The noise hit Cal first. It wasn't just loud; it was chaotic. The locker room resembled a zoo during an earthquake, mixed with the sound of metal clanking and the rumbling of heavy machinery.
Nex guided him through a blast door that hissed open. "The atmospheric stabilizers are working hard," Nex shouted over the racket. "Try not to breathe through your mouth near the sulfur zone on the left."
Cal stepped inside and felt underdressed in his t-shirt and jeans. This wasn't a clubhouse; it was an aircraft hangar filled with creatures that looked like they belonged in a biology textbook.
To his right, a creature resembling a sentient oil slick was oozing into a drain-like locker, absorbing a jersey into its gelatinous form. To his left, three avian creatures with sharp beaks chattered quickly in high-pitched clicks, polishing bats that shimmered like mother-of-pearl.
The air was thick and humid, smelling faintly of ozone, wet fur, and something like rotten eggs.
"That's your stall," Nex pointed to a standard-sized metal locker at the end of a row.
It seemed tiny next to the giant locker beside it, which resembled a walk-in closet reinforced with steel beams. As Cal approached, the massive locker door groaned open. A grey, scaled leg, as thick as an oak tree, stepped out, shaking the floor.
The creature attached to the leg was enormous. At least eight feet tall, it looked like a gargoyle carved from granite, with four strong arms and a head dominated by a heavy brow. He wore a jersey that was XXXXXL, simply reading: "GORTH."
Gorth turned slowly. Small, deep-set red eyes looked down at Cal. The creature sniffed the air loudly, like a vacuum cleaner with a clog.
"Human," Gorth grumbled. His voice sounded like boulders scraping together. "Soft. Break easy."
Cal squared his shoulders, even though Gorth's bicep was bigger than his entire torso. "I bend pretty well, big guy."
Gorth huffed, a cloud of vapor erupting from his nostrils. One of his upper hands grabbed a bat that looked like a railroad tie. He swung it casually with one hand, and the air whistled violently in response.
"He's a Brontok," Nex whispered in Cal's ear. "Power hitter. Don't let him hug you when he's excited. He crushed three ribs on our shortstop last season during a walk-off celebration."
"Noted," Cal said, quickly changing into the generic grey workout gear hanging in his locker. The fabric felt strange—too light, almost slippery against his skin.
"Let's see what Dr. K'rll's handiwork can do," Nex said. "It's bullpen time."
They walked out of the locker room tunnel and onto the field. Cal stopped in his tracks.
He had played in big stadiums before—Yankee Stadium, Fenway—but this was different. The Processing Station stadium was a massive dome, its ceiling a lattice of glass showing the swirling nebulae of deep space outside. The artificial lights were blindingly bright, mimicking a high-noon sun.
The field was bizarre. The "grass" was a vibrant, almost glowing teal, and the infield dirt was a deep, rich violet.
"Gravity is set to Galactic Standard," Nex said, checking his wrist unit. "It's about 1.1 times Earth normal. You'll feel a little heavier, but the arm should handle it."
Nex led him to the bullpen area down the right-field line. Waiting behind a hovering home plate was the catcher.
He was short, maybe five feet tall, but incredibly wide. He looked like a bipedal Galapagos tortoise wearing catcher's gear made from tank armor. His leathery brown skin and scowling face were half-hidden behind a heavy titanium mask.
"This is Borp," Nex introduced. "He's a Krog. Their species evolved on a high-gravity world with constant meteor showers. He's very tough. He doesn't speak English, but he understands the signals."
Borp grunted and squatted behind the plate. He hit his mitt—a huge, thick pad resembling a sofa cushion—with a fist like a cinderblock. He held up one thick finger. Fastball.
Cal stepped onto the violet mound. It felt tacky under his cleats, like dense clay. He picked up a ball from the basket. It was slightly heavier than an Earth baseball, with raised seams that gave him an incredible grip.
He rubbed up the ball, taking a deep breath. The air was clean, sterile, and highly oxygenated.
Just play catch, he told himself.
He started his windup. It felt smooth. Too smooth. There was no resistance in his shoulder, no familiar twinge at the top of the arc. It felt like his arm was gliding.
He threw with about fifty percent effort. The ball hissed through the air and smacked into Borp's mitt with a loud pop.
Borp didn't move. He simply threw the ball back with a flick of his wrist, sending it whistling to the mound.
"How did that feel?" Nex asked from outside the pen.
"Like nothing," Cal said, bewildered. "I didn't feel anything."
Borp held up one finger again, then wiggled it. Fastball with movement.
Cal nodded. He dug his cleat into the violet dirt. This time, he pushed off.
The torque was immediate. The synthetic fibers Dr. K'rll had woven into his shoulder fired like pistons. His arm whipped through the zone faster than he could think. He felt the seams bite into his fingertips, giving him a spin rate he had only dreamed of in his prime.
The ball exploded from his hand. It didn't just travel straight; it seemed to cut through the air. About ten feet in front of the plate, it took a sharp, unnatural turn toward Borp's knee.
CRACK.
The sound of the ball hitting the mitt echoed through the massive, empty dome like a gunshot.
Borp staggered backward onto his armored shell, his legs kicking up in the air. Steam rose slightly from the glove.
The tortoise-creature rolled back onto his feet, brushing off his chest protector. He looked at his glove, then up at Cal. The scowl was gone, replaced by wide-eyed surprise.
Nex was grinning, his violet eyes swirling rapidly. He glanced at a tablet in his hand.
"Eighty-nine miles per hour," Nex said calmly.
Cal's heart sank. "That's it? All this alien tech and I'm still throwing eighty-nine?"
"Cal," Nex looked up, a predatory grin on his face. "That pitch was eighty-nine miles per hour after it broke three feet laterally in high gravity. The spin rate was four thousand RPMs. The human average is twenty-two hundred."
Nex tapped the tablet. "On Earth, that pitch would have torn a hole through the backstop."
Borp stood up, tossed the ball back, and pounded his mitt twice, harder this time. He crouched low and signaled for the slider.
Cal caught the ball. He felt the catch vibrate in his new arm, a low hum of limitless potential. He looked at the alien catcher, the teal grass, and the stars overhead.
He smiled.
"Alright, turtle man," Cal whispered. "Let's see if you can handle the breaking stuff."