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—AND OUT OF THE RED CORNER, WEARING RED TRUNKS WITH GOLD TRIM, STANDING SIX FEET SEVEN INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN POUNDS. PROUDLY REPRESENTING ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI, USA, IN HIS METEORIC ALL-TIME CAMPAIGN OF FORTY-NINE WINS, NO LOSSES, NO DRAWS, WITH ALL FORTY-NINE CRUSHING WINS COMING BY KNOCKOUT. LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, THE REIGNING UNDEFEATED, UNDISPUTED, UNDENIABLE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, INTRODUCING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, KING JOHN CANTON!
John Canton raised his gloves to the crowd. Matching red and gold, Winning logo, gold crown decal below, gold KING on one thumb, gold CANTON on the other. Pointless red compression wraps around his hands, beneath the gloves. At least this was the last time.
The referee examined gloves and belts and made the call to begin. He touched gloves with his opponent, a single firm tap. He would not patronize; they would not show arrogance. Entourages, cameramen and the announcer left the ring and he looked at Clare, who blew a kiss. He saw the crowd, the arena, the casinos beyond. Felt the rising clamor until all fell silent in his ears when the bell was struck. He walked forward. His opponent rushed.
Always so slow, he thought. Always so weak. The outcome always known except how many hits this next and final man will tolerate after they miss and miss and their best shots do nothing. “Unfair,” yeah, literally correct. After all the fair bouts they won to bring them here, this proud descendent of legendary bareknucklers a little closer to their hotblooded forefathers than most. He wondered again about his own parents, never met. Maybe he materialized from nothing, the baby in the ward with no corresponding mother, his manifesting as some lesser consequent of the demiurge. If he had not seen his blood in pre-fight labs he could believe he had none. His opponents bled, it’s the only reason he watched their film. Replayed now, no need to anticipate, only wait for their attempt. Dodged as one green glove moved right, his left struck their open ribs. Dodged as they hooked in return, his right struck their face. They slowed and bled, he struck their ribs again. They fell and quickly stood.
The first round finished with another strike of the bell. He sat in his corner, Nnamdi’s hands rested on his shoulders as Zachary pressed the symbolic enswell on his jaw.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“He’s not making it to three,” said Zachary.
“No.”
Their blocking improved. Temerity yielding to the unconscious, jolted realizations in the shocks that rolled through their hands and up their arms when their fists met his skin, unyielding. Growing recognition of futility, obvious hesitance to become vulnerable in attack. When his opponents still ran their mouths before fights he would give them hits, let them feel his chin and smile to show they could touch him but they could not hurt him. His opponents still tried, this opponent still tried, and like forty-nine before them was always punished. Their resolve waned, coming to a close, their last gasp easily dodged. No good, he thought. Too slow. Always too slow. Side, jaw, twice more. They grimaced and shuddered and with the last dropped. He stepped back, the crowd roared, the referee waved off. The light fell fully into his eyes, caught in his entourage and so many he didn’t recognize clapping every part of his back and chest they could reach. One shouted Rocky fuckin’ Marciano can eat his chicken parm out! but he didn’t look, he didn’t care. 50-0, fifty knockouts and zero moments of fear. Fifty knockouts and zero thrills from earned victory. He looked instead at Clare climbing into the ring, down the deep neck of her red dress, at her dark hair as it passed over the ropes, at her hands as she firmly pushed well-wishers away to stand at his side. The bell was struck several times, his left arm raised above his head by the referee, the announcer’s voice so quickly returned—50-0! THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME!—it could be cheating, he didn’t care, he doesn’t care. These contests were for finding the greatest in the ring, he was and is the greatest in the ring. If it was ever cheating he would do it again. Nothing regretted, but now relieved.
Nnamdi hugged him, “It’s been an honor, John.”
“Likewise. Thank you, for everything, Nnamdi.”
Zachary held his hands behind his head. He had a half-smile, looking wistful. “No point dragging it out.”
“Wouldn’t have been right. And,” he leaned down to kiss Clare’s cheek and whisper in her ear, “all I could think about was how much time I have to waste before I get to take you home.”
She rolled her eyes, but he could feel her heart flutter.
He showered, the last specks of blood washed from him. He dressed, black suit, white shirt, black tie. Black FP Journe last, returned to him from one bodyguard, Hamir. They rejoined Nnamdi and Zachary and entered the auditorium for the post-fight conference, the room full to standing. They knew what was coming.
“I would like to open with my thanks to Mr. Luke. He is an incredible boxer and he will be back. I have been aware of the media attention surrounding this fight, the accompanying billing and hype despite my never making an official announcement. I will make that now: it was all true. This was my last fight, I am retiring from professional boxing.”
There were isolated exclamations from the few who somehow hadn’t expected this.
He held a hand toward Nnamdi, “I must also thank my trainer and coach from my first day, Nnamdi Obiakpani. I wouldn’t be here without you.” He turned to Zachary, “I also owe thanks to my cutman and team chief Zach Kennedy, and all of the boxing team members he oversees at Canton Holdings. And last, of course, my wife Clare,” he saw her in his other sight as she changed from her dress. That’s a shame, he thought. “I’ll now take a few questions.” He pointed to a reporter in glasses, “Mr. Lance?”
“Thank you, John, and congratulations on your, ah, final victory. Was breaking Marciano’s record your motivation for your retirement?”
