FILTERS 22
G.O.A.T.
—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 called the opponents forward, he watched black latex gloved hands check their waistbands. "Okay, gentlemen, your trunks are looking good. We went over the rules in the dressing room–I want to caution you to keep this fight clean at all times, protect yourself at all times, and what I say you must obey. Good luck and touch 'em up!"
They touched gloves, a single firm tap. He would not patronize; his opponent would not be arrogant. Entourages, cameramen, and the announcer left the ring and he looked at Clare, who blew a kiss. He felt 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 to this ring of family history, the proud descendent of legendary bareknucklers, a little closer to their hotblooded forefathers than most. He wondered again about his own biological 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 has none. His opponents bled, it's the only reason he ever watched their film. Replayed now, no need to anticipate, only wait for them to try. Dodged as one green glove moved right, his left struck their open ribs. Dodged as they tried a hook in return, his right struck their face. They slowed, they bled, left ribs, struck once again. They fell and quickly stood.
First round finished with another strike of the bell. He sat in his corner, Nnamdi's hands rested on his shoulders as Zack pressed the symbolic enswell to his jaw and asked "What do you think?"
"What do you think?" he replied.
"He's not making it to three."
"No."
Their blocking improved. Temerity yielded to the unconscious, jolted realization 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 the 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 many he didn't recognize clapping every part of his back and chest they could get a hand on. One shouted Rocky fuckin' Marciano can eat his chicken parm out! but he didn't look, 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 back well-wishing orbiters to stand beside him. 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, 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 and said "It's been an honor, John."
"Likewise, Nnamdi. Thank you for everything."
Zack held his hands behind his head. He had a half-smile, wistful. "No point dragging it out."
"Wouldn't have been right. And," he whispered as he leaned down to kiss Clare's cheek, "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 heartbeat change.
He showered. He no longer produced sweat but he knew there were specks of blood on his body the towels didn't catch. Tailored ensemble, black suit, white shirt, black tie. Black FP Journe last, returned to him from one bodyguard, Hamir. Nnamdi led them into the auditorium for the post-fight conference and stood to his right. Zack to his left, the room full to standing. They knew what was coming.
"I would like to open with thanking Mr. Luke. He is an incredible boxer and he is going to be back. I am aware of the media attention that surrounded this fight, the accompanying billing and hype despite my never making an official statement. I will make that statement 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 didn't expect this.
He turned to Nnamdi, "I must thank my trainer and coach from day one, Nnamdi Obiakpani. I would not be here without you." He turned to Zack, "I also need to thank my cutman and team chief Zack Kennedy as well as all of our boxing team members at Canton Holdings. And 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. "Yes, Mr. Lance?"
"Thank you, John, and congratulations on your, ah, final victory. Was breaking Marciano's record your motivation for retiring?"
"Yes, primarily. Boxing has made me who I am. If it were not 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 people I have met, the friends I have made, meeting my wife. It's all because of this. But now I have done enough, and I believe it is 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?"
"Yes, at a distance. Nnamdi is reopening Obiakpani's Gym & Academy and we will be an incredibly proud partner." He pointed to a blonde he recognized but whose name he was annoyed to not recall. "Yes?"
"John, do you think it's inappropriate to have fought tonight knowing you were going to 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 earned. Delaying this announcement until months later would be inappropriate. Besides, everybody knew this was coming. I'll take two more questions." He pointed to a bearded man, "Yes, Mr. Maina?"
"Do you have any more thoughts on the fight?"
"As I said, Mr. Luke is an incredible boxer, I fully expect him to compete for multiple titles in the coming years. Otherwise, Sunday's Post-Dispatch will feature my full retirement announcement and that will 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 Canton Holdings started nine years ago we were in fast food and real estate. Now with the Canton Center for Reproductive Health we're in UQM research and IVF treatment, and at Epitaxial we're in rocketry, energy, and advanced materials. I know this is a boxing crowd, but some of you will have read and all of you should read how Dr. Henry Batton, Epitaxial's co-founder, has along with his team developed an immediately implementable method for the mass production of high-quality graphene. This is a landmark breakthrough with applications in every market sector. Our tower under construction in St. Louis will utilize Henry's work, just as our first large-scale manufactory will when it breaks 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 quickly expand that to being the majority global supplier of graphene, especially in graphene composites. In a decade our products will be in everything. And all of this ties back to boxing. I will always be grateful to have had this opportunity and I will look fondly back at my time fighting, just as I now look forward to putting my energy into working with Henry and overseeing my businesses. But that is enough from me. Thank you all again, have a good evening."
