Zeroboxer Read online

  “Clean,” said the technician, and that one word seemed to Carr to fall in a special class of perfect, wonderful words, like “champion” and “love” and his own name. The official drew a signal pen over Carr’s cuff to discharge him and he’d walked out casually, relief draining into his feet.

  Carr stared up at the featureless ceiling of his apartment. Admit it. You’re afraid.

  Fear could be good. Harnessed and under control, it kept him in the gym that extra hour. In those infinite seconds before he dropped into the Cube, the right kind of fear sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge, heightened his instincts. But this was different. He wasn’t afraid of being hurt, and he wasn’t afraid of losing. Or, if he was, it wasn’t the reason he was lying on the floor feeling like a chickenshit amateur.

  He was about to fulfill a criminal pact made when he was nothing more than a bundle of cells in a petri dish. If he lost, he would be a failure. If he won, he would be a fraud. Tomorrow, he would have to live either with the knowledge that he’d been designed with every advantage and still blown it, or with the reality that he’d broken the law and was going to keep breaking it. It was so, so warped. He was afraid, deeply afraid, that knowing this was fatal. It would mess up his head in the Cube today, and maybe forever. He might be ruined already.

  Carr closed his eyes. He made himself pull in a long breath, pressing the air down to his abdomen and holding it until his arms began to prickle. He let it out, emptying his lungs completely until they burned with need, then drew in another breath. In, hold. Out, hold.

  After testing, his mass had been calibrated and officially recorded. Then he’d stepped up to the low platform with the ZGFA logo behind it and faced Henri Manon. The Reaper was broad-shouldered, long-armed, a little soft around his perpetually smirking thick-lipped mouth, and chiseled like an anatomy model. Attached to thick, veined forearms, his fists looked surprisingly small as he raised them for the traditional face-off shot that the cameras were waiting to capture. “C’mon pretty boy, put ’em up,” he said, sounding amused and faintly bored. “You get to be in a photo with a Manon. Show it to your kids someday.”

  In, hold. Out, hold. There is no someday. There’s only today. There’s only the next hour, the next minute, the next second.

  Carr believed this every time he went into the Cube. Why should things be any different now? He hadn’t changed. Exposing the guts of a machine, seeing how it worked and how it was made, didn’t actually change what it was or what it did. And he knew what to do. He could run it through his mind like a holovid that had already been filmed. He began to do so now, seeing every step—from getting into the car that would take him to the Cube, to his warm-up routine, to his entrance on the deck, to the fight itself, to the victory that seemed so close and sweet he could taste it on his tongue. He played the day out again and again, pausing and lingering in some spots, speeding up through others. The fight changed; sometimes he knocked Manon out in thirty seconds, sometimes he battled him to a bitter and exhausted split decision. But every version felt right. Not wrong. Not unfair. Not immoral. Utterly, inarguably right.

  If he could hold that rightness in his mind, he would be just fine. Better than fine.

  His cuff vibrated a reminder. He stood up, stretched, and grabbed his bag. It was time to go.

  FOURTEEN

  It seemed as if the population of Valtego had doubled from the influx of fans who came to kick off the new year with ZGFA Spectacle 93: Supernova, the highest-billed sporting event being played in Greater Earth. Carr had heard that hotels were sold out, charging double the usual rate. There was no way he could walk out into the street, catch the bus, and ride over to the Virgin Galactic Center without being mobbed. Instead, a private limo whisked him from the front of his apartment complex, through the streets, and down the restricted-traffic VIP tube toward the Center.

  Uncle Polly usually kept up a steady stream of instructions all the way through the ride. Today, he was silent for the whole first minute, then said, “You need to run through anything, or you know what you’re going to do?”

  “I know, coach.”

  “What day is it today?”

  “New Year’s Day. Fight day.”

  “I know you missed some good parties last night. I sure did. So I’m telling you now, as your trainer, you better make up for it celebrating tonight. I don’t want to see your face tomorrow morning. You better be immobile.”

  “You got it, coach.”

  “That’s all I’ve got to say. Well, actually, that’s not true. I do have a few more words.” Uncle Polly cleared his throat and looked around the inside of the limo. He and Risha were sharing the seat on one side while Carr sat harnessed on the other, Blake and Scull on either side of him. Carr had asked DK to corner for him but DK had begged off, said he was busy, had to visit family.

