The bottom of the ninth inning didn't feel like a baseball game. It felt more like a physics experiment with hatred, ego, and fatigue as the variables.
Cal sat in the dugout while the Wanderers batted in the top of the ninth. He didn't watch. He had a towel over his head, breathing in the stale air of the moon base. His arm wasn't hurting—the synthetics didn't feel pain—but the spots where metal met bone were aching.
"They are angry," Borp said, sitting next to him. The Krog had removed his mask. His beak was chipped from a foul tip in the seventh. "Humans do not like to lose to... irregulars."
"We're not irregulars, Borp," Cal replied, his voice muffled by the towel. "We're just ugly."
The Wanderers went down quietly in the top of the ninth. The Sentinels' relief pitcher was a cyborg with a laser-guided release point.
3-1, Wanderers. Three outs to go.
Cal walked out to the mound. The crowd in the Apollo Dome was standing. They weren't being polite anymore. They were chanting, a low, rhythmic sound that felt like a heartbeat.
"SOL. SOL. SOL."
The first batter was Brutus, the big guy who had singled earlier. He didn't wait. He smashed the first pitch—a slider that hung a bit—into left field. Single.
The tying run came to the plate.
"Focus," Nex's voice cut through Cal's thoughts. "Heart rate is elevating. Don't let the atmosphere affect you."
"I'm fine," Cal lied.
He got a pop-up from the next batter. One out.
Then came Sterling, the lead-off hitter with the cyber-eyes. He worked a walk on a 3-2 count. The ump called a borderline pitch a ball.
Runners on first and second. One out. The winning run was at the plate.
Walking out of the on-deck circle, tapping the dirt off his mercury-silver cleats, was Tyrel Vance.
The crowd noise rose. This was the story they wanted. The Golden Boy redeeming the loss. The Prince taking down the Monster.
Tyrel stepped into the box. He glanced at the runners, then at Cal. He didn't smile this time. His face showed cold, professional anger.
"Mound visit!" Borp called for time immediately.
The tank-turtle waddled out. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, blocking Tyrel's view of Cal.
"He wants to pull the ball," Borp said, his voice rough like gravel. "He wants to hit it into the Earth. He wants to humiliate you."
"I know," Cal said. He looked at his cousin. Tyrel was taking practice swings that sounded like whip-cracks.
"Do not throw him garbage," Borp warned. "He is waiting for the Dead Fish. He is waiting for the Eephus. He is smart. He knows you are a trickster."
"So what do I throw?"
Borp glanced at the scoreboard. Then he looked at Cal's bionic shoulder.
"Throw the one he does not respect," Borp said. "Throw the one he thinks is weak."
Borp waddled back.
Cal took a deep breath. He rubbed the ball. The one he thinks is weak.
Tyrel stepped in. He planted his back foot. He was sitting back, waiting for the off-speed stuff. He was ready to drive the curveball 500 feet.
Cal wound up.
Pitch 1: Fastball. Inside corner. 91 mph.
Tyrel watched it go by. He smirked. 91? He warmed up with 91.
"Strike one!"
Tyrel tapped the plate. He looked bored. He was trying to lure Cal. Throw that batting practice fastball again, little cousin.
Cal threw it again.
Pitch 2: Fastball. High and away. 92 mph.
Tyrel fouled it back. He was late. He was so set on the slow stuff that the average speed surprised him.
0-2 count.
The crowd quieted. This wasn't the script. Tyrel was supposed to be hitting these.
Tyrel stepped out. He adjusted his batting gloves. He glared at Cal. The mask of the "Golden Boy" cracked.
"Stop nibbling!" Tyrel shouted. "Throw the damn ball!"
Cal stepped off the rubber. He looked at Tyrel. He remembered their backyard wiffle ball games. He remembered Tyrel crying when he lost. He remembered Tyrel getting the scholarship, the draft bonus, the fame.