He waved to the audience and ignored the breakout of shouted questions. Hamir lead them out, exiting to the service corridor.
"I'll get to McCarran," said Zack, and he jogged off.
Nnamdi remained. "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 all on their way to the hotel."
"That's great, I hope you all have a wonderful time. 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, taking pictures in front of a mirror. 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 and faced forward. He turned to Hamir. "What about the fight?"
"That was a good hit on your jaw, all things considered."
"Yeah. He's very fast."
"Not fast enough."
"No."
"But your finish might be the best I've seen. A fitting way to end it."
"Damn, thank you. We'll be going back tonight."
"Yes, sir. The car is ready."
The women joined them. Hamir positioned as 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 hinged bracelet. Red Adidas tracksuit, black Yeezy 350s. "I liked your dress more."
"I couldn't jump onto you in heels," he felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, "and the dress might have torn and fallen off."
He whispered back, "Yeah. Save the show for me."
He felt her silent laughter, felt her heart flutter. 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 little suite, feet and calves over the edge, Clare seated across from him.
"I'm glad to be leaving," she said. "I don't know about this city."
"I like Las Vegas."
She perked, "You never told me that."
"Something about it makes sense to me."
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin on her hands, tilted in playful incredulity. "Proud excess? Capitalism's most perfect shithole?"
He couldn't deny it, "Yeah, or maybe second after LA. I do like the excess, and I like how it's shitty. 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 fuckin' Canton."
"But you love that."
"I do. But I liked when I could casually play at casinos. I love the Wynn, now going there is an ordeal. I miss when I could anonymously join in on partying, 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 Marquez and Vazquez. Vazquez won in a TKO, still one of the best matches I've ever seen. After, I was at a craps table at the Wynn. Everybody around it was definitely from 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,' but he was joking around and of course I gave it back, 'Fuck the Dodgers,' and we both laughed, and the shooter was on fire and everybody kept winning. It was a blast. At some point I noticed this old guy beside us, nice suit, big silver tourbillon TAG, playing alone at a blackjack table with a pit boss behind the dealer. He was rolling multiple hands and dropping flags. 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 to her. Both sides of that interaction were shocking to me. A new guy sat down, he was in jeans, a yellow-and-pink Hawaiian shirt, white Nikes and a calculator watch. He took out a dinky stack of black chips, so like two thousand dollars, and he played and busted every hand straight out. This was in August and this huge hacker convention called DEF CON was going on, so for all I know he's some rich tech guy and fine with pissing away a couple stacks in minutes. But I think about the people on the floor pissing away stacks who couldn't afford it, who I'm sure 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."
"You think of how he represented everything you wanted and everything you were working toward. And since this is where you've won so many fights, you can't help but associate it and him with all of your success."
"Yeah." He smiled at her. "It can be beautiful here. I know you see it."
"I do. I like the Mansion, as cliché and aesthetically out-of-place as it is. All this wonderful, dissonant architecture, overrun and not at all appreciated by tourists except to show they were also part of the transience. But maybe there's something redemptive in that." She tapped her phone, his phone vibrated. "I do like the mountains, and I like the air."
"I do too." He looked at the pictures she sent, several from when she was getting changed. "I also like that."
She unzipped the tracksuit jacket and let it fall behind her in the seat, plain white shirt underneath, and joined him on the bed. "I never thought I'd fall into such a strangely romantic view of a 'shithole.' 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?"
"They'll be tall like me, and beautiful like you. 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 at her dark figure in his other sight, his golden beside. He could see their children, birthed as he was birthless. He knew what she feared: one or both of his parents must have died violently. As truly as she knew it would never happen to him it only meant her anxiety was increased in kind, free to keep her awake or in fitful sleep over 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 alone 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 guide, as you guide me, while I will soon guide others away from the heart. Better at least not away from my heart or hers. Or 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 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 touching 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 sleep in the morning, and with the shimmer of light in the room from sunrise he saw also a shimmer in his other sight, felt it pass like a breeze. He could laugh at such reciprocation. Their joy in the conception of one who would not be like him, returned so appropriately by this herald of the true birth of the Third like him.
He left the bedroom to the loggia above the private garden and called Henry.
"Three now."
Henry said "The chamber is ready."