“Yes, primarily, it was the last goal I had in this. Boxing has made me who I am, if it weren’t for the day I walked into Nnamdi’s gym, I don’t know where I would be. The amount of good this has done for me, the friends I’ve met and meeting my wife, it’s all because of boxing. But now I can say I’ve done enough, and I believe it’s time for new blood to hold these belts, like Mr. Luke.” He pointed to a brunette, “Miss deBoer?”
“Thank you, John. Will you be involved in boxing at all moving forward?”
“At a distance. As Nnamdi has already announced, he is reopening Obiakpani’s Gym & Academy and we will be an incredibly proud partner.” He pointed to a blonde whose name he was annoyed to not recall. “Yes?”
“John, do you think it’s inappropriate to have fought tonight knowing you would effectively immediately abdicate your title?”
“No,” he laughed. “I was ready to fight and it would have been wrong to deny Mr. Luke the challenge he fought so hard to earn. Delaying this announcement until months later would have been appropriate. Besides, you all knew this was coming. I’ll take two more questions.” He pointed to a bearded man, “Mr. Maina?”
“Do you have any more thoughts on the fight?”
“As I said, Mr. Luke is a superb boxer, I don’t expect so much as know he’ll compete for multiple titles in the coming years. Otherwise, Sunday’s Post-Dispatch will feature my full retirement announcement, and I will be sure to include my thoughts on the fight in greater detail. Last question.” He pointed to a bald man, “Mr. Basil?”
“Thank you and congratulations, John. What are your plans following your retirement?”
“My businesses. When I started Canton Holdings ten years ago we were small, just fast food and real estate. Now with the Canton Centers for Reproductive Health we’re in UQM research and IVF treatments, and at Epitaxial Foundries we’re in energy, advanced materials, and rocketry. I know this is a boxing crowd, but if you haven’t yet, all of you should look at the work of my co-founder, Dr. Henry Batton, who has pioneered an immediately implementable method for the mass production of high-quality graphene. This is a landmark breakthrough with applications in virtually every industry. Our tower under construction in St. Louis is using Henry’s work, just as our first large-scale manufactory will when we break ground in September. Epitaxial Foundries is the only company in the world with this technology and where we were already a leader in engineering applications for graphene, we will shortly become the majority global supplier of graphene and graphene composites. In another ten years our products will be in everything.” He held his hands up, “And all of this is because of boxing. I will always be grateful to have had this opportunity and I will look back fondly on my time fighting, just as I now look forward to putting my energy into my work with Henry and the overseeing of my businesses. But that’s enough from me, thank you all again, have a good evening.”
He waved to the audience, ignoring the breakout of shouted questions. Hamir led them out into the VIP corridor.
Nnamdi smiled, “All good things . . . ”
“You’ll be back here in no time.”
“Maybe, but they won’t be like you.”
“Who knows?”
Nnamdi looked at his phone, “My daughter’s flight landed, they’re on their way to the hotel.”
“That’s great, have a wonderful time with them. If you need anything—”
“I know, John.” They shook hands and hugged again and Nnamdi left.
He turned to Hamir. “What did you think about the conference?”
“I thought you made your points very well.”
“Thanks. It’s done anyway. My wife’s still changing?” She was partially clothed, standing at a mirror, phone in front. Her assistant, Mei, stood out of shot.
“Yes, sir.”
Tal, his second guard, blocked the door of the little locker room. Their eyes met, Tal acknowledged him with a nod then faced forward. He looked back to Hamir, “What about the fight?”
“That was a good hit on your jaw, considering.”
“Yeah. He’s very fast.”
“Not fast enough.”
“No.”
“But your finish might be the best I’ve seen. A fitting end.”
“Damn, thank you. We’ll be going back tonight.”
“Yes, sir. The car is ready.”
The women joined them. Hamir took the lead, Tal at the rear, Mei next. He looked over his shoulder and saw as Clare ran at his back and jumped up, her arms slipping around his neck, her hands crossed on his chest, her legs held in his arms. Gold Apple Watch, gold bracelet. Red Adidas tracksuit, black Sambas. “I liked your dress more.”
“I can’t jump onto you in heels,” he felt her breath on his ear, “and the dress might have torn and fallen off.”
“Good point, save the show for me.”
He felt her silent laughter. He whispered “We still have the villa, and we could do some more here tomorrow.”
“I’ve done enough. Let’s go home. And . . . ” she whispered something else.
He reclined on the bed in the jet’s small suite, feet and calves over the edge, Clare sitting across from him.
“I’m glad to be leaving,” she said. “I don’t know about this city.”
“I love Las Vegas.”
She perked, “You’ve never mentioned that.”
“Something about it just makes sense.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin on her hands, tilted in playful incredulity. “Proud excess? Capitalism’s most perfect cesspit?”
He couldn’t deny it. “Yeah, or maybe second after LA, but I like the excess. I like that it’s shitty. It’s so dirty but so hopeful, all this transient beauty like a mandala in the waste. I miss when I could walk through a casino and I didn’t need guys with me because nobody noticed me.”
“They noticed you.”
“Fine, recognized me. Now I need a full escort because everybody wants to meet King Canton.”
“You love that.”
