The series became a war of attrition in heavy gravity.
Game 2 was a disaster. The Void-Walkers adapted to the slime-ball tactics. They stopped trying to crush the ball and began playing "small ball" by using the gravity hammers to bunt and chop. In 1.5g, a chopped ball hits the ground like a meteorite and dies quickly. The Wanderers' infielders, their legs burning, couldn't get to them in time. They lost 5-2.
Game 3 was a pitcher's duel won by Krix. The Viperian thrived on the silent crowd's hostility, throwing seven innings of high-speed venom. Gorth provided the only run with a sacrifice fly that would have been a 600-foot home run anywhere else. They won 1-0, taking a 2-1 series lead.
But the cost was high.
By the morning of Game 4, the locker room looked like a MASH unit. Zix was icing all three of his eyes. Gorth was sleeping on the floor, too tired to find a bed big enough.
And Gloob was falling apart.
Literally. The gelatinous catcher had absorbed too many impacts and was losing cohesion. He sat in his locker as a trembling puddle of green Jell-O, unable to hold a solid form for more than a few seconds.
"He cannot catch," Manager Xylos clicked, his antennae twitching. "If he takes another foul tip, he might splatter into the first few rows."
Cal sat on his stool, his human body feeling like a thousand pounds. His synthetic arm hummed with restless energy, contrasting sharply with his aching spine.
"Who else do we have?" Cal asked. "Put Gorth back there. He takes up a lot of space."
"I have reflexes of stone," Gorth mumbled from the floor. "Passed balls will kill us."
"I'll catch," Zix offered weakly. "But if a fastball hits my third eye, I will see the future, and it will be painful."
Xylos paced the room. "If we lose today, we have to play Game 5. We do not have the pitchers for Game 5. We have to end it tonight."
The door to the locker room hissed open.
A heavy, metallic thud echoed on the floor.
The team fell silent. Even Krix stopped preening.
Standing in the doorway was a fortress on two legs.
It was Borp.
The Krog catcher looked different. His natural armored shell, cracked by the cyber-linebacker weeks earlier, was patched with dull grey durasteel plates. It looked like someone had welded a tank turret onto his chest. His face mask was new, heavier, with smaller eye slits.
He wasn't fully healed. You could see it in the stiff way he walked, the slight tremor in his massive left hand. But he was upright.
Borp walked past the startled manager and the shivering Gloob. He stopped in front of Cal.
He lifted his mitt—his original, well-oiled mitt, not a slime-covered substitute. He punched the pocket fiercely with his free fist. The sound was sharp and crisp. A baseball sound.
Borp looked at Cal, then pointed to the ground. Here. Now.
"You sure, buddy?" Cal asked, standing up and ignoring the protest from his knees. "That chest protector looks heavy."
Borp grunted—a low, tectonic sound. He tapped the steel plating over his heart and flexed his arm.
Pain is temporary, the gesture seemed to say. Winning is forever.
A grin spread across Cal's tired face. He felt the artificial gravity lighten just a little.
"Alright," Cal said, grabbing his cap. "Let's go finish this."
The Singularity Dome was louder that night. The hooded figures sensed blood. They knew the humans were tired. They knew the series was on the edge.
But they didn't account for the turtle-tank.
From the first pitch, the difference was noticeable. Gloob had been a backstop; Borp was a general. He framed pitches, turning borderline balls into strikes with subtle shifts of his massive wrist. He blocked dirtballs with his armored chest, the steel clanging with each impact.
The Void-Walkers were confused. The strike zone had changed. The pitcher was more confident.
Cal felt locked in. He didn't have to worry about the slime making the ball slip. He didn't have to worry about wild pitches. He could just throw.
Through seven innings, it was a scoreless tie. Cal matched the Void-Walkers' ace pitch for pitch, relying on Borp's guidance to navigate the tough lineup.