The cold chamber was a metal box, elevated and insulated. Weeks of testing his response to lower and lower temperatures brought them here. He became amused watching the liquid oxygen that swirled in his bare and cupped palms, felt almost tickled as nitrogen and then oxygen solidified. Toxins, radiation, electrical current, vacuum or gigapascals, warm matter and now ultracold. They found nothing that affected him. After the chamber's long warm-up he descended through a hatch in the floor, a laser thermometer coming to hand. 37 every time.
"One test left,” he said, staring still 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 Zack. 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.
"Let's hear it again." said Henry.
"Five minutes as far as I can go, take pictures, come back."
"Last words?" asked Zack with a grin they both believed.
"With so much at risk I couldn't justify going from what I had done to what I'm about to do, so I'm glad we proved it, because I have no doubts left. Space is the point of everything we have done. Space is why I have this." He leaned down to Clare but she stopped him.
"You can kiss me when you get back."
"I won't be long," he put on the helmet, "watches ready?"
"I'll count off," said Zack. "Ten. . ."
". . .One."
Launch.
Ten seconds and he saw the curve of the Earth. Not enough, 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 truly triumphant yell. He hugged Zack and Henry and tossed away the helmet before lifting Clare in an embrace. She developed the film and when she brought the first image her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red. He looked briefly and gave it to Henry, who sat down on the courtyard sand and wiped away a tear, then raised his arm, holding the picture out for Zack, 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 should hasten the release of the next battery series."
"Yes, and move into the next stage with the clinics."
Epitaxial composites saw use in everything. Construction materials, like at the spreading Canton Centers. Cars, jets, phones. Rockets. Their bearings and batteries as well, demand always outpaced supply. The best kind of 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, from test rockets to delivering satellites to orbit, rapidly.
He knew more like him would come. That was why he needed Zack. To find them. Whispers and ghost stories in Nigeria led him to meet the second, then the whispers stopped, their temperance improving. Nothing he did, he respected them, admired them, knew he would have done exactly as they did, were he in their place. Nothing ever about the third, and every year his confidence in his place rose even ahead of his net worth, especially when it took five years after his retirement to finally feel the Fourth.
He knew more would come. He knew something else was coming.
He still feels he should have guessed the timing.
"When John and I started Epitaxial Foundries, making enduring contributions to human spaceflight was always our goal, but there were developments we knew were necessary prior to pursuing that. Thus all of our advancements, everything we have done, has been as-peripheral, working toward reusable vehicles capable of taking humans to orbit. While our first launch vehicle, the Kyto 1 rocket, was not reusable and only delivered two payloads, our advancements continued and we achieved our second launch vehicle, the first-stage reusable Kyto 2 rocket. We have been immensely proud of its perfect service record during our partnership with the Swedish Space Corporation, but like all efforts that preceded it, even a perfect record with satellites was not good enough for us. Our fully-reusable Kyto 3 launch vehicle is what we have strived for. It has a perfect test 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."
It launched, it delivered its payload, it landed safely. A corporate party followed that Friday; a small celebratory dinner at his manor that Saturday, in part though unspoken because Clare was again pregnant. He was speaking with their chef when he saw something different pass through the field. No shimmer, no soft breeze. A crashing wave then distant pressure, held, felt. He looked beyond until he saw Chicago in his other sight and found nothing there.
"Sarah, please wait to serve dinner."
"Of course, Mr. Canton."
He reentered the smaller dining room and said "I need to speak with Henry and Zack in my office, this should only take a moment." He gave a look to Clare and the men followed him outside, through the private garden and the concealed door into his office. Two televisions were already on, his computer monitors active. In his other sight he watched Clare leave the table.
"Did you feel it again?" asked Henry.
"Clare's coming," and when she joined them, "I felt something different, I can still feel it. It's to the northeast. Like an explosion, or one of our rockets taking off.
"How far have you looked?" asked Zack.
"I didn't see anything out of place in Chicago. I don't think it's Detroit, and if I continued that line it would run far into Quebec. Maybe it's in Europe?"
Zack and Henry looked at their phones, Clare walked to his computer, he saw her open 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 linger, didn't look, 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 in thought. Like a question of him had been asked in another language, where the foreigner hearing it knew only 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, passing by 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 would pump 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 in another world could he really know he could fight, a real fight this time. To overcome the thing he always knew he had but had never had to confront inside another.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"I don't know."
If they didn’t know the words the others felt the change in him. Their dinner was subdued. Henry stayed late into the night, they watched together until the sphere collapsed.
