.”

  Carr shot a confused, questioning glance at Uncle Polly, who offered a small, wordlessly stricken shake of his head.

  He turned back to Mr. R. What kind of person called himself Mr. R, anyways? “I’m under contract,” Carr said. “If it’s business you want to discuss, then contact my brandhelm. Don’t stake out my mom’s apartment.”

  Mr. R said, “This isn’t the usual kind of business.”

  “Come back another time,” Uncle Polly said. There was a note of resignation and pleading in his voice that Carr had never heard before. “Let me do it, at least.”

  Mr. R ignored him and brushed a bit of faded brown sofa lint from his pants, still speaking to Carr. “I’m afraid that surprising you like this might have given you the wrong impression. You see, I want to personally congratulate you on your recent success and your upcoming title fight. I’ve always been a big supporter of yours. Isn’t that right, Sally?”

  Carr’s mother tried for a smile, as if she were placating an irked bus passenger. She sat down slowly, perching on the very edge of the mismatched armchair, and started choosing her words carefully, as if Carr were six years old and she was preparing him for a trip to the dentist. “You remember, darling, I’ve told you before. When I was young, well, I didn’t have much money. My folks, they were so poor, they had me and my sister without using a geneticist, without even the most basic add-ons.” Her voice was speeding up now, as if the pressure on a spigot were being released. “Well, you know, your aunt has had cancer twice, and me with my blood pressure … Well, I was never going to make their mistake and have a baby if I couldn’t afford to. And I didn’t think I could afford to, at the time, but then Mr. R—”

  “Shit, Mom,” Carr said. He knew it. “How much do you owe him?”

  “Language, Carr,” Sally chastised, tinting pink again. “It’s not what you think.”

  “You may not remember, Carr,” said Mr. R with an unhurried air, “but I was there for some of your earliest victories.” He pointed to one of the biggest trophies on the shelf. “The Western Junior Zero-G Championships—you won it when you were twelve years old, the youngest in your division.” He moved his finger over to a dusty championship belt on the wall. “The Junior Terran Cube Royale. You were fourteen—fourteen, was it, Pol?—when you were first scouted by the ZGFA.”

  A fragment of Carr’s memory was coming into focus, like a fuzzy holovid resolving itself. He’d come out of the Cube, having fought and beaten some wiry South American kid in the quarter-finals. Waiting, floating by the screen that would display the draw for the next round, he’d looked for his coach. Uncle Polly was at the edge of the deck talking to someone. The stranger was calm, the balls of his magnetized shoes touching the deck, his hand resting lightly on the guide-rail, but Uncle Polly was agitated, gesturing sharply in time to words that Carr couldn’t hear. Later, when he’d asked his coach who the man was, Polly’s reply had been tight. “No one you know.”

  The air in the apartment seemed suddenly very still and heavy. Uncle Polly, still standing near the door, had an awful grimace on his face. Carr made his words come out one at a time. “Coach, what is this all about?” He turned to his mother. “What are you not telling me?”

  “Allow me to make it clear.” Mr. R patted the chest of the jacket he wore over his black button-up shirt and withdrew a thinscreen, which he unfolded and placed on the coffee table. His short white fingers slid it across, toward Carr. “You recognize this, I’m sure.”

  Carr set his jaw and sat down slowly. He picked up the thinscreen and flicked his eyes down to it.

  It was an official government document, with the seal of the Nation City of Toronto at the top. The upper third of the page listed his name, gender, and citizen ID, his mother’s name and citizen ID, his conception date and place, his birth date and place, the geneticist’s license number, and the sequencing date. The rest of the page contained several lines of information:

  PATERNITY: Unverified

  CHROMOSOMAL SPECIFICATIONS:

  Standard somatic therapy package GENEX v.8.5

  Defect reduction premium suite GENEX v.5.1

  Anti-cancer plus CLT v.6.0

  Anti-obesity and heart health deluxe CLT v.7.2

  Disease resistance upgrade CHROME v.9.2

  RISK FACTOR SCORE: 24 (Low)

  ENHANCEMENTS: Negative

  STATUS: Within acceptable ranges

  Carr dropped the screen back on the table. “How did you get this?” A person’s genetic profile was private information. An employer could run a check to verify that you were within legally acceptable ranges, but the full profile—listing which brand and version of chromosomal packages you were born with—could only be obtained with the subject’s consent.

  Carr’s mind spun. How much money was involved here? It can’t be that bad, he reassured himself. His add-ons were pretty standard. A disease resistance upgrade … that might be a bit pricey, and he had always wondered how his mom had afforded it on top of everything else, but really, how expensive could it be?

