The Apollo Dome on the Moon was everything Cal disliked about modern baseball, intensified by the lack of atmosphere.
It was sterile white, backed by six different inter-planetary banks, and the "grass" was a genetically modified moss that cost more per square foot than Cal's childhood home. Above the dome, through the diamond-glass roof, Earth hung in the sky, a swirl of blue and white marble that looked close enough to touch.
"Pretty," Gorth mumbled, looking up at Earth. "Looks tasty."
"It's mostly water and politicians, Gorth," Cal said as he tightened his cleats. "You'd get heartburn."
The visitor's locker room was surprisingly luxurious. It had plush carpets, gravity-adjusted massage chairs, and a buffet of human food. It felt like a trap, like they were being fattened up before the slaughter.
"Do not get comfortable," Xylos said while pacing the room. "The Sol-System Sentinels are the league darlings. They are the pride of the Human Sector. They have the best funding, the best genetics, and the best press."
"And they have Tyrel," Cal whispered to himself.
He walked out of the tunnel and onto the field. The low lunar gravity, boosted to 0.9 Earth standard for play, gave everyone a slight bounce in their step.
The stands were packed, not with screeching insectoids or fire-wreathed demons, but with humans. Tourists from Earth, corporate execs from the Mars Colonies, and military officers from the Orbital Defense Force filled the seats. They wore pristine white jerseys and drank expensive beers.
And in the opposing dugout, looking like Greek gods in pinstripes, were the Sentinels.
They were tall, sculpted, and extremely symmetrical. Their uniforms were made of "Smart-Weave" that adjusted to their body temperature. They didn't sweat; they glistened.
Cal walked toward center field for the mandatory pre-game lineup exchange. He spotted him immediately.
Tyrel Vance.
His cousin looked just like the poster on Cal's bedroom wall back in Tucson, the one Cal had ripped down three years ago. Tyrel stood 6'4", with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that seemed color-corrected in post-production. He casually tossed a baseball, his motion fluid and perfect.
Tyrel stopped when he saw Cal approaching. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
"Calvin?" Tyrel laughed. The sound was rich and confident. "I saw the roster, but I thought it was a mistake or maybe a different Cal Vance."
"It's me, Ty," Cal said, stopping five feet away. He felt small, like the kid with the hand-me-down glove again.
Tyrel looked him up and down, noting the scar on Cal's chin, the way Cal's jersey hung unevenly over his bionic shoulder, and then he looked past Cal at the Wanderer's dugout. He saw Gorth picking his nose with a bat and Gloob vibrating in a bucket.
"Jesus, Cal," Tyrel shook his head. "I heard you washed out of the minors, but... this? You're playing in the Circus League?"
"It's the Galactic League," Cal corrected, his voice hardening. "And we're in the Championship Series. Same as you."
"We're here because we're the pinnacle of human evolution," Tyrel said, tossing the ball up and catching it. "You guys are here to give the league a novelty act to sell tickets in the Outer Rim. Look at them. You've got a pet rock and a walking reptile."
"That reptile throws 108," Cal said. "And the rock hits balls into orbit."
Tyrel stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Look, Cal. Seriously. After the series, I can make some calls. Get you a job in the front office or maybe a scouting gig. You don't have to embarrass yourself out here with these monsters. You're a Vance. You shouldn't be a sideshow."
Cal felt anger rise up. It wasn't the explosive anger from the Pyros stadium. It was a cold, dense weight in his gut.
"I'm not a scout, Ty," Cal said. "I'm the starting pitcher."
Tyrel blinked, then chuckled. "Right. The bionic shoulder. I saw the medical report. You're pitching with a cheat code, Cal. But hardware doesn't fix talent."
Tyrel turned and walked back to his pristine dugout. Over his shoulder, he called out:
"Don't worry, coz. I'll make it quick. I've got a dinner reservation in Paris tonight."
Cal stood there, watching the golden boy walk away.
"He smells like expensive soap," Gorth rumbled, appearing at Cal's side. "I do not like him. Can I eat him?"
"No eating the opposition, Gorth," Cal said. "But you can hit his curveball back to Paris."