He said "This is only the first. More will happen, everywhere."
"What will you do?"
"What do you think I should do?"
"Leave them be 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 a shadow? I think you are, no words, no touch, "Knowledge!" Pressed upon me, I know it is not mine. Pressed upon me across these all-long nights. "Long nights," long night, long day of eighteen years. I see the thousandth 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 do not 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. Risk, to leave them, to leave her, to leave all. 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 my maker. Or do I deceive myself with these thoughts? My thoughts, a room of the conversating. I point to no man 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, Zack waited in his office before he arrived.
"I might have found the 'First.' Are you familiar with Andrew Black? Won the Heisman."
"Biggest name in college sports, plays for Florida. And he's Don Black's nephew. You think it's him?"
"Yeah. Have you read how fast he runs?"
Canton shook his head.
"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, he ran what they placed as a three-nine forty. Today the record in the combine is four seconds and the world record pace is in line with a three-nine forty. 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 college ball but I've been reading comments online estimating his forty has dropped to three-seven or even three-six. Have you seen his highlights?"
"No."
"I have. I started watching the Gators this year because of him. Last Saturday he was playing Tennessee. It's unbelievable watching him. Tennessee's a powerhouse this year and he's still making them look like kids. I'll send you this highlight from the game."
“They are kids.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just watch.”
Another highlight from, you guessed it, Drew Black–
–Yeah, we might as well start calling the weekly highlights "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, slower tackles missed cleanly, faster tackles dodged easily. A last defender ahead and just as their helmet lowered ahead of contact, he effortlessly hurdled them.
Look at that leap!–
–How can you stop this guy?!
Clear window, he sprinted. Touchdown in seconds.
"That was impressive."
Zack held up his hands, what'd I say? "He smashed just about every college single-season receiving record as a freshman. I've been watching interviews and he always deflects, always says the team is doing all the work and he just has to catch the ball. But watching all these games, seeing that?" Zack gestured to the television, "It gave me this feeling, but I couldn't put my finger on it. So after Lo and I had dinner that night, 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."
"It makes sense. Given broken psychics, controllers are probably born, and since there must be a precise alignment of genetics that are prerequisites for full control it could be reasonable to assume all controllers are naturally unparalleled athletes. It lines up with the ones we know. All tall and strong. Good work. It's a starting point, so let me think out loud. Enyi activated May 2011, the third was July 2015 and the fourth was January 2020. The fifth is Shajangali, the sixth activated the day of Tampa and the seventh the day of Denver, so we know the third and fourth are Redhat and the First, in either order. How tall is Andrew?"
"6'5, in line with estimates of the First."
"And Redhat is 6'3. The sixth and seventh are probably Israeli and Suraj, the eighth is whoever blew up the bar in Japan, and the ninth is in Chile or Argentina. So if Andrew is a controller, he has to be the 'First.' He would have been very close to Tampa."
"I have a short list of news items from Atlanta between January 2020 and June 2021. I’ll send that."
"Please, and also if you would, get a setup in one of the tunnels so we can measure my forty time. Great work, Zack. Let's talk more over lunch."
"On it." and he left, holding a thumbs-up.
"Would-be robber blinded after firearm malfunction"—Plausible but improbable. Malfunctions happen, especially given the likelihood of a poorly maintained handgun being the only sort a felon could find.
"Dire bear carcass found in Atlanta"—Promising. The bear showed permanent injury from prior gunshots, otherwise it appeared to have been hit by a heavy truck moving at considerable speed, yet no debris was found.
"Atlanta bank heist getaway thwarted after engine dropped"—Again something a controller could do, but reckless driving in a lemon was more likely.
"Suspected murderer dead, others critically injured in unclear circumstances"—Also 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-appearing injuries including head trauma. None were able to 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.
Lunch was on the meeting table in his office when Zack entered. Pappy's, which he noticed and said "Hell yeah." He was through two ribs before he said "We've got everything but the turf and that's coming tonight. What'd you think about what I sent?"
"The two robberies could have been a controller, but that's too improbable. The dead guy is intriguing and the bear is the most difficult to explain, which makes it the most promising."
Zack spoke quickly so he could take another bite, "That's what I thought. Looks like it got hit by a truck but no debris found? What else could it be?"
"I agree. But the dead murderer, the mangled hand and crushed skull, the neighbors not seeing anything, the other guys all beat to shit. That tells me whoever they encountered was very fast and very strong. With no bullets recovered and no blood found on the scene other than the criminals', the dead guy could have fired at an angle where the bullets fell too far for the police to find, or he shot someone who was bulletproof. That's still a big fucking leap, but I know why you chose that."