“I do. But I liked when I could just play at a casino. I still love the Wynn, going there now would be an ordeal. I miss being able to anonymously join in on partying. I miss when I could just watch people reveling or knocked sober after their busts. There was this night, years ago, I was here to watch the second fight between Vázquez and Márquez. Vázquez won in a TKO, they had a famous rivalry and that whole series had some of the best fights I’ve seen, they just didn’t stop, they beat each other to hell every time. After, I was at a craps table at the Wynn with a bunch of guys at a bachelor party. I had my Cards hat on and this real bro in khakis, Penguin shirt, sunglasses and a Dodgers hat grins at me and says ‘Fuck the Cardinals,’ and I knew he was just having fun so of course I gave it back, ‘Fuck the Dodgers,’ and we both laughed and the shooter was on fire and everybody kept winning. At some point I noticed this old guy at a blackjack table beside us, he was in a nice suit and had a big silver tourbillon TAG and he was playing alone with a pit boss behind the dealer. He was running multiple hands and dropping flags, and he was crushing it, winning every hand almost every time. When he finished he gave the dealer a flag and she thanked him but she was so reserved, so calm, like a five grand tip was nothing special. Both sides of that interaction shocked me. A new guy sits down, he was in jeans, a yellow-and-pink Hawaiian shirt, white Nikes and a calculator watch. He takes out a dinky stack of black chips, so like maybe two grand, and he played and busted every hand straight out. That night, it was in August, and that huge hacker convention DEF CON was going on, so for all I know he’s in tech and he had the money to piss away a couple stacks in minutes, but I think about the people on that floor who couldn’t afford it, who went home and wondered What the fuck was I doing? I’m never going back, I’m so stupid, that place is bullshit. I don’t think it makes sense to them. But I think of that old guy.”
Clare nodded, “You think about how he represented everything you wanted. And since this is where you’ve had so many fights, you can’t help but associate those, and him, and all of this, with your success.”
“Yeah,” and he smiled at her. “It can be beautiful here. I know you see it.”
She said “I do. I like the Mansion, as cliché and aesthetically out-of-place as it is. There’s all this wonderful and wonderfully dissonant architecture, overrun and not at all appreciated by tourists except to show how they were also part of the–the transience. But maybe there’s something redemptive in that, in itself.” She tapped her phone, his phone vibrated. “I do like the mountains, and I like the air.”
“I do too,” he looked at the picture she sent, one from when she was changing. “I also like that.”
She unzipped her jacket and let it fall behind her in the seat, plain white t-shirt underneath, then joined him on the bed. “I never thought I’d fall into such a strangely romantic view of that excess. But you saw promise, and you got it.” Her hand ran down his chest. “You said we would . . . ”
“I did. What about—”
“That was my appointment before we left St. Louis.”
He should have guessed. “But we’ve . . . how long after?”
“A month, at most.”
“I’m ready.”
“I know you are. Do you still think they won’t be like you?”
He shook his head. “They won’t have my gift.”
It was less than a month.
His left hand rested on her bare abdomen, his head held by his right. He looked on her dark figure in his other sight, his golden beside. He could see their children, birthed as he was birthless. He knew her fears, his parents must have died violently, and as truly as she knew it would never happen to him it only meant that anxiety would carry to the rest that kept her awake or in fitful sleep on the children she will have. Why don’t I feel this way, he thought. Why such confidence? This power speaks to me but I think I hear another voice, higher even than this power. Demiurge, dēmiurgós, craftsman, artisan, God. Hello, father. I know why I am here. I see shadows before me, your word informs me. Set apart even in those set apart, to be king—magnate—to be emperor. To soon guide others, as you guide me, away from the heart. Better at least not away from my heart or hers. Or is it worse? Does your heart ache at what is to come? I know only as you have hinted, still mine does not.
Beneath his hand he saw a light form within her and he saw the light spread until she was bright like him and with sharp breath she awoke. Her hands fell upon his, light touched light. She did not see but she understood. He saw and understood. She cried and she laughed and they kissed and he enveloped her.
He still watched her in the morning, and with the shimmer in the room from sunrise he saw also a shimmer in his greater sight, feeling it pass like the breeze. He could laugh at such reciprocation. Their joy in conception of one who would not be like him returned so appropriately by this herald of the true birth of the Third.
He left the bedroom to the loggia above the private garden and called Henry.
“Three now, just now.”
Henry said “Good timing. The chamber’s ready.”
Obligations delayed him, a day of meetings in Texas, then two weeks in Japan he would have enjoyed if his wife had come. He returned to her, to St. Louis and to the auxiliary labs with the cold chamber, a metal box, raised and heavily insulated. They tested, slow as they were always slow in service of total caution. A month of observation him here, to be amused as he watched liquid oxygen swirl in his bare and cupped palms, to feel almost tickled as nitrogen and then oxygen solidified. When the chamber was warm he descended through a hatch in its floor, laser thermometer coming to hand. 37 every time.
Acids, poisons, radiation, current, vacuum or gigapascals, warm matter and now ultracold. Nothing affected him.
“One test left,” he said, still staring at his hand.
“When?” asked Henry.
“Tonight.”
Clare stood beside him in the center courtyard of the manor. Henry lit a cigarette and pushed up his glasses, then took a notebook and pen from Zachary. Black jumpsuit, boots, gloves, Clare held his black full helmet. Epitaxial-built camera in a zippered pocket on his chest, lens in a zippered pouch on his leg. Omega Speedmaster he finished setting.
“Run it again,” said Henry.
“Five minutes as far as I can go, take pictures, come back.”
“Last words?” asked Zachary with a grin they both believed.
“I knew I could, but I knew I couldn’t risk it. I’m glad we proved it, because,” he raised his hand to the stars, “that’s why, that’s why I have this.” He leaned down to kiss Clare.
