The team hotel on Station 9 wasn't exactly luxurious; it resembled a honeycomb instead. Each player got a hexagonal cell padded with sound-dampening foam. That was necessary because the snoring of twenty-five different species made noise levels that could be measured on the Richter scale.
Cal couldn't get any sleep. The excitement from the paycheck and the lingering heat of Pyros still coursed through his veins. He stepped out of his cell and walked down the curved hallway to the common room.
The lighting in the room was dim, provided by amber strips. In the middle, a group of players gathered around a round table. The air was thick with smoke—some from cigarettes, or the galactic equivalent, and some naturally coming from the players themselves.
Gorth was there, looking humorously large on a stool reinforced with adamantium. Borp was also present, his armored shell unlatched for comfort. Zix, the three-eyed shortstop, shuffled a deck of holographic cards that shimmered in the air.
Then there was Krix.
Krix was the team's closer. He was a Viperian—a species that looked like a king cobra combined with a human, covered in iridescent green scales. He had no nose, just two slits, and his eyes had vertical pupils that tracked movement with unsettling accuracy. Krix threw a fastball clocked at 108 mph and frequently aimed at batters' heads.
He also disliked Cal.
"Look," Krix hissed, his forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. "Here comes the millionaire rookie."
The table fell silent. Gorth glanced up, holding a half-eaten space-turkey leg.
"Deal him in," Gorth grunted.
"This game is for professionals," Krix sneered. "Not for... experimentals."
Cal walked over to the fridge, grabbed a pouch of water, and leaned against the doorframe. "I have credits, Krix. Unless you're scared I'll take yours, too."
Krix's hood flared slightly—a sign of aggression. "Sit."
Cal took a chair. "What's the game?"
"Orbit," Zix replied, dealing the cards. They appeared as floating panes of light in front of each player. "Five cards. High suit wins. Wild cards vary based on the station's energy output. Ante is one hundred credits."
It felt like 5-Card Stud mixed with a random number generator. Cal could handle that.
"I'm in."
For the first hour, Cal played cautiously. He observed and learned.
He quickly realized that Orbit wasn't just a card game. It was about reading biology.
When Gorth had a good hand, his breathing slowed to keep his massive chest from rising. When Zix was bluffing, his third eye—the one located in the middle of his forehead—blinked slightly faster than the other two. When Borp had a bad hand, he tucked his head slightly into his shell.
But Krix was harder to read. The Viperian was cold, still, and aggressive. He bet high on every hand, pressuring the others to fold.
"You play like you pitch," Krix spat at Cal after he folded a pair of nebulas. "Soft. Avoiding contact."
"I pitch to get outs," Cal replied calmly. "You pitch to hurt people."
"Pain is an effective strikeout tool," Krix said, gathering a pot of chips. "The League respects power. Force. You rely on... tricks. Deception. That's cowardly."
"It's called strategy," Cal countered.
"It's simply lying," Krix hissed. "In my culture, we do not lie. We strike."
The deck shuffled. The pot grew. It was the last hand of the night.
Cal examined his holographic cards. He had a terrible hand. Two comets, a black hole, and a 7 of Stars. Basically, nothing.
Krix assessed his own cards. The Viperian's pupils didn't dilate. He remained motionless, shoving a stack of credits into the center.
"Two thousand credits," Krix challenged.
The table gasped. Borp folded immediately. Gorth grunted and discarded his cards. Zix looked at his three eyes, sighed, and folded.
Now it was just Cal and the snake.
Two thousand credits was seven hundred thousand dollars. It was half of what Cal had left.
Krix leaned forward, his scales glinting. "Fold, human. Return to your cell. Save your money for a ticket home when your arm breaks again."
Cal glanced at the chips. Then he looked at Krix.
The Viperian was perfectly still. Too still.
Back on Earth, Cal had played poker with guys betting mortgages. He knew that when someone held the unbeatable hand, they relaxed. They became expansive. But when someone was bluffing with nothing, they froze; they turned into a statue, terrified that even a small movement would reveal the truth.
Krix was a statue.
"On my world," Cal said softly, "we lie all the time. We convince ourselves we're good enough. We tell ourselves we can reach the Majors. We tell ourselves the pain isn't that bad."
Cal pushed his stack forward.
"I see your two thousand," Cal said. "And I raise you two thousand."
Silence crashed into the room.
Krix's hood flared wide. He stared at Cal, then glanced at Cal's chips, and finally into Cal's eyes.
Cal didn't blink. He thought about the parking lot in Tucson. He thought about the empty whiskey glass. He channeled all his apathy and desperation into a blank, emotionless stare.
Krix's tongue flicked out as he examined his cards.
If Cal had a strong hand, Krix would lose a fortune. If Cal was bluffing... Krix would own him.
But Krix came from a world of predators. Predators didn't attack unless they were sure of the kill. And Cal didn't look like prey right now. He looked like a trap.
"You are insane," Krix hissed.
The Viperian waved his hand through his holographic cards, dissolving them.
"Fold."
Cal exhaled, keeping his expression neutral. He reached out and pulled the massive pot toward himself.
"Show them," Krix demanded. "Show me what beat me."
Cal hesitated. In poker, you never reveal the bluff. But this wasn't poker. This was the locker room. It was about establishing dominance.
Cal tapped the table. His cards flipped over.
Nothing. Absolute garbage. The highest card was a 7.
Zix's three eyes widened. Gorth burst into laughter, a deep rumble that shook the table.
Krix stared at the cards. His vertical pupils narrowed to thin slits. He looked at Cal, his scales rippling with suppressed rage.
"You had nothing," Krix whispered. "You lied."
"I pitched," Cal said, standing up and scooping his winnings into his bag. "I changed speeds on you, Krix. You were looking for the fastball, and I threw you the dead fish."
Cal turned to leave and paused at the door.
"And Krix?"
The Viperian looked up, venom dripping metaphorically from his gaze.
"Next time you want to discuss cowardice," Cal said, "make sure you don't fold when the heat gets turned up."
He stepped into the corridor. His hands shook uncontrollably in his pockets, but he was four thousand credits richer.
As the door closed, he heard Gorth's booming voice.
"I like the human. He plays well."