  That was fine, but there was more to it than that. Ever since Carr had returned from Earth, it was as if there was something standing between him and his old friend. He hadn’t seen DK much, but he felt it. They hadn’t met up to train together like they usually did, DK hadn’t called him up to hang out with the guys, and it was Blake who’d invited him to the Kabitain v. Tully after-party last month, not the victor himself. Not that he’d had time to go anyways (Skinn­wear product-fitting and title fight ad shoot), but still. He pushed the thought aside. Not important right now.

  “I want to thank all of you for being here to support Carr today,” Uncle Polly announced. “In some ways, it’s been a long road. In other ways, it’s been like the blink of an eye. Eleven years ago, I walked into a two-bit gym on Earth and saw this kid. I got this feeling right then—I can’t describe it. I said to myself, ‘Pol, he’s the one.’ Well, before I knew it, that kid grew up, and now we’re here, and … ” Uncle Polly’s voice took on an uncharacteristic hitch. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Carr thought, not without pain, I love you too, you old fart, even after everything. But he said, in a jesting tone, “Coach, if you’re going to cry, save it for after the fight, yeah?”

  “You little snot,” Polly said, and everyone else hid their smiles.

  The Virgin Galactic Center loomed up ahead of them. A giant holovid moved across the top of the structure: titan versions of Carr and Henri Manon flying in from opposite directions and colliding in a spinning clinch before disappearing, then materializing and enacting the same thing again. The clip looked realistic; they must have created the ad using footage from each man’s prior fights.

  The maw of the docking hold engulfed them and the limo slid up to the athletes’ entrance. It took a few short minutes to unharness, tether themselves, collect Carr’s gear, and float up through the hallway. At the fork in the hall, the group paused.

  “Good luck,” Risha said. She pulled herself close and kissed Carr lightly. His mouth tingled. He watched her for a second as she turned left, down the hall that led to the stadium seating. He pulled himself right, to the locker room.

  Blake helped him through the ritual of getting his gear on. An official came in to do the inspection and give him the all clear. Carr stretched and warmed up, jogging the walls and practicing launches. The title fight was the last one; he had to wait for the undercard matches to finish. He ran through his warm-up routine, then kept doing easy wall bounces so he wouldn’t cool down. He felt calm now, all his earlier nervousness purified into a state of alert readiness.

  “They’re running a little late,” Uncle Polly said. He swiped up the volume on the wallscreen. Xeth Stone and Jeroan Culver had their heads together in the commentator’s box, the bluish shape of the Cube hanging behind them.

  “ … are minutes away now from what everyone has been waiting for, the headline fight between Henri ‘the Reaper’ Manon and Carr ‘the Raptor’ Luka, to determine who will hold the title of lowmass champion,” said Jeroan. “I tell you, this crowd cannot wait. The stands are sold out for w
hat promises to be a spectacular show.”

  “The viewership numbers are insane !” Xeth shouted. “The pre-fight hype has been massive—”

  Uncle Polly made a move to shut the screen off, but Carr motioned for him to keep it on.

  “—because this truly is a fascinating match-up, between a champion fighter in the prime of his career and a young phenom that has completely taken the sport by storm.”

  As the two men talked, the camera tracked across the VIP cubeside seats, pausing on the faces of various A-list celebrities including the mayor of Valtego and Stace Manon, the Reaper’s aging and legendary father. “The odds certainly favor Manon,” Jeroan said. “Some have argued that he’s the most talented of his five siblings, and that’s saying an awful lot right there. But the Reaper would be making a mistake to dismiss Luka, who seems to be touched by the gods of zeroboxing or something, because—”

  “Five minutes!” came the call, and this time Uncle Polly cut off the commentary and Carr pulled himself over to the bench, sliding his feet under the toe bar. Blake checked the bindings of his gripper gloves and shoes and gave him a squirt of water.

  “Go get him,” Blake said, but there was something about the way the man’s ice blue eyes didn’t quite meet his that made Carr want to ask, “Something you want to say to me, Murphy? Like why DK isn’t here?” Later. He pulled himself up the hallway rungs.