“Don’t be long,” she said.
“I won’t.” He put on the helmet. “Watches ready?”
Zachary counted down.
He launched. Ten seconds and he saw the curve of the Earth. Not enough, he thought, faster, faster. His other sight grew beyond any time before, his form a faint star, shot into the void, his heart high as he held the heavens in full glory. Still not enough, he thought. Faster.
He saw. He ran through the roll of film. He returned.
Glad to reenter the atmosphere and again draw breath so he could release it in his first triumphant yell. He hugged Henry and Zachary and tossed away the helmet before lifting Clare into an embrace. She developed the film and when she returned with the first image her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were read. He looked only briefly, giving it to Henry, who sat down on the courtyard sand and wiped away a tear, then raised his arm, holding the picture out for Zachary, who took it and said “God above.”
“You can do this with ships,” said Henry, now lying down.
“Yes.”
“We’ll need so much money. We’ll need to hasten the release of the next battery series.”
“Yes, and move into the next stage with the clinics.”
Epitaxial-made materials saw use in everything. Construction, like the spreading Canton Centers. Cars, jets, phones. Rockets. Their batteries and bearings as well, demand always outpaced supply. The best problem in absence of competition; difficult to bootstrap a process whose integral machinery’s foundation was an impossible mechanism few on Earth knew existed. Epitaxial joined the private space race, swiftly progressing from test rockets to delivering satellites to orbit.
He never took his place for granted. He knew others would come. Zachary followed whispers and ghost stories in Nigeria, leading them to the Second, then the whispers stopped, their temperance improving. Nothing he did, he respected them, admired them, knew he would do exactly as they had done, were he in their place. Nothing ever about the Third, and he couldn’t help but feel a rising confidence, especially when it took five years after his retirement to feel the Fourth.
He knew others would come, and he knew something else was coming.
Their rockets advanced.
He stood behind Henry, who addressed the press. “Since John and I started Epitaxial Foundries, making enduring contributions to human spaceflight has always been our goal, but there were developments we knew were necessary before we could pursue that. Everything we have done has been in support of that goal, of building a fully reusable launch vehicle. While our first launch vehicle, the Kyto 1 rocket, was not reusable and only delivered two payloads, our work continued and we achieved notable advancement and success in the first-stage reusable Kyto 2 rocket. We are immensely proud of its perfect service record during our partnership with the Swedish Space Corporation, but like the Kyto 1 and the developments that preceded it, it wasn’t enough. Our fully-reusable Kyto 3 launch vehicle is what we have strived for. Across more than a fourteen tests it has a perfect record, and it will eventually be used to carry humans to space, but its first payload, another Swedish satellite, will launch from Cape Canaveral on Tuesday, August 24, 2021.”
Canton grinned, Henry took measured questions from the group of reporters.
It launched, it delivered its payload, it landed safely. A corporate party followed that Friday; a private celebratory dinner at his manor that Saturday, in part though unsaid because Clare was again pregnant.
He was speaking with their chef when he saw something different pass across his greater sight. No shimmer, no soft breeze. A crashing wave then a distant pressure that held. He looked until he saw Chicago and found nothing.
“Sarah, please wait to serve dinner.”
“Of course, Mr. Canton.”
He returned to the smaller dining room. “I need to speak with Henry and Zach in my office, this should only take a moment.” He gave a look to Clare and the men followed him into the private garden and through the concealed door to his office. Two televisions were on, his computer monitors active. In his other sight he watched Clare leave the table.
“Ten now?” asked Henry.
“No. Clare’s coming,” and when she joined them, “I felt something different, I can still feel it. It’s to the northeast, it was like an explosion.”
“How far have you looked?” asked Zachary.
“Chicago, it isn’t there, I don’t think it’s Detroit, and if I continued that line I’d run into Quebec. Maybe Europe?”
Zachary and Henry checked their phones, Clare went to his desk and opened Twitter where she was the first to find it. “There’s been some kind of explosion in Munich.”
Her hand rose to cover her mouth at the image. When a video appeared he took the mouse and set it to play on one television.
Clare didn’t look, didn’t linger, she only said “I need to check on the kids.”
“Is it someone like you?” asked Henry.
“Must be.”
“Could you stop it?”
There was a pause.
Canton was in thought. Like a question of him had been asked in another language, where the foreigner listening only knew something was being asked by the lilt at the end of the line. Could I stop it, he wondered, not of them, maybe not even of himself. Bits of fifty bouts flashed but went by unfelt, as if only there to remind him he never felt afraid. Never fought someone who felt like something of him. East of St. Louis, he thought, there are fields upon fields of nothing. He thought of the drills that pumped up natural gasses, gas, the poorer cousin of the south, of oil, and even a man most base, one without the blessing of his sight could stare and see a hundred miles. But if it were him, in the fields of Illinois looking up to see something screaming like a star and knew its hands too were adamantine and that its eyes beheld a lover left behind could he really know he could fight, a real fight this time. To overcome the thing he always knew he had but never confronted inside another.
“I don’t know.”
If they didn’t know the words the others still felt his change. Their dinner was subdued. Henry stayed late into the night as they watched until the sphere collapsed.
“This is the only the first. More will happen, everywhere.”
Henry asked “What will you do?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Nothing, unless one happens in the US.”
“I agree.”
He could have reached Mexico City, China, Azerbaijan. Instead he watched spheres collapse again and again, the sand as it fell.
