Zeroboxer (27 page)

Carr let himself sag a little. It wasn't hard, he wasn't even feigning. He steadied himself and went after Soard with a few heavy-handed punches. Soard hit him in the side and he let out a very real grunt of pain, putting his hands up in weak defense. The man clocked him across the ear. Carr's head rang like a bell and he swayed on his grippers. Two more unanswered blows to the head, and Soard eased into his final victory stretch. His face slackened with confidence, his long limbs loosened, and he went to work, backing Carr into a corner and punishing him steadily.

“Carr!” Uncle Polly shouted. “DEFENSE! Get the hell out!”

No. I know what I'm doing; this is the only way.

A stinging sensation spread across his forehead. His gashes had split back open. Wet warmth jellied over his brow, red droplets scattering into the air and across his eyes. The crowd had started to roar, sensing finality. Carr saw the next blow fly t
oward him in slow motion and slipped it. There. There was his opening. He dug in his feet and slammed a fist into the spot where Soard's chest and arm connected, sending the man's upper body into a rotation. Carr saw his opponent's back come into view and threw himself across the broad shoulders, right arm wrapping around the neck, left arm locking it into place.

He almost got it, the perfect chokehold. Almost. Soard managed to turn his head and slide a hand in next to his throat. Carr squeezed anyways; it was the best hold he'd gotten so far, and he was out of time. Soard's eyes bulged, but he tucked his free left arm into a chicken wing and drove the elbow into Carr's injured side.

Carr's rib cage contracted with concussive red pain. His grip started to wilt and he fought off the weakness, redoubling his effort and squeezing down harder on his choke. He didn't have the windpipe, but he could still cut off blood to the man's brain, make him pass out. The Martian fighter hit him again and Carr heard his own sucking gasp.
A third blow. A fourth.

Desperation and urgency coursed through both of them. They were locked together in some primal stalemate, like two prehistoric beasts rending each other even as they sank together into the tar pit. The edges of Carr's vision blurred; the Cube walls seemed to be shrinking and receding at the same time. He imagined he was tightening a screw, and every bit of his own hurt was another
notch. He wouldn't stop. His ribs would turn to powder and he would pass out before he s
topped.

Kye Soard tapped.

He tapped, again, frantically, before the signal reached Carr's brain.

Carr let go. He fell away, oblivious to which direction he drifted, unaware of where the walls were. His shoulder bumped against a surface and he pawed at it weakly. In his ear, he could hear Uncle Polly shouting as if from a very vast distance, but it was unintelligible. He put his hands and feet on the wall and laid his cheek against the Cube. It was cool and bumpy against his skin, humming with fans and magnetics, its microgravity tug like a gentle and welcome embrace. Like putting his ear up to a seashell. He felt transported.

In a corner of his brain, Carr knew he'd won. He didn't want to get up and shout his victory to the heavens. He didn't want to do a triumphant lap around the Cube, or raise his arms to the crowd, or somersault through the air in jubilation. He wanted to lie here with his face against the wall and feel relief. And joy. And sadness.

The referee came up to him and said, “Can you get up? Do you need a doctor?” He let himself be pulled off the wall and toward the hatch. Everyone was there, crowded on the deck. Uncle Polly, Bax Gant, DK, Scull, Adri and the rest of the team, and Risha. Poor Risha, crying. They stared at him in silent awe, no one moving. Then they surrounded him, all at once, and lifted him. In the crush, he said, “Risha,” and held out his hand, and the warmth of her fingers slipped into his.

He started shivering, and they put towels on him, and a heated top, and wiped the blood from his face and gave him water, and through it all, the crowd, the immense crowd of thousands, was silent.

Finally, they helped him to the center of the deck, where the referee and Kye Soard stood. The Martian put a hand to his bruised neck and looked at Carr as if seeing him for the first time. “The old planet delivers surprises, after all,” he said. Shock and bitter admiration crawled up his sweat-slicked face. “You're wasting your time on Valtego. You should be fighting in the Martian system, my friend, though I hope you never do.”

Carr extended his hands, right crossed over left, and they shook. The referee raised Carr's arm, and the Terran sections of the stadium lit up with delirious screams of elation. Then, slowly, the rest of the stadium began clapping. Grudgingly at first, then louder, then cheering and standing up and drifting out of their seats. Over by the entrance, even Officer Jin and the cops were applauding.

Carr didn't cry, though his heart ached, for he knew that what he'd once dreamed to be his future had already come and gone. He had no dreams for tomorrow, not yet. The truth of him would emerge, slowly, in the days and months to come, and he couldn't imagine what would become of him, what would be said about him, and what he would mean, in the end, to everyone who'd ever looked to him for meaning. But he knew he would always remember and be remembered, for this moment, and for others like it, raw and honest
.

He felt free.

Acknowledgments

The fighter climbs into the ring alone, but it takes many people to get him or her to that moment, and an entire team is working just behind the ropes. So it is with authors.

Thank you to the team at Flux for getting behind
Zeroboxer
and shepherding it into the world. My editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, loved the story immediately, even though, as he admitted to me, he never thought he'd be “bouncing up and down in his chair over an MMA book.” Brian, thank you for backing me and Carr all the way, and for your consistently insightful editorial guidance. Thank you to Kevin Brown for designing a stunning cover, and to Alisha Bjorklund, Mallory Hayes, Steffani Sawyer, and Sandy Sullivan for taking care of
Zeroboxer
every step of the way.

My seemingly unflappable agent, Jim McCarthy, is a source of encouragement and humor, a prompt answerer of endless questions, and a hell of a man for an author to have in her corner. Thank you Jim.

Thank you to early readers Vanessa MacLellan, Holly Westlund, Sarah Wong, Eloise Doubleday, Mukund Raguram, Marie Fernandez, Kyle Schiller, Susan DeFreitas, Linda Epstein, and Jessica Morrell for helping me to hone this story. The Fearless Fifteeners, the Class of 2K15, the community of young adult and speculative fiction writers in Portland, and my martial arts friends have been invaluable sources of support and encouragement. There are too many peo
ple to name here, but thank you all.

Thank you to my husband, Nathan, and my two children, for being understanding of all the hours I spent ensconced in front of my computer, my mind off in orbit. Remarkably,
my family, in particular my parents and in-laws, never questioned my decision to turn from a perfectly respectable and well-paying career in corporate strategy to writing science fiction and fantasy novels. Regardless of my own bouts of doubt and angst, their faith and enthusiasm never faltered. For that, I am profoundly grateful.

About the Author

Fonda Lee was born and raised in Canada, spent years as a corporate strategist for Fortune 500 companies, and is now a writer and black belt martial artist living in Portland, Oregon. Visit www.fondalee.com or follow Fonda on Twitter @fondajlee.