  At the end of the hall, the lights went down, and the blue spotlights began sweeping back and forth. Carr reached the stadium entrance and waited. He closed his eyes, holding this moment in his mind like a fragile glass ornament. It thrummed inside him, electric with potential.

  Hal Greese’s deep voice bellowed, “And the challenger, fighting out of the blue corner, at seventy and a half kilograms, with a record of six wins and one loss, CARR … ‘THE RAPTOR’ … LUKKKAAA!”

  He opened his eyes, saw the perfect prism of the Cube fill his vision. He pushed himself toward it, arms spread in weightless glory like a true bird of prey. His huge ink wings, sparked by movement and adrenaline, raced open across his shoulder blades and biceps.

  He piked his body and caught the deck with his feet.

  Across from him, Henri Manon curled back a thick upper lip and pointed a finger at Carr’s chest. “You,” he mouthed, then jabbed his thumb back toward himself, “are mine.” He bared teeth, as if he might use them to rend Carr’s flesh.

  He ought to thank the Reaper. It was easy to get amped up for a fight when you had a genuine dislike for your opponent. Carr matched Manon’s stare as the referee motioned them both to the center and said all the usual stuff. A small part of Carr’s brain vaguely processed the referee’s voice, the cameras, the noise, the crowd, his coach and cornermen behind him, but his perception was telescoping down, to only himself and the man in front of him. The ref asked them to touch gloves. Manon shoved his face a breath away from Carr’s. “Last chance to back out and save yourself from hurt, kid. You might have a marketing budget, but you don’t have a chance.”

  Everything about Manon’s unpleasant face was super-high resolution; every mole and scar stood out like natural features on a landscape viewed from a plane. Carr narrowed his eyes and the scenery resolved itself back into a person. “You have my belt,” he thought aloud.

  The Reaper registered his words and fury raced across his eyes like wildfire. “You’re dead, pretty boy. No one is going to put your face on an ad again after I’m done with it.”

  Back in his corner, Carr held still for his optics connection, his mouth guard, the gel. The hatch in his corner flashed blue. He dove through it and the world shrank into the dimensions of the Cube. “I’m with you,” Uncle Polly said into his ear. The bell sounded.

  Manon shot under and behind him, found his footing, and opened with a strong barrage of strikes, eager to establish an early advantage. The man had two unparalleled weapons: a lethal left hand and an ability to throw like no one’s business. He’d ended fights by flinging opponents into walls and corners until they were too battered to continue. When Carr tidily repositioned and defended himself, Manon braced his grippers, lifted Carr around the waist, and hurled him toward the wall.

  Carr went with it. He snapped his arms and legs in, rotating like a ball in flight, then kicked back out and off the wall like a swimmer at the end of a lane. Manon’s eyes widened in surprise as Carr sped back toward him and tackled him across the midsection. As they sailed across the Cube, Carr tucked his chin and brought his legs up, fighting to take forward control. Manon twisted and brought his own knees up in defense, and the two of them struggled, grappling wildly in space, seeking and countering locks and holds.

  They hit the surface. Both of them reached for a brace, scrambled to their feet, and started trading close-in strikes—fists, elbows, knees. Carr had one arm tucked to the side of his head to ward off the blows raining down on him. With his free hand, he punched Manon in the body, aiming for the space between the last two, smallest ribs. He ignored the burst of white light from the overhand shot connecting with his head and kept his foothold on the wall. He nailed the same spot again. Manon dropped his elbow and Carr lunged into a combination: two clean jabs through the guard, a left to the face, sinking low to the wall as he connected two big shots to the liver. Manon’s body buckled away from him with a grunt and the man broke free, kicking Carr hard in the chest as he did so.

  The breath went out of Carr. He tracked Manon taking two long strides up the wall and around the corner, launching back down at him like a lethal hamster running around a wheel. Carr threw himself to the side and rolled, sucking air. He dug both his gloved hands into the wall for support and flung his body around as if he were hanging onto a pole or a door frame, legs scissoring for Manon’s hips.

