The "shuttle" was parked behind a billboard for personal injury lawyers, about three miles from the interstate.
Cal had expected to see a saucer or maybe a sleek, silver needle like in the movies. Instead, the craft resembled a rust-colored shipping container that had been crumpled by a giant fist and then fitted with engines. It hummed at a low frequency that made Cal's teeth ache.
"It's not much to look at," Nex admitted, adjusting his suit cuffs as dust swirled around his polished shoes. "It's a cargo hauler. We smuggle scouting prospects in with shipments of erratic ore. Less paperwork."
"Erratic ore?" Cal asked, tightening his grip on his duffel bag.
"Don't worry about it. Just don't lick the walls."
They boarded a ramp that appeared from the hull like liquid metal solidifying into steps. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and cinnamon—a strange, sharp combination that made Cal sneeze. The interior was functional: metal grating, exposed piping pulsing with blue light, and seats that seemed designed for bodies Cal didn't want to think about.
Nex strapped himself into a harness. "Buckle up, Cal. Inertial dampeners are a little twitchy on this model. You might feel a slight compression."
"Compression?"
Before Cal could find the buckle, the floor dropped out from under him. There was no roar of engines, just a sudden, crushing weight pushing him into the foam of the seat. The viewscreen at the front—a transparent section of the hull—shifted from the black of the Arizona desert to the blinding curve of the Earth in the blink of an eye.
Cal gasped as his lungs fought against the G-force. Then, just as suddenly, the weight disappeared. He floated against the straps, his stomach doing flips.
"Artificial gravity stabilizing," Nex said calmly, tapping at a holographic interface on his wrist. "Welcome to Low Earth Orbit, Mr. Vance."
Cal looked out the window. He saw the lights of the Western Hemisphere, a glittering web of gold against the darkness. A sudden pang of regret hit him, quickly followed by the realization that down there, he was a nobody. Up here, he was a prospect.
"The Medical Bay is this way," Nex said, unbuckling and floating effortlessly toward a bulkhead door. "We need to prep you before we jump to the Galactic Hub. The League has strict physicals."
"I thought you said you could fix me," Cal said, pulling himself along the handrails, his movements awkward in the lower gravity.
"Fix? No. We are going to upgrade you."
The Med-Bay was the cleanest room on the ship. It was stark white, lit by bright strips of light. In the center was a table that looked rather uncomfortably like a glass coffin. Over it hovered a creature that appeared to be a mix between a praying mantis and a lobster, wearing a white lab coat that didn't fit well over its many limbs.
"This is Dr. K'rll," Nex introduced. "Best orthopedic surgeon in the spiral arm. He doesn't speak English, but he knows the anatomy of a rotator cuff better than anyone."
Dr. K'rll chittered, his mandibles clicking together in a rhythm that sounded a bit like Morse code. He gestured to the table with a serrated claw.
"He says to strip down to the waist and lie down," Nex translated.
Cal hesitated, then dropped his bag. He removed his shirt, revealing his right shoulder, marked with scars—a history of his failures. He lay on the cold glass table.
"So," Cal looked up at the ceiling. "How does this work? Lasers? Robot parts?"
"Biological weaving," Nex said from the corner. "Human tendons are like rubber bands. They snap. K'rll will weave synthetic myofibers into your existing tissue. It's organic, but stronger. It adjusts to stress rather than breaking under it."
Dr. K'rll lowered a large, circular device over Cal's chest. A blue light scanned his body. The doctor chittered again, sounding excited.
"He says your damage is impressive," Nex noted. "He asks how you were able to lift your arm at all."
"I didn't," Cal grunted. "I just threw."
The doctor tapped a command into the console. The glass table hummed.
"This will sedate you," Nex said. "When you wake up, you'll be a billion miles from Arizona."
"Wait," Cal said, panic rising as his limbs grew heavy. "Will I still be able to feel the ball? The grip?"
"You'll feel everything, Cal. Just... more of it."
Darkness enveloped him.
Cal woke up to the sound of a rhythmic thump, thump, thump.
He was in a small cot in a dim room. Sitting up, he expected the familiar stab of pain in his shoulder—the morning greeting he'd lived with for five years.
Nothing.
He moved his arm. No grinding. No pop. It moved with an unnaturally smooth ease. He reached up and touched his shoulder. The skin was intact, no new scars, but the muscle beneath felt dense, like a tightly coiled steel cable.
He looked around. Nex was sitting in a chair, tossing a baseball into the air. Thump. Into his palm. Thump.
"Catch," Nex said, flicking the ball toward him.
Cal's hand shot up. He didn't just catch it; he grabbed it out of the air with a speed that shocked him. The ball stung his palm—a good sting. The kind that meant life.
"How long was I out?" Cal asked, gripping the seams. The leather felt rougher, more textured. His fingertips were sensitive, picking up every imperfection in the cowhide.
"Two cycles. About thirty Earth hours," Nex said. "We've docked at the Galactic League Processing Station. You're officially a rookie again."
Cal swung his legs off the cot. He stood up and went into a windup. It was muscle memory, a motion he'd done countless times. But this time, as his arm came around, he felt a surge of power that started in his toes and whipped through his core like a shockwave.
He didn't throw the ball—he stopped his arm just before the release point. The air audibly whooshed from the speed of the motion.
"Careful," Nex warned, standing. "You don't know your own torque yet. You throw that in here, you'll punch a hole in the hull."
Cal looked at his hand. He looked at the ball. He squeezed it, and the ball groaned under the pressure.
"Okay," Cal whispered, a grin slowly spreading across his face for the first time in years. "Okay. Put me in, coach."
Nex opened the door. Beyond it, the roar of a stadium crowd—a sound unlike any human crowd, deeper, more chaotic—vibrated through the floor.
"Welcome to Spring Training, Cal," Nex said. "Let's see if you can survive the tryouts."