It was why Zack was quiet, why he took advantage of eating to not respond.
"What do you know about his family?"
Zack swallowed. "One sibling, his brother Michael who'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. Andrew played baseball too in high school. Scouting's hazier but in his senior year he was regularly batting a thousand in games while hitting leadoff, had a 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, his interview in 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. The article was calling him the next Bo Jackson."
He wondered why Andrew wasn't playing both sports. "What about their parents?"
"James and Anna." Zack slid a tablet across the table, "Here's a pic of all four at the All-American Bowl."
Andrew a taller version of his father, almost the same face, his mother's eyes.
"There's very little on Anna, maiden name of Stewart, parents and two sisters and a brother, all still living, born in '77. James is pretty much a ghost, just business and military. Born in '75, honorable discharge from the Air Force in '99. Both of his parents are still alive. They live in Ava–"
"–Just outside Springfield."
"Yeah. I found an interview with Don where he mentioned his brother had been a mechanic in the military and after he left opened a machine shop. It's called Black's Machining, this is it on Google Maps. Check out the flag behind the counter."
Bright yellow, black snake. "It's on the work coveralls of the employees, too." added Zack.
"So his dad is enough of a libertarian to put on the wall of his shop and on his coveralls."
"Yep."
"Interesting. Whether or not he's a controller, Andrew is an enhanced, and since Don was the greatest Cardinal pitcher since Bob Gibson it's reasonable to assume James is enhanced. The Air Force would have known that and selected him for special camp, and that would have put him on the fast track to flying F15s, or probably given pilot ages, F22s. That means he chose not to fly planes. That's a big thing to give up."
"Must have hated it."
"Lot of hate to reject being a fighter pilot. Hard to do better than that, and you can't do better than being an astronaut, which he might be if he had stayed. I would think someone running a machine shop for twenty years has the exact disposition to have excelled in the orderly life of the military. If he did hate it, it must have been profound. What about social media?"
Zack opened a different page on the tablet, "Andrew's on Twitter but it's very basic. Only retweeting postgames and little things like congratulating Michael. I got the vibe it could be one of his parents following a checklist of what to do on the account. Michael's more active, he actually tweets, but it's all baseball except for Andrew and Gators stuff."
"Alright. Always good work, Zack"
The turf was ready, five yards wide and a hundred long, with markings and cameras every ten, and a laser velocity tracker Zack stood behind. Canton readied at the line. He sprinted.
Zack called out "Three-nine."
Repeated, same result, again and again.
Two weeks with a sprinting coach shaved to 3.8. Never lower, always slower.
"Three-eight again." called Zack.
He shook his head. Fine, fuck it. He focused on control, enough to enhance his movements, then sprinted.
Zack said "Holy shit," then looking at the tracker, "three even."
"I can't beat him without control. Let's get Henry in here."
Henry watched a side-by-side of Andrew sprinting versus Canton.
"Gotta say, that's not the usual build for a wide receiver." said Zack.
"Yeah, look at him. Of course it's him. He's built like a fucking tank. He’s 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, fitting especially if his dad knows what he can do. Andrew's on Twitter but it's anodyne, inoffensive shit, like his mom could be running it. Zack found people mentioning he's always out running at school, so maybe he's been doing that since high school, since he activated and was figuring things out. So he's out running a year after, and since he's clairvoyant he finds the dire bear and wants to see it, because if he wanted to kill it he would have just killed it. But it charged him and then he had to kill it. In May after his baseball team won the state championships he's out at a party in a shitty neighborhood and, whatever, decides to run home, and that's when he encounters the group of muggers, maybe they tried to jump him. This is a controller, they have no idea what they walked into. He drops three in the amount of time it takes him to hit them, fourth realizes he's fucked and tries to shoot him. Now this last guy knows he's bulletproof. Well his father has probably taught him this is the exact situation where lethal force is justified, so he kills the guy. Dead guy's hand was fucked up, techs found residue from the gun. If he used control to rip the gun out it could have caused that injury, and because Andrew knows he couldn't possibly explain what happened, he took everything from the gun and ran. It's Atlanta, nobody gave a shit some criminals got fucked up, case got shelved. 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, then waits until it's dark to fly back."
He went quiet.
