The Mid-Season Galactic All-Star festivities were held on "The Ring," a space station designed entirely for entertainment. It orbited a gas giant with rings so stunning they made Saturn look like a dirty hubcap.
Cal stood on the observation deck of the transport ship, his mouth slightly open. The station was a huge torus, sparkling with neon lights and giant holographic ads.
"Try not to stare," Nex said as he adjusted Cal's tie. They wore formal outfits—Cal in a suit that Nex claimed was stylish across fifty systems (it looked like crushed velvet and felt like aluminum foil), and Nex in something shiny and sharp.
"I'm from Earth, Nex. The biggest thing I've ever seen is the Grand Canyon. This place is the size of Ohio and it's floating."
"It's a tourist trap," Nex replied dismissively. "Overpriced synth-ale and cheap jerseys. But the League insists on the spectacle. And you, Mr. Vance, are part of the show."
Cal wasn't an All-Star starter—his ERA was still too high after the Pyros disaster—but he had been named a "Fan Favorite" for the Skills Competition. His psychic jamming technique against the Cerebians had gone viral on the galactic net. Now, he was known as "The Noise-Maker Human."
They docked at the VIP port. Inside the station, the air smelled of ozone, fancy perfumes, and roasting meats that Cal couldn't identify and didn't want to.
The "locker room" was more like a ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the lockers were made of polished obsidian. The room was packed with the top-tier of the League—creatures so large, fast, or intimidating that Cal felt like a batboy who had wandered into the wrong dugout.
Krix, the Viperian closer, was there, of course. He was polishing his scales in a corner, surrounded by a group of smaller reptile beings. He glared at Cal, his tongue flicking out.
"Enjoy the circus, human," Krix hissed as Cal passed his locker. "It's the only time you'll stand among gods."
"Nice suit, Krix," Cal replied without missing a beat. "Did you shed it yourself?"
Gorth was also present, chosen for the Home Run Derby. The huge Brontok was trying to fit a batting helmet over his massive brow ridge. It snapped in two.
"Tiny hat," Gorth grumbled, tossing the pieces aside. "I don't need a hat. My skull is thicker than a bat."
"Ladies, Gentlemen, and entities of unspecified gender!" a booming voice announced over the speakers. "Welcome to the Skills Gauntlet! First up: The Precision Pitching Challenge!"
Nex appeared at Cal's side. "That's you. You're up against Xylo-Dox, a cyborg whose arm is literally a kinetic railgun, and Klik-Klik, an insectoid who throws six balls at once. Don't embarrass us. There's ten thousand credits at stake."
Cal walked out of the tunnel and onto the field. The stadium made the dome at the training facility look tiny. It seated two million spectators in zero-gravity tiers that spiraled up into the dark. The noise pressed against his chest protector.
The field was holographic. The "targets" appeared in the air—floating hoops of light, moving robotic drones, and energy fields that shimmered in and out of view.
Klik-Klik went first. The insectoid stepped to the mound, his six arms a blur. He threw six balls in a spray. Four hit targets instantly; two missed. The crowd buzzed in approval.
Xylo-Dox followed. The cyborg resembled a chrome skeleton wearing a jersey. His right arm whirred as it powered up. THWIP. A ball shot out at 120 mph, destroying a stationary drone target. He was precise, but lacked style.
Then it was Cal's turn.
The stadium announcer called out: "And from the primitive backwater of Earth... The Noise-Maker... CAL VANCE!"
A surprising amount of applause rippled through the stands. Cal tipped his cap.
The first few rounds were easy—stationary targets. Cal threw his four-seamer, hitting them rhythmically.
Then the targets began to move. Fast drones zigzagged across the zone. Cal had to lead them. He missed two but then dialed in his slider, using the break to intercept the drones' paths.
He reached the final round against the cyborg.
The last target was the "Phased Sphere." It was an energy globe about the size of a grapefruit that shifted in and out of this dimension every half-second. You couldn't just throw hard; you had to time it perfectly.
Xylo-Dox stepped up. His optical sensors whirred, calculating the phase frequency down to the microsecond. He charged his railgun arm. He fired.
The ball screamed toward the target at 125 mph. Just as it reached the spot, the target phased out. The ball sailed harmlessly through empty space.
The cyborg beeped in frustration. He tried again. Same result. The calculations were perfect, but his execution was too rigid. He couldn't adjust quickly.
Cal walked to the mound. He held the ball, feeling the synthetic fibers in his shoulder hum. He watched the target. Blink on. Blink off. Blink on. Blink off.
It was a rhythm. Like a song.
Country roads... take me home...
He needed something slow. Something that hung in the air, giving the target time to phase back in.
He gripped the ball for the Dead Fish change-up.
He wound up, mimicking a fastball motion to fool the crowd, then let it go.
The ball drifted out of his hand, spinning backward against the artificial gravity. It looked absurdly slow next to the cyborg's railgun shots. It floated toward the empty space where the target had just been.
The crowd fell silent, watching the hanging curve.
The ball reached the spot. It hung for a split second, gravity fighting the backspin.
Blink ON.
The target rematerialized directly around the ball.
POP.
The sphere burst in a shower of golden sparks.
The stadium erupted. Two million alien voices roared. Even Krix, watching from the dugout, paused his scale polishing.
The announcer shouted something unintelligible that translated roughly to "HOLY FLARGNARG! THE HUMAN HAS TOUCH. THE HUMAN HAS GUILE!"
A holographic display above flashed Cal's face and the prize amount: 10,000 CREDITS.
Nex met him at the dugout steps, genuinely smiling. "Not bad, Vance. Not bad at all. You just covered our fuel for the next three sectors."
Cal felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Xylo-Dox. The cyborg's optical sensor shuttered, a sign of respect.
"Your calculation matrix is... illogical," the cyborg's synthesized voice buzzed. "But effective. Good game, flesh-unit."
"Thanks, tin man," Cal replied with a grin.
Later that night, during the Home Run Derby, Cal sat in the stands with a cold synth-ale, watching Gorth hit a ball so far it actually left the stadium's artificial gravity and entered orbit around the gas giant.
For the first time since Tucson, Cal didn't feel like a desperate prospect or a novelty act. He looked around at the swirling lights of the ring, the immense power of his teammates, and the total madness of the Galactic League.
He took a sip of his ale. It tasted terrible, like metallic blueberries. But he drank it anyway.
He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was starting to enjoy it here.