I ask, is this still what you want from me? I ask but I know how you would answer. Mine a different burden, I stand, I watch, while I know plain whatever lurks within is not me, not like me, could not stop me. You show–I know–shadows set before me. Shadows, shadows–shades, oh! Are you shadow? I think you are, no words, no touch, “Knowledge!” pressed upon me, I know it isn’t mine. Pressed upon me across these all-long nights. “Long nights,” long night, long day of eighteen years. I see the thousandth as clearly as the first. Do you have respite from this? Oh how cruel, I bet you do, thy little god’s delight. You think you want this, you think you want this. But night finds you linen-covered, having bathed away the self. I feel no envy, this belongs with me, and you ensured no cost of sanity! (He says to the walls and floors and ceiling.) Perhaps I am afraid; I would protest the risk, to leave them, to leave her, to leave this. Protest weakness; there is a danger here. If I can be bled, this will be the knife. This is not my burden? No . . . I am afraid. To meet my equal, and you, O Maker. Or do I deceive myself with these thoughts? My thoughts, as a room of the conversing, I point to no mouth and call “Liar” but I hear hypocrisy on every tongue.
Tampa.
He watched Henry hurry through the tunnels, watched him take the private elevator to his office.
“Are you going?”
He was quiet.
Then he said “I won’t need to.”
A bolt of black and white, from the blue.
On a Monday in September, Zachary was waiting in his office before he arrived.
“I might have found the First,” said Zachary. “Are you familiar with Andrew Black? He won the Heisman.”
Canton nodded. “Biggest name in college sports, plays for Florida. And he’s Don Black’s nephew. You think it’s him?”
“Yeah. Have you heard how fast he runs?”
He shook his head.
Zach said “As a high school sophomore in Atlanta, Black was running a four-two forty, and that was confirmed by scouts because of course they thought it was bullshit from his coach. In his senior year, again with scouts watching, they placed him at a three-nine forty. Today the combine record is four seconds and the world record pace is in line with a three-nine. As a high school senior he was the fastest man on Earth.”
“That’s his nickname.”
“Exactly. There hasn’t been an official measurement since he started at Florida but I’ve read estimates that his forty has dropped to three-seven or even three-six. Have you ever watched his highlights?”
Canton shook his head.
“I have. I started watching the Gators just because of him, he’s unbelievable. Last Saturday they were playing Tennessee, who are a powerhouse, and he was still out there making them look like kids.”
“They are kids.”
“Yeah yeah, watch this.”
Another highlight from, you guessed it, Drew Black—
—Yeah, we might as well start calling this “Drew Black’s Top 10”
Tennessee kickoff but it’s short—
Not enough to pass the goalposts, he caught the ball in the end zone.
—You think Black’s gonna take a knee? Wrong. Never does.
Sprinting up the middle of the field, every tackle whiffed or dodged. A last guard lowered his helmet before contact but was effortlessly hurdled.
Look at that leap!—
—How do you stop this guy?!
Clear window. Touchdown in seconds.
“That was impressive.”
Zachary held up his hands. “See? He smashed just about every college single-season receiving record he could, as a freshman. I’ve watched his interviews and he always deflects, always says it’s the team that does all the work and he just has to run fast. But watching the games, seeing that? It gave me this feeling, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. So after Lo and I had dinner, Clare called her, and that’s when I realized it’s the same feeling I got watching you fight. That’s how much better he is than everybody else.”
Canton nodded. “It makes sense. He’d line up with the ones we know, all tall and strong. How tall is he?”
Zachary said “Florida bills him at 6’6, but teams always bill over, so probably 6’5, which matches estimates of the First.”
“And Redhat is 6’3. We know Enyi is the second and that Redhat and the First are the third and the fourth, in either order. Shajangali is the fifth, the sixth and seventh are the Israeli and Suraj, the eighth is whoever blew up the bar in Japan, and the ninth is probably in Chile. So if Andrew is a Controller, that would make Redhat the third, and Andrew the ‘First.’ He would have been very close to Tampa.”
“I’ve been digging since Saturday night, I already found stories from Atlanta starting January 2020, I’ll send them.”
“Please, and if you’d let Katrina know on the way out to get a setup in one of the tunnels so we can measure my forty time. Great work, Zach, let’s talk more over lunch.”
“On it,” and he left, holding a thumbs-up.
“Would-be robber blinded from firearm malfunction” — Plausible but improbable. Malfunctions happen, especially given the likelihood of a poorly maintained handgun being the only sort a felon could find.
“Atlanta bank heist getaway thwarted after engine dropped” — Again something a Controller could do, but reckless driving in a lemon was likely.
“Suspected murderer dead, others critically injured in unclear circumstances” — Promising. The deceased suffered catastrophic injury to his skull, the coroner describing the wound as resembling one inflicted by a sledgehammer. Three men were found with him, each surviving similarly severe injuries including head trauma. None could recall what happened. Neighbors reported gunshots but otherwise saw nothing, and no evidence of a firearm was recovered other than gunshot residue on the mangled right hand of the deceased.
“Dire grizzly carcass discovered in Atlanta suburb” — Also promising. The bear was discovered in decomposition, with the State & Wildlife service recording an ‘undefined’ force trauma as the cause of death. A fall had been ruled out, leaving it attributed to a very heavy vehicle moving at considerable speed, though it had been matched with no collision.
Zachary returned for their lunch meeting. “Katrina said we’ve got everything now but the turf, and that’s coming tonight. What’d you think about the articles?”