Top of the eighth. Gorth led off. He was tired of gravity and silence. He took a first-pitch fastball and hammered it into the vantablack wall in left-center field. It didn't go over, but it hit so hard it embedded itself into the metal.
Stand-up double.
Two batters later, Zix slapped a grounder through the drawn-in infield. Gorth rumbled home, sliding headfirst in a cloud of black dust, safe by a fingertip.
1-0, Wanderers.
Bottom of the ninth. The air in the stadium was thick with tension and the smell of ozone from the gravity hammers.
Cal was running on fumes. He walked the leadoff hitter. The crowd began a low, ominous chant vibrating through the floor.
The next batter bunted. Borp pounced on it with surprising speed for a creature carrying fifty pounds of extra steel. He fired to first for the out, but the tying run moved to second base.
One out. Runner on second.
Up stepped Null, the Void-Walker captain. The one who had homered off Cal in Game 1. He activated his hammer. The air warped around the plate.
Borp called time and waddled out to the mound.
"He's sitting on the fastball," Cal panted, sweat dripping from his nose. "He knows I'm tired. He knows I want to blow it by him."
Borp shook his head. He tapped his durasteel chest, then pointed to the dirt.
Change speeds. Down.
"The Dead Fish?" Cal asked. "With the winning run on second? If I hang it, it's over. If I bounce it, the runner moves up."
Borp smacked his mitt. Trust.
Borp waddled back behind the plate. He crouched low, presenting a target right at the knees.
Cal took a deep breath. He tuned out the crowd's chanting. He tuned out the burning in his legs. He focused on the durasteel patch over Borp's heart.
He wound up. He threw it.
It was the best change-up of his life. It came out looking exactly like a fastball, then the bottom fell out, diving toward the dirt.
Null had committed. He swung the gravity hammer with everything he had. The energy field blazed through the space where the ball should have been.
The ball hit the dirt a foot in front of the plate.
The runner on second broke for third, assuming it would bounce away.
But it didn't bounce. It hit Borp's armored chest protector with a loud CLANG and dropped dead in the dirt right in front of him.
Strike three on Null.
Borp didn't hesitate. He snatched the ball from the dirt, spun on his knees, and fired a laser beam to third base.
Krix, playing third, caught the ball and tagged the sliding runner's helmet.
"You're out! Double play! Series over!"
The silence in the stadium was complete.
Cal didn't cheer. He just dropped his glove and fell to his knees on the mound.
Gorth reached him first, scooping him up in a bear hug. Then Krix arrived, offering a stiff, respectful nod.
But Cal pushed through them. He walked toward home plate, where Borp was slowly standing up and dusting off his new armor.
Cal didn't say anything. He just extended his hand.
Borp looked at the hand, then engulfed it in his massive, three-fingered mitt. He pulled Cal close and slammed his steel chest against Cal's shoulder.
It hurt like hell. It was the best feeling in the world.
"Nice blocking, Iron Man," Cal whispered.
They had survived the singularity. They were going to the Division Championship.
In the locker room later, amidst the champagne floating in globules in the lower gravity of the ship, Nex tapped his glass for attention.
"A moment," Nex said. "Excellent work. You defeated physics today." He scrolled through his datapad. "Now, the bad news. The next series starts in four cycles against the Hydra-Spawn."
Gorth groaned into his champagne bucket. "Water world."
"Worse," Nex corrected. "Ammonia oceans. The air is toxic. We'll be playing in sealed environmental suits."
Cal leaned against his locker, too tired to move, nursing a synth-ale. He looked around the room at the bruised, battered, victorious aliens he called teammates.
"Hey Nex," Cal called out. "Do the suits have good ventilation? Because I think Gorth is gonna be gassy after all this celebration food."
Gorth let out a booming belch that proved Cal's point instantly.
The locker room erupted in laughter—clicks, hisses, rumbles, and human chuckles.
Toxic oceans? Environmental suits? Bring it on. They had the Krog back behind the plate.