  Mr. R was watching him carefully. A few translucent blond chest hairs poked over the unfastened top button of his stiff shirt. When he licked his thin lips, Carr pictured an albino rock python.

  “Tell me something, Carr,” he said. “What do you think your chances are of beating Henri Manon?”

  “Answer my question,” Carr said.

  “Answer mine first. Henri ‘the Reaper’ is the youngest of the Manon family, the so-called first family of zero gravity combat. Two of his older brothers have worn the championship belt, and his father is the legendary Stace Manon. Henri has been f
ighting pro for ten years, nearly as long as you’ve been wearing grippers.” The man leaned forward, intent. “What makes you think you’ll beat him?”

  Carr bared his teeth. “I’ll beat him because I’ll be better than him. On that day in the Cube, I’ll be better than him. That’s what I have to believe.” He stabbed a finger at the thinscreen. “Now tell me why you have my genetic profile on your thinscreen.”

  Mr. R said, “It’s not your real profile.” He swiped the screen to another document and set it in front of Carr. “This is.”

  Carr looked down. The top section of the page was the same, but the rest of it was now dense with text.

  PATERNITY: Private donor (blocked)

  CHROMOSOMAL SPECIFICATIONS:

  Somatic therapy platinum package GENEX v.9.0

  Defect reduction premium suite GENEX v.5.5

  Anti-cancer plus CLT v.6.0

  Anti-obesity and heart health deluxe CLT v.7.2

  Disease resistance ultra CHROME v.12.0

  Custom germline modification—neuromuscular

  Custom germline modification—respiratory

  Custom germline modification—metabolic

  Custom germline modification—immunological

  Custom germline modification—cognitive

  Custom germline modification—temperament

  Custom germline modification—other***

  RISK FACTOR SCORE: 9 (Very low)

  ENHANCEMENTS: Positive

  Special exemptions: No

  Interplanetary treaty exemption: No

  STATUS: Exceeds acceptable ranges

  Carr shook his head slowly. The words on the screen seemed to swim. “This is bullshit.” His heart was pounding. “You made this up. You’re lying.”

  “You said you were better than Henri Manon. Now you know why. He may be genetically gifted”—Mr. R sat back calmly—“but not as gifted as you.”

  Carr spun to stare at his mother. “Mom? It’s not true, is it?”

  He knew the answer as soon as the words left his mouth. Sally inched a little further toward the edge of her chair and opened her hands to him, in a gentle ah what can I say gesture. “I’ve always wanted the best for you. Always. What you have … it’s so much more than I could ever have given you on my own.” She let out a shaky sigh. “I know, it’s a bit of a shock, but when you think about it, you’ll realize what this means. How special you are.”

  Sally had been right: it wasn’t what he’d thought. It was worse. “I’m genetically enhanced. Off spec.” Carr went cold. “I’m illegal.”

  Mr. R made a tsk sound. “You’re acting far more concerned than necessary.”

  “Concerned? Concerned ?” Carr half-rose, as if to leap across the low table and seize the man around the neck. “I’m not allowed to compete.” The words filmed his throat with acid. In his haze of disbelief, he saw Uncle Polly sag against the door frame. Of course, he knew. Was in on it. They all were.

  “You’ve been competing for years. You will keep doing so.” Mr. R lifted his chin to follow Carr but did not shift from his spot. “The only people who have ever seen your real genetic profile are in this room. People you can trust.”

  “People I can trust,” Carr echoed. He felt a derisive laugh start up, then die. “Like you? Who are you?”

  “As I told you, I’m in the business of discovering and grooming new talent. Only my organization is more … proactive. We don’t leave the talent pool up to chance. We create it.

  “Your mother is right, Carr. You are special. You’re an exceptional athlete, designed off a composite genetic template of naturally occurring top performers. Your reflexes, endurance, and spatial intelligence are all well above normal—though nothing so unusual that it would arouse suspicion. You’re less prone to injury, and when you are injured, you heal faster than others. Most important of all, you have the right temperament: aggressive but not impulsive; a disciplined, nearly obsessive mindset; the ability to excel under pressure; and an insatiable competitive drive. It’s called ‘the warrior gene constellation’—and it’s quite a gift.”

  Carr sat back down heavily. It was surreal, to have things he already mostly knew about himself listed by this stranger as if they were selling features. “What does this mean?” he thought aloud, his voice a monotone.

  “Practically speaking? Very little.” Mr. R’s voice could not be considered warm, but there was a certain practiced, soothing quality to it now. “I provided your potential. But being born gifted doesn’t take anything away from you, from all your years of hard work and determination.”