The game began with a spectacle. Tyrel Vance took the mound for the Sentinels. The crowd roared.
Tyrel didn't wind up. He just stepped and threw. It was effortless.
WHAP.
104 mph. Paint on the outside corner.
The first batter, Zix, didn't even twitch.
WHAP.
105 mph. High heat.
WHAP.
92 mph. A slider that broke so sharply it seemed like it hit a wall.
Zix struck out on three pitches. He walked back to the dugout, all three eyes wide. "I could not see it," Zix clicked. "It was... invisible."
Tyrel mowed them down. Nine pitches. Three strikeouts. He walked off the mound without glancing at the Wanderers' dugout. He checked his fingernails.
Bottom of the first. Cal took the mound.
The crowd polite-clapped. It felt patronizing. They were clapping for the cripple who tried hard.
The Sentinels' lineup was a row of genetically optimized hitters. The leadoff batter, a guy named Sterling with cybernetic eyes, took his position.
Borp gave the sign. Fastball. Inside.
Cal wanted to bring the heat. He wanted to show Tyrel he could keep up. He reached back and fired.
93 mph.
Sterling turned on it. CRACK.
The ball rocketed down the left-field line. Foul. But just barely.
"Cute," Sterling sneered. "Throw it faster."
Cal gritted his teeth. He tried to dial it up. He engaged the neural link Nex had hacked, but without the adrenaline from the ammonia storm, it just felt mechanical.
He threw again. 94 mph.
Sterling fouled it back.
Cal was working hard. Tyrel was breezing.
Cal managed to get Sterling to ground out to short, but the next batter, a hulk named Brutus, smacked a single up the middle.
Runner on first.
Cal labored through the inning. He threw twenty-five pitches. He got out of it without allowing a run, but when he walked back to the dugout, he was sweating. Tyrel hadn't even broken a sweat.
"He is fast," Gorth noted, sitting on the bench. "Very fast."
"We know, Gorth," Cal snapped as he grabbed a water pouch.
Top of the third. Still 0-0.
Tyrel was perfect. Six up, six down. He was making Gorth look silly with a change-up that vanished.
Bottom of the third.
Cal faced the bottom of the order. He got two quick outs. Then, the Sentinels' pitcher walked to the plate.
Tyrel Vance stepped up. He wasn't using a designated hitter. He wanted to hit.
He stood in the box, waving a bat that looked like it was made of liquid mercury. He smiled at Cal.
"Come on, Cal," Tyrel called out. "Give me the heater. For old time's sake. Like in the backyard."
Cal looked at Borp. Borp signaled curveball.
Cal shook him off.
Borp signaled slider.
Cal shook him off.
He wanted the fastball. He needed to blow it by him. Just once.
Cal wound up. He put everything into it. The synthetic fibers whined. He pushed off the rubber.
Fastball.
It was a good pitch. 95 mph. Tailing away.
Tyrel didn't lunge. He kept his hands inside the ball. He had that compact, perfect swing he'd been trained to have since Little League.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly solid.
The ball soared into right-center field. It kept going and landed in the luxury suites, scattering a tray of champagne glasses.
Home Run.
Tyrel jogged around the bases. He didn't celebrate; he just trotted, looking bored. As he rounded third, he glanced at Cal and gave a little salute.
1-0, Sentinels.
Cal stood on the mound, blood pounding in his ears. He had let his ego pitch. And Tyrel crushed it.
Nex's voice cut through the haze in his mind. "Cal. Stop trying to be him. You are not Tyrel Vance. You are not a Golden Boy."
Cal caught the new ball from the umpire and rubbed it up.
He looked at his team. Gorth was chewing on his bat handle. Borp was adjusting his chest armor. Gloob was making a slime sculpture of a cat.
They weren't perfect. They were ugly, broken, and weird.
And so was he.
"You're right, Nex," Cal muttered. "I'm not him."
The next batter stepped in.
Cal signaled to Borp. He didn't want the fastball.
He gripped the ball loosely. He threw the Dead Fish.
The batter swung so hard he fell over.
"Strike one!"
"Okay," Cal whispered. "Let's turn this dome into a circus."