Cal realized something. Tyrel wasn't waiting for the change-up. Tyrel was scared of striking out against a washout.
Cal stepped back on.
Borp signaled. The Cutter.
It wasn't Cal's best pitch. It wasn't flashy. It moved maybe three inches. But it was hard, and it looked just like a fastball until the last ten feet.
Cal nodded.
He didn't engage the neural override. He didn't use the slime. He didn't use physics tricks. He just pitched.
He wound up. He pushed off his back leg. He threw it with everything his human legs and alien arm could muster.
The ball headed for the outer half of the plate.
Tyrel saw the spin. He thought Fastball. He thought Mistake.
His eyes widened. He pictured the headlines. He imagined the walk-off home run.
Tyrel swung. It was mechanically perfect, scientifically optimized, and completely lacking in soul.
The ball cut. Just three inches. Just enough to move off the barrel and onto the end of the bat.
CRACK.
It wasn't the booming sound of a home run. It was the sickening, hollow noise of a bat shattering.
The ball floated weakly into the air, spinning like a dying duck toward the pitcher's mound.
Tyrel stood at home plate, holding the broken handle of his mercury bat. He stared at the ball drifting gently through the low gravity.
Cal didn't have to move much. He took two steps forward.
"I got it," Cal said softly.
The ball dropped into his glove.
Squeeze.
"Batter out!"
But there were still runners on base. Two outs.
Tyrel didn't run. He just stood there, looking at the broken pieces of his bat on the ground. He looked up at Cal.
"You got lucky," Tyrel whispered.
"That's baseball, Ty," Cal replied. He turned his back on his cousin.
The next batter was the Sentinels' catcher. He was angry. He swung at the first pitch—a slider Cal buried in the dirt. He grounded it sharply to short.
Zix fielded it. He flipped it to the second baseman, a cyborg with wheels for feet.
Force out.
GAME OVER.
WANDERERS WIN.
The silence in the Apollo Dome was heavy, suffocating. The tourists didn't cheer. The corporate execs checked their watches.
But on the field, chaos erupted.
Gorth charged from first base, roaring. Borp threw his mask into the sky. Gloob rushed out of the dugout at high speed.
They met at the mound.
Cal was buried under a pile of alien limbs, scales, and slime. He felt Gorth's heavy hand on his head. He felt Borp's steel chest against his back.
"We did it!" Zix clicked, his three eyes spinning wildly. "We beat the Golden Men!"
Cal managed to climb out from under the pile. He looked toward the Sentinel dugout.
The Sol-System team was already heading into the tunnel. No handshakes. No acknowledgment. Just a quick exit to avoid the shame.
Cal saw Tyrel one last time. His cousin stood at the railing, staring at the celebration. Their eyes met across the diamond.
Tyrel shook his head, looking more confused than angry. Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
"He will not buy you dinner," Nex noted, appearing next to Cal with a towel.
"I'm not hungry for French food anyway," Cal said, wiping sweat and joy from his face.
"Good," Nex tapped his datapad. "Because we have a shuttle to catch. The World Series starts in three cycles."
"Where?" Cal asked. "And please don't say a black hole."
"No," Nex smiled. It was a real smile this time, showing a bit too many teeth. "We're going to the Galactic Core. To Primus."
"What's Primus?"
"It's the capital," Gorth rumbled, picking up Cal's hat and placing it gently back on Cal's head. "It is where the League began. The gravity is perfect. The grass is perfect."
"Sounds nice," Cal said.
"However," Nex added, "the opposing team is the Interstellar Hive. They are a group of nano-bots that can take any shape they want."
Cal laughed. He looked at the ball in his hand—the one that had broken his cousin's bat.
"Nano-bots," Cal said, tossing the ball to a kid in the front row who was wearing a Wanderers jersey. "Let's see if they can hit a curveball."
He put his arm around Gorth's massive waist.
"Let's go win the whole thing."