Zack 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 into his decision to go to Florida. I watched his announcement way back and thought it was great because of how straightforward he was, just 'I'm going to Florida, Devaris Walker is the best.' No bullshit. But I watched it again and it felt different because he made it sound like he wouldn't have a spot at Georgia and that's bullshit. So I searched around online for people talking about his decision when he announced and again when he won the Heisman and both times commenters 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 said? 'His team does all the work, he just has to catch the ball.' He doesn't have to do anything special in football, he just has to run fast. He doesn't play baseball because when he activated in high school he became worried he'd have a bad moment where he used control and it would be obvious. So why didn't he go to Georgia? He went to Florida because even in high school he knew he didn't belong in sports and that was the closest he could come to running away from it. That's why he was the first to show, the first to intervene. There were four of us who could have, but he was the first. Doesn't that mean he was the most distraught? The most obsessed with figuring out what was going on with them, or so troubled he was willing to die over letting one more happen? He's 'The First,' I always think of that in quotes, because I'm the first, but he was the first willing to risk everything and let the world know we exist so he could at least do something good. Redhat, too, that 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 it's him, we can trust him."
"What are you thinking?" asked Henry.
"I need to go to Gainesville. Is he still on campus?"
"Lives in a condo owned by his parents." said Zack.
"Anyone with him? He have a girlfriend?"
"Yes to the girlfriend." said Zack, "She was also hard to find anything on, but I eventually got a name: Emilia Cruz-Amador. Maybe Facebook and Instagram, both private. She has an apartment, not far from his condo."
"If she knows, or doesn't. . . doesn't matter, I'll find out quickly 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 fourth day.
Henry and Zack waited in his office.
"It's him."
"Well done, Zack." said Henry, and they shook hands.
"What next?" asked Zack.
"Figure out a way to meet him."
He was deep beneath the tower, watching staff prepare for their day of work around a tokamak, when he felt the crashing wave of psychic break. He glanced at the sphere-light beneath the digital clock and pressed the button concealed within his office desk. At fifteen seconds the sphere-light turned orange and the staff noticed, their breaths held. At thirty seconds the light turned red.
He took the private elevator into his office. He looked to the monitor that displayed tweets. #PsychicSphere
Shit.
St. Louis to Manhattan, nine hundred miles. If the sphere touched ground, five figures in casualties 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 in Argentina, would he finally make a second appearance?
Couldn't risk it.
Two wall panels opened, one to the niche with his jumpsuit, coming toward him, the other to the empty column, he let himself fall to its base and opened the lens above. High-hypersonic into the thermosphere, beyond that on the 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. Two minutes. 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, make the excuse, say boxing isn't the same as team sports, say you had no reason to figure out your performance was hitting the exact same beats or better punches King fucking Canton retired from five years before you even had control.
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 truly be equal. Five years. How many years before that? The First, was Canton the first with Control? Control. . . he sees the dead. "You boxed with control. That's cheating."
"Maybe. If it's cheating, so is you running down that field when the handful of us who can keep up with you 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 cuts him off, "What do you mean you know when I 'activated?'"
Canton shows surprise. "When a controller activates I feel something similar to the wave from psychic break. You must not."
"Is it because you're the actual first?"
"Could be."
"What number am I?"
"The third I felt, so the fourth."
He finds something oddly nice about knowing the number. "How many have you felt?"
Canton doesn't respond immediately. "Eight."
"So nine total and four unknown. Do you know who the other three are?"
"I have also met the second, Redhat was 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 finding those guys you beat the shit out of, or the bear you killed. 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. "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 control. If control did not exist, I would not exist."
Andrew sees the dead again, feels them 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 defenses against what men could throw at me. While I knew the spheres were control I had no way to evaluate their threat. The risk I would enter and 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 that?
He forms a torus and shrinks it. As the air within brightens slightly in the field he focuses on the brightness until he feels the 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 Epitaxial's pioneered. That must be you, using control directly in fabrication."
"Among other things."
"So there are people who know you're a controller."
"Yes, very few. There is something I want to know, because I've wanted to meet you as the First. There were several of us who could have intervened, but it was you. Did you go into the sphere thinking you could die?"
"No. My–dad and I talked about it. Our guess was I'm more powerful 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."
"That must be nice. My wife does, 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 it isn't."
"I wanted to find a way to meet you and offer to work with you."
Canton laughs. "That's exactly what I wanted to offer you. Two of us working together, the things we can achieve. And hell, I'll certainly pay you better."
"You must already know if 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.