The Mid-Season Galactic All-Star festivities took place on "The Ring," a space station built entirely for entertainment. It orbited a gas giant with rings so bright they made Saturn look dull.
Cal stood on the observation deck of the transport ship, his jaw slightly dropped. The station was a massive torus, sparkling with neon lights and tall holographic ads.
"Try not to gawk," Nex said, adjusting Cal's tie. They wore formal clothes. Cal was in a suit that Nex claimed was stylish in fifty systems, though it looked like crushed velvet and felt like aluminum foil. Nex wore something shimmering 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 said 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 a starting All-Star. His ERA was still too high after the Pyros disaster. However, 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. He was now known as "The Noise-Maker Human."
They docked at the VIP port. The air inside the station smelled of ozone, exotic perfumes, and roasting meats that Cal couldn't identify and didn't want to.
The "locker room" for the event resembled a ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the lockers were made of polished obsidian. The room was filled with the elite of the League—creatures so massive, fast, or fearsome 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 smaller reptile beings. He glared at Cal and flicked out his tongue.
"Enjoy the circus, human," Krix hissed as Cal walked past to his locker. "It is the only time you will stand among gods."
"Nice suit, Krix," Cal replied, not breaking stride. "Did you shed it yourself?"
Gorth was also there, selected for the Home Run Derby. The giant Brontok was trying to fit a batting helmet over his massive brow ridge. It snapped in half.
"Tiny hat," Gorth grumbled, tossing the pieces aside. "I do not need a hat. My skull is thicker than a bat."
"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Entities of indeterminate gender!" a loud voice announced over the speakers. "Welcome to the Skills Gauntlet! First up: The Precision Pitching Challenge!"
Nex appeared at Cal's elbow. "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 on the line."
Cal walked out of the tunnel and onto the field. The stadium made the dome at the training facility look like a broom closet. It could seat two million spectators in zero-gravity tiers that spiraled upwards into the darkness. The noise was overwhelming, a wall of sound vibrating 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 sight.
Klik-Klik went first. The insectoid stepped to the mound, his six arms a blur. He threw six balls in a spray. Four hit their targets immediately; two flew wide. The crowd buzzed in approval.
Xylo-Dox was next. The cyborg looked like a chrome skeleton in a jersey. His right arm whirred as it charged. THWIP. A ball shot out at 120 mph, vaporizing a stationary drone target. He was precise, methodical, and completely lacking in flair.
Then it was Cal's turn.
The stadium announcer boomed: "And from the primitive backwater of Earth... The Noise-Maker... CAL VANCE!"
Surprisingly, applause rippled through the stands. Cal tipped his cap.
The first few rounds were easy—stationary targets. Cal used his four-seamer, popping them rhythmically.
Then the targets started moving. Fast drones zig-zagged across the zone. Cal had to lead them. He missed two but then locked in his slider, using the break to hit the drones' flight paths.
He made it to 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 the phase shift just right.
Xylo-Dox stepped up. His optical sensors whirred, calculating the phase frequency to the microsecond. He charged his railgun arm and fired.
The ball screamed toward the target at 125 mph. Just as it arrived, the target phased out. The ball passed harmlessly through empty space.
The cyborg beeped in frustration. He tried again with the same result. His calculations were perfect, but he couldn't adjust quickly enough.
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 would hang 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 to fool the crowd, then released the ball.
It floated out of his hand, spinning backwards against the artificial gravity. It looked absurdly slow compared to the cyborg's railgun shots. It drifted toward the empty space where the target had just been.
The crowd went silent, watching the hanging curve.
The ball reached the spot. It hovered for a split second, gravity struggling against the backspin.
Blink ON.
The target rematerialized right around the ball.
POP.
The sphere exploded in a shower of golden sparks.
The stadium erupted. Two million voices roared. Even Krix, watching from the dugout, stopped polishing his scales for a moment.
The announcer yelled something that roughly translated to "HOLY FLARGNARG! THE HUMAN HAS TOUCH. THE HUMAN HAS SKILL!"
A holographic display overhead flashed Cal's face and the prize amount: 10,000 CREDITS.
Nex met him at the dugout steps, actually smiling. "Not bad, Vance. Not bad at all. You just paid for 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 grinned.
Later that night, during the Home Run Derby, Cal sat in the stands with a cold synth-ale. He watched Gorth hit a ball so far it left the stadium's artificial gravity well 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 incredible power of his teammates, and the sheer 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 like it here.