“The two robberies could have been a Controller, but there’s nothing in them that’s definite proof. The bear is the hardest to explain, which makes it the most likely.”
“That’s what I thought. Looks like it got hit by a truck but no truck? What else could it be?”
He nodded. “I agree. And the dead criminal, the mangled hand, the crushed skull, the neighbors not seeing anything. Whoever they encountered was very fast and very strong. No bullets and no unexplained blood on the scene, he could have missed, those types usually do miss, or he shot someone who was bulletproof. It’s still a jump, but I know why you chose it.”
It was why Zachary was now quiet, taking advantage of eating to not respond.
“What did you find on Andrew’s family?”
Zachary swallowed. “One sibling, his brother Michael. He’s a freshman at Florida, he’s going to pitch for them. Tall as you, scouting says he’s really fuckin’ good, high school numbers like Kershaw. You know, Andrew played baseball too, in high school. I looked at his scouting, it’s hazier but in his senior year he was regularly hitting a thousand in games while batting leadoff, had just this crazy ratio of times-on-base to runs scored, pretty much every Georgia high school hitting record is his. I read a while ago, actually, then re-read it, his interview with Sports Illustrated when he was on the cover. He said he pitched the first two years but stopped before his junior season because he liked playing outfield more. He ended high school as the #1 baseball and football recruit, the article was calling him the next Bo Jackson.”
He wondered why Andrew wasn’t playing both sports. “Their parents?”
“James and Anna,” Zachary slid his tablet across the table, “Here’s them at the All-American Bowl.”
The happy family. Andrew with the same smile as his father, but his mother’s eyes.
Zachary continued, “There’s some on Anna, born in ‘77, maiden name of Stewart, parents and two sisters and a brother, all still living. One sister in Augusta, otherwise the rest her family is in Savannah. James is pretty much a ghost, born in ‘75, honorable discharge from the Air Force in ‘99. He owns a machine shop, ‘Black’s Machining.’ Both of his parents are still alive, they live in Ava.”
“Oh, that’s why Don’s in Springfield.”
“Yeah. I found an interview with Don when he was doing a USO event, he talked about how his brother had served as a mechanic and how he used what he’d learned to open his shop.” He taps at his tablet, “Check out the flag behind the counter.”
Bright yellow, black snake. “It’s also on the work coveralls of the employees.”
“So his dad is so much of a libertarian he wears it on his sleeve?”
Zachary said “Yep. No government contracts, sure, best I could tell he mostly works with agriculture, some automotive.”
Canton hummed. “Whether or not Andrew’s a Controller, he is an enhanced, and since Don was the greatest Cardinal pitcher since Bob Gibson, James must also be enhanced. The Air Force would have identified that at MEPS and then selected him for E-Camp, and that would have put him on the fast track to being a fighter pilot and flying F-15s, or actually given pilot ages, F-22s. He might have chosen not to fly. That’s a hell of a thing to give up.”
“He must have hated it.”
“Lot of hate to pass on flying a Raptor-Killer. Hard to do better in life, and you can’t do better than being an astronaut, which he might be if he’d stayed. I’d think someone running a machine shop for twenty years has the exact disposition to excel in the orderly life of the military. If he hated it, it must have been profound. What’d you find on their social media?”
Zachary opened another app on the tablet. “Andrew’s on Twitter but it’s really basic, only retweeting postgames and little things like congratulating Michael. I get the vibe it could be one of his parents following a checklist. Michael’s more active, he actually tweets, but it’s still just baseball except for Andrew and Gators stuff.”
“Anything else? Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Yes to the girlfriend,” said Zachary, “she was harder to find but I eventually got a name, ‘Emilia Cruz-Amador.’ She’s on Facebook, not much, but it shows her family and Andrew.”
“She’s Hispanic?”
“Yeah, Mexican. Her dad is a professor at A&M and his personal website with the university has enough for the gist. Born in Guadalajara, taught at a university there, met his wife there, his first daughter was born there, then they moved to Texas because that’s where his wife is from. I assume her family had been here long enough to skirt everything under Buchanan.”
“Huh. Well, alright, always good work, Zach.”
The turf was ready, five yards wide and a hundred long, with markings and cameras every ten and a laser velocity tracker Zachary stood behind. He laced up the cleats, then went to the turf, needing few steps to know the feel.
He readied at the line, Zachary blew a whistle, he sprinted.
“Four even,” called Zachary.
He ran it to ten, the last with a call of “Three-nine.”
Zachary raised his eyebrows at him.
He made a call. Two weeks with a sprinting coach shaved off a tenth.
“Three-eight again,” called Zachary.
Never lower. Always slower. He swore and focused enough to enhance his movements, then ran.
“Holy shit,” said Zachary, “three even.”
Canton sighed. “I can’t beat him without Control. Let’s get Henry in here.”
Henry watched a side-by-side of Andrew and Canton sprinting. “He is impressive.”
“Yeah.”
“Gotta say,” started Zachary, “that’s not the usual build for a wide receiver.”