  “None of that will matter,” Carr said. “Not if I’m found out. I’ll be banned from the Cube.”

  “That will not happen. We cover our tracks carefully.”

  “Athletes are randomly tested.”

  “The tests screen for performance-enhancing drugs and nanos, unauthorized implants, and somatic gene procedures—the sort of things unscrupulous athletes will resort to. Your genetic modifications are the most advanced and expensive kind, using Martian technology, and so carefully spliced into your genetic makeup that there are no markers. Only a complete sequencing would reveal what you are.”

  It seemed to Carr that his head was starting to feel light and his body too heavy, as if he were ascending into orbit on a shaky rocket-plane. Numbly, he said, “What do you want?”

  “Simply to share in your success, as a return on my investment in you. Twenty percent of what you earn—your winnings in the Cube, your sponsorship deals, and whatever else Gant pays you. You will receive instructions on how to set up an automatic account transfer. When you go on to accomplish all that you wish for—titles, fame, wealth—you won’t even notice the small cut. In fact, if all goes smoothly, you may not even see or hear from me again. You can focus on what you do best—winning in the Cube.”

  “And if I say no?” But Carr already knew the answer to that too.

  “Why would you be so unreasonable?” Mr. R stood up smoothly and casually, like a dinner guest taking his leave. “Every great athlete has others to thank for his success. You owe a great deal to your mother for raising you, and to your coach for training you. You also owe me for designing you. What I ask for is so very little when measured against the gift of your life, your accomplishments, the very fabric of everything you are. Do as I ask, respect the fact that I am your benefactor, and this”—he picked up the thinscreen, folded it with a snap, and pocketed it—“will remain a secret.”

  Carr rose to his feet, understanding only, through a fog of confusion and anger, that he was being steadily boxed into a corner. “I don’t have to stand for this,” he said. “I could turn myself in. Blow the top off your whole crooked scheme.”

  Mr. R lifted his faint eyebrows, as if Carr were a boy throwing a tantrum. “Do you think you’re the first success story I’ve written, Carr? I’ve protected myself well for decades. Nothing you say or do will be traced back to me. You would only ruin your life, and send your mother and coach to jail. Is that what you want?”

  He walked around the coffee table, past Carr, and over to the door. He nodded at Carr’s mother. “Sally, you’ve done a nice job with him.” Then he stood in front of Uncle Polly, whose face looked nearly as pale as his, set as it was in a chiseled mask of futile resentment. Mr. R pursed his lips, stretching the skin across his cheeks tight. He lowered his voice, speaking to Polly with a cold, false sympathy. “I know you hoped to delay the inevitable, soften it somehow. Trust me; this is the best way.”

  He opened the door, then paused and spoke to Carr over his shoulder. “What’s the difference between what Henri Manon was given by God or by chance, and what you were given? You will need every one of your enhancements if you hope to win the title. Good luck. I’ll be watching.”

  Mr. R stepped out onto the small landing and closed the door behind him. His footst
eps descended the narrow stairs.

  ELEVEN

  For a long moment Carr stared at the closed door, suspecting the whole thing had not happened, and if it had, it must have been a crazy stunt or scam. Then he sensed Sally and Uncle Polly’s wary expressions lying heavy on him, and betrayal rose like bile in his throat.

  He lunged at the shelves along the wall and swept his arm across violently, sending dozens of his childhood trophies flying, smashing to the ground in a clattering jumble of gold-plated metal. With a choked sound, he tore the certificates and ribbons off the wall and hurled them across the room. A framed photo—of him winning his first amateur championship at the age of nine—dented the flatscreen, shaking the reflection in it of his own face, contorted with disbelief and rage. When the shelves and walls were bare, he laced his fingers behind his bowed head and paced back and forth down the length of the tiny apartment.

  Sally and Uncle Polly didn’t move, didn’t say a word, didn’t try to stop him. As a kid, when he got frustrated or angry, he would tear up a room, punch a kid at school, pummel a heavy bag—whatever it took to purge the physical heat of emotion—and then come back down just as fast. He did so now, fire crystallizing into steel, his heart rate falling back to normal. He wondered if this ability to rapidly regain composure was part of his design, and decided it almost certainly was.

  Was that how he would always see himself now? As manufactured?

  Carr stopped pacing and faced his mother. “You’ve been lying to me for my whole life.”

  “I never lied to you, never.” Sally hadn’t moved from her spot on the armchair. Her shoulders were curled, her hands wrapped around her knees. She gave him a beseeching, slightly reproachful look: Can’t you try to appreciate all that your mother has done for you? “I always said that I got the best donor and the best genetics I could afford for you. Haven’t I always said that? Haven’t I?”