  The move sent the Reaper spinning head over heels backward. Carr checked his own momentum by driving his hips toward the wall and riding the pull of the Cube’s magnetic microgravity around his waist. Uncle Polly’s voice said, “He’ll be open after that spin!” Carr chased after his opponent, scrambling fast. The Reaper was twisting, reaching, trying to stop his weightless rotation. He found a grip and brought himself to a halt, but Uncle Polly was right; even a man with a good space ear would be dizzy and disoriented for a couple seconds. Carr leapt at Manon with a flying knee strike, hands reaching for the back of the man’s head. At the last second, Manon brought his hands up to deflect the knee, but Carr had ahold of him and the impact sent them both airborne again.

  “Twenty seconds. Clinch and go for the choke!” Uncle Polly yelled, but Carr was already moving, climbing Manon’s body, arm wrapping around the back of the Reaper’s neck as if the man’s head were a ball tucked in a reverse grip under his armpit. Manon snapped back to his fighting senses and managed to get his fingers between his neck and Carr’s forearm, twisting frantically to take the pressure off. Carr squeezed, pulling back with his shoulders, pushing with his hips. The choke was compromised but he was strong; stronger than any man his size. It would work.

  “Five seconds,” Polly said, and Carr gritted his teeth, felt every muscle in his arm swell as Manon’s body writhed, flailing for an out. Carr’s shoulder bumped the wall. The bell blared, harsh in his ear. The first round was over.

  He let go with a snarl of frustration, pushing Manon away from him. The man’s gloved hands scrabbled for the wall, weak and clumsy like a drunk’s. He pulled himself away, face red as a solar flare, eyes bulging and seeming to roll independently of each other. They focused on Carr with venom, his face a picture of relief, fury, and shock. Carr choked down his plunging sense of disappointment and pushed off toward his hatch. He’d been mere seconds away from the belt, and both he and the Reaper knew it.

  “You were close, so damn close,” Uncle Polly said when Carr was seated, feet hooked under the stabilizing bar. “Now forget it, put it aside, don’t let it mess you up. You scared him all right—you can see it in his eyes. He’s never c
ome close to losing in the first. He’s going to come out hard in the second, like a trapped bear.”

  “Keep on him,” Blake said, holding a blissfully cool ice pack to the back of Carr’s neck. “He’s not used to someone taking it to him for all three rounds.”

  Uncle Polly said, “Play it smart, now. He’s going to brawl. Hitting and throwing—that’s what he does best. That’s what he’s going to fall back on.”

  Scull took his mouth guard and gave him a squeeze of water. Carr swallowed a little, then sloshed the rest in his mouth and spat into the towel. “He wants to brawl, I’ll brawl.” He bit back down on his mouth guard and swung himself back into the Cube. Just before the bell sounded, he saw Manon’s face—no longer smirking with bravado and confidence, but tenacious and hateful, the expression of a king desperate and determined to ward off the specter of his dethroning. A dangerous man.

  Uncle Polly was right; Manon came out full force, not easing back as Carr had seen him do in previous fights. Perhaps he understood that Carr was something different, not someone easily outlasted and pummeled late in the third round. After the way the first round had almost ended, the Reaper wasn’t keen to go airborne or grapple, and he gave up on throwing when he saw that Carr seemed immune to disorientation and could twist his body nimbly enough to turn the momentum of most throws to his advantage. The round quickly became what was called in zeroboxing parlance “a wall brawl.” The two men exchanged rapid and brutal strikes, each aiming to do damage and wear the other down, then broke apart to climb, and leap, and scramble for superior angles before warring again.

  Carr bent his knees, anchoring his feet and waist firmly so he could throw power into a flurry of attacks—face jabs, body shots, uppercuts. A couple of them broke through, but then Manon was not there—he leaped to the adjoining wall, his body suddenly perpendicular to Carr’s, his fist delivering a roundhouse punch that connected as an uppercut. Carr’s head snapped back. He imagined his teeth had gone through the roof of his mouth and into his sinuses. Eyes watering fiercely, he dropped his hands to the wall he was standing on, pulling his head out of range, and shot his legs out sideways in a double kick aimed at Manon’s head. The man slid aside neatly and caught Carr’s ankle, pulling him down and smashing him into the other wall as if he were swinging a large log into the ground.