Canton leaned forward in his chair. “Look at him, of course it’s him. He’s built like a tank, he’s built like me, like he should be in battle charging uphill swinging a fucking claymore. So we’ve got a kid whose dad probably raised him to be paranoid, especially fitting if his dad knows what he can do. Andrew’s on Twitter but it’s all anodyne, like his mom could be running it. Zach found people saying he’s always out running at school, so maybe he’s been doing that since high school, since he activated and had to figure things out. A year and not quite a month after he activates, a dire bear carcass was found in a suburb, not close to him, but not far for a run. It had been decomposing for a couple weeks but that probably means the DOI team could just look straight at its crushed ribs. A truck loses that matchup, a semi, maybe, but it’s still a tie that kills the driver, and with where and how it was found and how long it’d been dead, they knew it wasn’t a fall. So Andrew is out running a year after, and he’s clairvoyant so he sees it, and maybe he thinks he should kill it because it’s a dire bear in the middle of the suburbs, but maybe he wants to see it first, because, I don’t know, he grew up going hunting and he thought it’s only right, but it charged him and he was still new to everything so he thought he had to kill it, right there, and he only knew one way. Am I reaching?”
Henry said “For Andrew, maybe.”
“In May, four gangbangers got beat to shit and one of them died. The news said the coroner said the dead guy had his face caved in, it looked like a sledgehammer hit him. The news also said his right hand was mangled, that’s what all the articles say, ‘visibly severe injury to the hand.’ That doesn’t happen from a bad punch, something was done to his hand. A neighbor reported gunshots but no gun was found, no bullets and no casings, but gunshot reside was found on the dead guy’s mangled hand. He did have a gun, so either he missed every shot and the bullets landed too far for the cops’ cursory look, or the person he shot was bulletproof. And we know the gun was taken, and sudden extreme force on the gun could have caused a ‘visibly severe injury’ to his hand. Sudden extreme force, we know what I’m describing. That day, Andrew’s high school baseball team won the state championships. So maybe that night he’s out a party and, whatever, decides to run home, and those guys tried to jump him. If he is a Controller, then he drops three in the amount of time it takes him to hit them, fourth realizes he’s fucked and pulls the gun and starts shooting. In that second Andrew finds out he’s bulletproof and instantly knows he cannot explain what happened to the cops. Add what we know of his father, and we can say he’s probably been taught that this is the exact scenario where lethal force is justified, so he kills the guy with one punch. He took the gun and the bullets and if it wasn’t a revolver, the casings too, then ran. It’s Atlanta, nobody gives a shit about a dead killer, case got shelved ASAP, because if they cared enough for proper forensics I bet they would have found that the ‘sledgehammer’ appeared to hit the guy while he was standing up and that would have bothered someone enough to look a lot harder. A sledgehammer wound with no sledgehammer is a Controller’s fist. Does this follow?”
Henry said “Without the police report, it’s a question if the news got it right. If they did, I think it’s enough to say they fought a Controller, and that does make Andrew likely.”
Canton nodded. “He moves to Gainesville, plays football, keeps feeling psychic break, until Tampa. There was major cloud cover over Florida that day and it’s a hundred miles south so he positioned like he was coming in from the gulf and left the same way after, showing in Mexico City, maybe deliberately, as he waited until dark to fly back.”
He went quiet.
Zachary said “I’ve been thinking about something because I’m not sure what to make of it. Last night I read a tweet by Daniel Faars, he graduated from Florida last year, now he’s a running back for the Bills. He was replying to whoever and said ‘Everybody knows Drew loves baseball way more than football.’ And for whatever reason that made me look at Andrew’s decision to go to Florida. I watched his announcement way back, it got posted around because of how straightforward he was. Just, ‘I’m going to Florida, Devaris Walker is the best.’ Real Greinke energy, no bullshit. So I watched it again last night and it felt different because he kind of made it sound like Florida was the only school that needed him, and that’s bullshit. So I searched for people talking about his decision when he made it, and then there was some more of it when he won the Heisman. Both times they made it sound like, and these were rumors, but they made it sound like Georgia courted him pretty hard.”
Everything fell into place. “What was it he always says? His team does all the work, all he has to be is fast. We know his uncle, we know his brother, his friends say he likes baseball more, he likes baseball more. Why isn’t he playing? Because in high school he activated and thought he’d have a bad moment where he used it and it would be obvious, or maybe he already knew he’d be just as good at college ball and people would start looking at him sideways when he was hitting .500. But Georgia? The reason he went to Florida is because even in high school he knew he didn’t belong in sports and that was the closest he could get to running away. That’s why he was the first to show himself, that’s why he was the first to intervene. Four of us could have, but he was the first. Doesn’t that mean he was the most distraught? The most obsessed with figuring out the cause, or else so troubled he’d rather die than let one more happen? He’s ‘The First’ and I always think of that in quotes because I’m the first, but he was the first willing to risk it all and let the world know we exist so he could at least do something good. Redhat too, that sneaky fucking interview. Credit to him. But he wasn’t The First. I’m not satisfied with having a pretty good guess, I need to know it’s Andrew, so I can meet him, because if he is, we can trust him. Henry?”
Henry said “Sure, you need to prove it. What are you thinking?”
“I need to go to Gainesville. Is he still on campus?”
Zachary shrugged, “He should be, but his parents bought a condo there a few months back, so he might have some special agreement with the school.”
“What about his girlfriend?”
“She has an apartment, not far from the condo.”
“If she knows, or doesn’t,” he shook his head, “doesn’t matter. I’ll know soon enough. He’s in Gainesville right now?”
“Yeah, home game this week.”
“I’m leaving tonight.”
He flew in a Cirrus jet he piloted.
He watched. He flew back the morning of the third day.
Henry and Zachary waited in his office.
“It’s him.”
“Well done, Zach,” said Henry, and they shook hands.
“How’re you going to meet him?” asked Zachary.
