The Star-Hopper was quiet, humming through the void at warp speed. Most of the team was in cryo-sleep for the long jump to the Andromeda Sector. Cal sat in the observation deck, staring out at the streaks of starlight that resembled rain hitting a windshield.
He was icing his shoulder—old habits died hard, even with synthetic muscles—when Nex slid into the seat across from him. The alien agent held a secure data slate.
"Delivery confirmed," Nex said softly. "The drone dropped the package at the coordinates in Tucson three hours ago. Your father received it."
Cal sat up, the ice pack slipping off. "He got it? Did he send anything back?"
"A standard encoded video burst. The bandwidth is narrow, so the quality is... vintage." Nex handed over the slate. "Privacy mode is enabled."
Nex stood up and walked to the far end of the deck to give Cal space.
Cal stared at the black screen. His hands, usually steady enough to thread a fastball through a keyhole, were trembling. He tapped PLAY.
The screen flickered with static and then resolved into a grainy, low-res image. It showed his backyard. The grass was dead—Arizona summer—and the old tire swing was still hanging from the mesquite tree.
His dad, Frank Vance, stepped into the frame. He looked older than Cal remembered. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and his posture was a little more stooped. He wore his lucky Cardinals cap, the one with the sweat stain on the brim.
"Cal?" Frank's voice was tinny and distorted by the light-years. "Is this thing on? The robot said to talk into the green light."
Frank looked off-camera, then back at the lens. He held up something heavy. It was a bar of gold, dull and scratched, and stamped with the Galactic League insignia, which looked suspiciously like a spiral galaxy eating a baseball.
"Son," Frank said, his voice shaking. "A drone the size of a Buick just landed in Mrs. Gable's azaleas and dropped a crate of these. There's... Cal, there's platinum in here. And gold. I took it to the pawn shop on 4th—just one bar—and the guy nearly called the cops. He said it was 99.999% pure. He gave me ten grand for it and said he was ripping me off."
Frank lowered the bar and stepped closer to the camera.
"You said oil fields, Cal. You said you were working a rig in North Dakota. Oil roughnecks get paid in cash, not... alien bullion dropped from the sky." Frank paused, rubbing his face. "I paid off the house today. I paid off the truck. I have enough left over to buy the whole block."
He looked tired. Scared, even.
"I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, Cal. I don't know who you're working for. But this isn't normal. Just watch your back, okay? And come home soon. I don't care about the money. I just... the house is quiet, kid. Real quiet."
The screen went black.
Cal sat there for a long time. The silence of the ship felt heavy, pressing against his eardrums.
He had fixed the money problem. His dad wouldn't lose the house. He wouldn't have to greet customers at Walmart to buy groceries. But Cal had traded poverty for mystery. He had become a ghost sending treasure from the heavens, terrifying his only family.
"Oil fields," Cal whispered to the empty room. "Stupid."
A heavy thud shook the floor.
Cal looked up. Gorth was standing there. The massive Brontok wore a sleep mask on his forehead and held a mug of something that smelled like hot tar.
"Family?" Gorth asked. His voice was a low rumble, felt more than heard.
Cal nodded, turning off the slate. "Yeah. My dad."
Gorth sat down. The metal bench groaned in protest. "My sire lives on Brontok Prime. He thinks I am a gladiator. If he knew I played a game with a ball and stick, he would be ashamed. He thinks hitting a ball is for children. Hitting enemies with an axe is for men."
Cal managed a weak smile. "My dad loves the game. He just... he thinks I'm drilling for oil in the cold. He doesn't know I'm striking out telepaths in the Nebula."
"Lies are heavy," Gorth said, sipping his tar. "Heavier than gravity."
"Yeah," Cal said. "They are."
"But," Gorth pointed at the datapad with a thick finger. "You sent resources. You protect the nest. That is what a male does. The method does not matter. The survival matters."
Cal looked at the black screen one last time. He thought about the fear in his dad's eyes, but also the relief. The house was paid for. The truck was paid for. Frank Vance could retire.
"You're right, Gorth," Cal said, standing up. He felt a new kind of resolve hardening in his chest. It wasn't just about proving he could still pitch. It was about the contract. The payout.
If he finished the season—if they made the playoffs—the bonus was fifty thousand credits. That was nearly twenty million dollars.
With that kind of money, he wouldn't have to lie. He could go home, buy a senator, and explain everything.
"We have a game in two cycles," Cal said, picking up his ice pack. "Who are we playing?"
Gorth grinned, exposing rows of flat, stone-like teeth.
"The Insectoids of Hive 7," Gorth said. "They have a hive mind. And they are very fast. But they crunch when you slide into them."
Cal nodded. "Good. Let's go crunch some bugs."
He walked back toward the cryo-bay. He was a million light-years from Tucson, but for the first time, he knew exactly why he was there.
He wasn't just a pitcher anymore. He was a provider.