“ARRGGHH!” The Blond Hulk’s scream of pain blasts through the headphones. He didn’t have time to turn off his vocoder…
SIXTH GOAL FOR EARTH!!! THIRTEEN TO FIFTEEN! DEFENSIVE BACK ARNO KORVALDSEN INJURED. HE LEAVES THE COURT. SUBSTITUTE JONATHAN HENDERSON TAKES HIS PLACE. BOTH TEAMS PAST THE TEN POINT MARK, PAUSE FOR HALF-TIME.
The paramedics cart off Arno Korvaldsen, mercifully unconscious. His enormous back twisted into an impossible knot, his limbs convulsing. The doctor looks at me and shakes his head. He won’t get over this.
Sons of bitches, giving us the goal so they can take out our defensive back. It’s a diabolical strategy. Jonathan doesn’t have the weight it takes to be an effective substitute for the Blond Hulk. We’ll have to reconfigure the whole squad.
The Slovkys, helmets already off, look on in astonishment as they carry the Dane off the court. Apparently they believed he was simply indestructible. They’re deeply shocked—and so am I. Injuries in Voxl are as common as sweat. But ones as serious as this are pretty rare.
The magenta but unmistakably human silhouette of Kowalsky comes up to me. He turns off his helmet, smiling sarcastically.
“Poor old Dane, he hurt his widdle backsy. They shouldn’t let the elderly play with us, the best guys in the League, no matter how big they are. Sometime unfortunate accidents happen… This is Voxl, mestizo. Let’s see how well you do now without your defensive back, Latino.” He turns his helmet back on and leaves.
I didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything to him. Didn’t break his neck, like I’d really love to do. He plays for the League, and when the game clock is stopped, he’s as untouchable as a god. Like all xenoids.
The last time a human Voxl player responded to a Centaurian’s insults and stuck four inches of steel between his ribs, the xenoids sprayed the entire Melbourne Astrodome with mushroom gas. Only five thousand people were killed, crushed in the panic to get out, but two hundred thousand humans were condemned to a slow, horrible death, watching their lungs rot for the next ten years, until the end came. There are worse things than mere death…
And the worst part is, the Centaurian didn’t even die from the stabbing. There’s no justice in this world.
Gopal comes over, his expression inscrutable, and whispers, “It isn’t worth regenerating that body. Multiple head injuries, eight vertebrae pulverized, six broken ribs. Worst of all, brain dead. They’ll have to autoclone him—his insurance will cover the expenses. When was the last time he recorded his consciousness?”
I sigh. “Arno was a meticulous guy. Right before the match. How long will it take?” I finally ask.
“An hour, I think…” Gopal shrugs. “Mechanical wombs are getting faster all the time. And it’s been a long time since I saw anything like this…”
Yes… When you play Voxl, you know it could happen to you at any moment. At first it’s very scary, but after a while you get used to the idea. When all is said and done, if your insurance covers it, and the worst is never going to happen to you… And then, all of a sudden, it happens near you. Very near. And you realize that you’re never going to get completely over the fear of dying. Because it’s horrible. It always will be, even if the darkness only lasts for a while. Even if resurrection is guaranteed.
Arno won’t see how this game ends.
I call the team. I can see in their faces that they already know.
“An hour,” I tell them anyway. “You know already. He’ll wake up plenty of pounds lighter, he’ll have to get his new body ready all over again, more hormones, more training, special diets and all that… A Voxl player’s body doesn’t just depend on his genes. It’ll be at least half a year before he can play again. So I really want, as a gift when he wakes up, for us to be able to tell him, ‘Arno, we won. We did it for you, Great Dane.’ What do you think?”
We shout.
We are the champions.
Of course we’ll win!
Full of faith, we run to the hydromassage tank.
We’ve already reached a point no human Voxl team has gotten to in decades of matches against League players. Thirteen to fifteen. The last time a Team Earth got past the ten point mark against xenoids was twenty-six years ago, captained by the Delhi Wonder—our very own Mohamed Gopal.
All the executives of Planetary Transports Inc. must be patting themselves on the back for sponsoring us. In exchange for their large and risky investment, now they have exclusive rights to the five minutes of half-time advertising in the game of the millennium. Worth billions.
Like all the other annual Voxl matches between humans and xenoids, this one is broadcast via holovision to the five continents of Earth, to all the worlds that comprise the League, and even to those colonies that have their own orbital hyperantennas. At this moment, more than four fifths of the entire human population must be in front of their holoscreens, praying to their gods for our victory. And probably a good fifth of the entire galaxy is paying attention to the outcome of the game, though, of course, more out of curiosity than because they’re fans.
We’re going to show them that Earth is more than a mere tourist trap.
Though, without Arno, we’ll be walking a tightrope.
“Remember the Chinese box?” I ask the team while the vibrations of water massage our overexcited muscles. “It hasn’t been used in a long time… They might not be taking it into account.”
“That’s staking the whole match on a coin toss. Too risky,” Jonathan hesitated. His hands are shaking. He sure goes all or nothing. “I don’t know… If we score, it’ll only put us at sixteen. But if they stop us, counterattack, and score, we lose everything. We should be more cautious…”
“Screw cautious!” Mvamba sits bolt upright, sending water splashing everywhere. His eyes shine with the determination of youth. His ebony body, like a beautiful statue, is still trembling from the emotions of the game. “I say let’s do it!”
“Let’s do it. For the Blond Hulk,” the twins say in unison, square jaws jutted forward.
Yukio, narrowing his lips, nods in agreement.
Jonathan raises his hands, gives up, nods with them.
This is my team.
I look at them, proud. They’re as much mine as they are Gopal’s. First-class human beings. Faces of steel, pure determination. Faces like those of the agents on the Planetary Security recruitment holoposters. Earth’s soldiers. Faces like that of the stone-jawed worker whose enormous hologram is floating now over the Metacolosseum, broadcasting his message, “If you have to send a package, there’s nothing like Planetary Transports Inc. It’ll get there safe, it’ll get there today, any day.” As he says it, he crudely hugs the topheavy blonde smiling at his side, an image brimming with subliminal messages of virility and patriotism.
Except the face of this worker, and those of the Planetary Security agents, are just computer-generated forms. My team is real.
That’s the difference.
The League guys must think they’ve demoralized us by taking out Arno. Think we’ll start playing defense. Which is what we ought to do, by any logical criteria.
They can’t expect us to attack. Especially not to run a play as suicidal as the Chinese box.
Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll surprise them.
And all these years of taking synthetic steroids for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to transform my metabolism completely, of consuming stress relief drugs and neurostimulants that have driven me all but crazy, haven’t been in vain.