He was in a sublevel of the research annex on the tower, watching technicians prepare for their day of work around a tokamak, when he felt the crashing wave of psychic break. He looked to a digital clock on the wall and the green sphere-light below it. At fifteen seconds the light turned orange and the staff noticed, their breaths held. At thirty seconds the light turned red and there was a low chime.
He took the private elevator to his office and read the monitor that displayed tweets. #PsychicSphere
Shit.
St. Louis to Manhattan, nine hundred miles. If the sphere touched ground, five figures in deaths and eleven figures in damages per minute, increasing. He tapped his desk. Five known, nine total, Redhat five thousand miles away. Andrew . . . Andrew surely knew Redhat was an Argentina, would he intervene?
Couldn’t risk it.
Two wall panels opened, one to the niche with his jumpsuit, coming to his hands, the other to the empty column. He let himself fall to its base and opened the lens above. High-hypersonic into the thermosphere, he thought. Past reentry on descent. He started his watch. Ten seconds and he saw the curve of the Earth. Twenty seconds and he pointed toward the pressure. One minute. Ninety seconds. He took the air and compressed it into spheres until they were radiant and he removed the heat until they were almost voids for the cold and finally a controlled release as jets to create great clouds. Then—
I SEE YOU
Fucking stupid. Smashing milestones since high school. Youngest Heisman winner, so-far undefeated, blowing past the receiving records. Go ahead Andrew, make the excuse, say boxing isn’t the same as team sports, say you had no reason to see how your performance was hitting the exact same beats or better punches King fucking Canton retired from five years before you had Control.
But shock is gone, something else unfurls. Every thought of approaching Canton had inequality as its base, that no matter how well they worked together they would never be equals. Five years. How long before? ‘The First,’ was Canton the first with Control? Control. He sees the dead. “You boxed with Control. That’s cheating.”
“Maybe. If it was, so is you running down that field when the handful of us who can keep up don’t play football.”
“I didn’t say you’re right.”
“You don’t have to. I know who you are, I know when you activated, so I—”
Andrew stops him. “What do you mean, you know when I ‘activated’?”
Canton shows surprise. “When a person gains Control I feel something similar to the wave from psychic break. You must not.”
“Is it because you’re the actual first?”
“It could be.”
“What number am I?”
“The third I felt, so the fourth.”
Andrew finds something oddly nice about knowing the number. “How many have you felt?”
Canton says “Eight.”
“So nine total and three unknown, do you also know the others?”
“I have also met the second, my guess is Redhat is the third. I know the locations of the other two but nothing more. And, like I said, I know who you are. You’re faster than me, and no one has ever been faster than me at anything, but it wasn’t your running. It wasn’t the bear you killed or those guys you beat to shit. It wasn’t your timing with Tampa. It was going to Gainesville and watching you in the sight. That we have in common.”
No point in keeping the façade. He lifts the goggles to his forehead and rolls up the mask, feeling only mild relief at Canton’s complete lack of reaction to his face. “Do you ever feel like you’re spying?”
Canton shakes his head. “No, why would I?”
“I’ve just wondered if possessing it means I deserve it.”
“If anyone has shown they deserve this it’s you and Redhat. Do you think you’re undeserving?”
“Not anymore. You never thought that?”
“Never. I exist to have this. If Control did not exist, I would not exist.”
Andrew feels the dead in his arms. “Why didn’t you stop the first spheres?”
“Before you intervened in Tampa I still considered them a risk.”
“How? You had to know your defenses.”
Canton points down. “I knew my defense against what men could produce. While I knew spheres were Control I had no way of evaluating their threat. The risk I would die was unacceptable. I would have gone to Denver but Redhat beat me to it and said he would stop other spheres, which he has. Am I not here?”
Andrew wonders if it’s that simple. He looks at the cold spheres, Cloud generators? and thoughts connect. Compression of air would have increased the temperature. Stupid. Why else would the field show heat?
He forms a torus and shrinks it. As the air within brightens slightly in the field he focuses on the brightness until he feels a subtle pushing-through, then he takes it like anything else, raising the heat until the ring is bright in both sights: a halo, disconnected. “I didn’t know this worked on heat. What else can it do? I’ve had professors talk about the manufacturing techniques pioneered at Epitaxial. That must be you, using Control directly in fabrication.”
“Yes, at the start. Less now.”
“So there are people who know you have it.”
“Very few. There is something I want to know, and I’ve wanted to meet you like this, with you as the First. There were several of us who could have intervened, but it was you. Did you go to Tampa thinking you might die?”
Andrew does a shrugging shake of his head, “No. My–dad and I talked about it. Our guess was I’m stronger than the person at the center.”
“You guessed both facets? How about that. I thought someone might be at the center but I was worried it was one of us. Does your entire family know?”
“Yeah, they do.”
“That’s good. My wife knows, my family doesn’t, but I am famously an orphan.”
Andrew doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says “My future isn’t in football.”
“Of course not.”
“I, ah, I wanted to find a way to meet you, so I could offer to work with you.”
Canton laughs. “That’s exactly what I want to offer you. Two of us working together, the things we’ll achieve. And hell, I’ll certainly pay you better.”
“You must already know whether this works in space.”
“It does, completely. Have you discovered you don’t need to breathe?”
“Yeah.”
Canton, helmeted again, says “Follow me.”
Andrew follows, to where the horizon curves and beyond. He could have cheered, he could have wept. His purpose absolute as he sees the Earth as it truly is, in the stars’ eternal silence.