Primus wasn't a planet; it was a jewelry store display case the size of a world.
The capital of the Galactic League orbited a binary star system, bathing the surface in a constant, golden twilight. The cities floated in the lower atmosphere, tethered to the ground by crystalline elevators. The air smelled like vanilla and ozone.
"I hate it," Gorth declared, looking out the shuttle window. "It is too clean. Where is the dirt? Where is the struggle?"
"This is the Pinnacle, big guy," Cal said, adjusting his tie. The League mandated formal attire for arrival on Primus. Cal's suit was made of Martian silk, purchased with his bonus from the All-Star game. It was the first thing he'd owned in years that didn't have a stain on it. "This is where champions are crowned."
"It looks like a dentist's office," Gorth grumbled, tugging at a tuxedo collar that was roughly the size of a hula hoop.
The shuttle docked at the Celestial Stadium. It was a floating coliseum made of white marble and hard-light energy fields, seating five million spectators. The gravity was set to absolute Galactic Standard—perfect 1.0 Earth gravity. The temperature was a constant 72 degrees. The wind was programmed to be zero.
"No variables," Nex warned as they walked down the gold-plated tunnel toward the locker room. "That is the theme of Primus. Pure skill. No weather, no bad hops, no excuses."
"And no mercy," Xylos added, his antennae twitching violently. "The Interstellar Hive has arrived."
The locker room was silent. The Wanderers, usually a boisterous mix of clicks, growls, and insults, were subdued. They checked their equipment with nervous energy.
Cal opened his locker. Inside, a fresh jersey waited. It had the World Series patch on the sleeve. A golden spiral galaxy.
"Gentlemen," Nex said, projecting a hologram in the center of the room. "The Scouting Report."
The hologram flickered. It didn't show individual players. It showed a shimmering, silver mass that shifted shapes fluidly.
" The Interstellar Hive is a nanite colony," Nex explained. "Billions of microscopic machines operating as a single consciousness. They form nine distinct bodies to play the game, but they share one mind. If the shortstop sees a pitch, the batter knows the spin rate instantly."
"So they steal signs," Krix hissed, his tail twitching. "Cheaters."
"They don't need to steal signs," Nex said grimly. "They calculate trajectories in real-time. They know the physics of the ball better than the ball does."
"Great," Cal said, lacing up his cleats. "So how do we beat a supercomputer?"
"We don't play logic," Borp said from the corner. The Krog was polishing his durasteel chest plate. "We play chaos."
The opening ceremonies were a blur of light shows and speeches by dignitaries with too many heads. Then, it was time.
Game 1 of the Galactic Series.
Cal stood on the foul line for the anthems. He looked across the field.
The Hive team stood in a perfect line. They looked like mannequins made of liquid chrome. They had no faces, just smooth, reflective surfaces. Their uniforms were projected onto their bodies. They stood perfectly still. They didn't breathe. They didn't blink.
"Play Ball!" the Voice of Primus boomed from the heavens.
Cal took the mound. The mound was pristine white clay. It felt synthetic, perfect.
The first Hive batter stepped in. It—Unit One—moved with eerie fluidity. It didn't have a stance; it just flowed into a hitting position.
Cal signaled to Borp. Let's see what they got. Fastball. Down and away.
Cal wound up. The motion felt good. The gravity was familiar. He released the ball.
94 mph. Good paint.
Unit One didn't stride. It simply extended its arms. The bat moved in a perfectly calculated arc.
PING.
The sound was metallic. The ball shot straight up the middle.
Zix, the speedster shortstop, dove. He was fast. He snagged the ball in the webbing.
"Out!"
Cal exhaled. "Okay. They hit hard, but we can field."
Unit Two stepped in.
Cal tried a slider.
PING.
Line drive to right field. Single.
Unit Three stepped in.
Cal tried the curve.
PING.
Line drive to left field. Single.
"They are not missing," Gorth rumbled from first base.
Bases loaded. One out. Cleanup hitter (Unit Four) at the plate.
"They're timing the release," Nex's voice whispered in Cal's ear. "They calculated your arm slot during warmups. They know exactly where the ball will be."
"Then I'll change the slot," Cal muttered.
He dropped his arm angle. Sidearm delivery.
He threw a sinker.
Unit Four didn't flinch. It adjusted its stance mid-pitch—literally morphing its legs to be shorter—and uppercut the ball.
CRACK.
Grand Slam.
The ball landed 450 feet away in the pristine white stands.
4-0, Hive. In the first inning.
The Hive players trotted around the bases in unison. Their strides were identical. They didn't celebrate. They just returned to the dugout and sat down at the exact same moment.
"It is creepy," Gorth said, watching them. "They are like... ants made of mirrors."
The game didn't get better.
When the Wanderers batted, the Hive's defense was a geometric nightmare.
Zix hit a ground ball into the hole between short and third. The Hive shortstop didn't just dive; it stretched. Its arm elongated by six inches, turning a base hit into a ground out.
Gorth smashed a ball that should have been a double off the wall. The Hive center fielder calculated the ricochet perfectly, playing the carom without looking, and fired a laser to second base. Gorth was out by ten feet.
By the seventh inning, it was 8-0.
Cal was still on the mound, but he was getting shelled. He had tried everything. Slimeballs (the nanites analyzed the friction coefficient instantly). Eephus pitches (they waited). Anger (they didn't care).
Top of the eighth. Unit Seven at the plate.
Cal was tired. Not physically—the robot arm was fine—but mentally. He felt like he was playing chess against an engine that saw mate in three moves.
"Time out!"
Borp waddled to the mound.
"They are bored," Borp said.
"They're robots, Borp. They don't get bored."
"No," Borp tapped his helmet. "They are... efficient. They swing only at strikes. They field only balls they can reach. They do not waste energy."
"So?"
"So," Borp pointed to the Hive dugout. "Make them waste energy. Do something... wrong."
Cal looked at the chrome batter.
Do something wrong.
Cal stepped onto the rubber. He wound up.
But instead of throwing to the plate, he stopped mid-motion. He stumbled. He looked like he tripped over his own shoelaces.
It was a balk. A blatant, stupid balk.
The Hive batter twitched. For a microsecond, its smooth head rippled. It had calculated a pitch trajectory, and the input had failed.
"Balk!" the umpire called. "Runner advances."
There was a runner on first (via a single). He moved to second.
Cal laughed. He stood up, dusting off his pristine white pants.
"My bad!" Cal shouted at the chrome batter.
He got back on the rubber.
This time, he wound up, but he changed his rhythm. One-two-throw? No. One... pause... two... wiggle... throw.
He threw a fastball, but he gripped it like a change-up. It had no spin, but it was fast. A "gyro-ball" by accident.
The Hive batter swung.
It missed.
The crowd gasped. It was the first swing-and-miss of the game.
The Hive batter froze. It looked at its bat. It looked at Cal. The calculation had been off by 0.04 percent.
"Strike one!"
Cal grinned. He looked at Borp. The turtle nodded.
Chaos.
Next pitch. Cal signaled for a slider. Borp set up outside.
Cal threw a fastball inside.
Borp had to lunge to catch it. He barely snagged it.
The Hive batter took it. It was a strike, right on the corner. But the batter had calculated "Slider" based on Borp's setup. It froze.
"Strike two!"
The Hive dugout rippled. The chrome mannequins shifted uneasily. Their shared mind was receiving conflicting data. The catcher setup does not match the pitch. The pitcher's motion does not match the velocity.
Cal wound up for the third pitch.
He literally closed his eyes.
I don't know where it's going, Cal thought. So you can't know either.
He threw it.
It was a high, wild cutter. It was heading for the batter's head.
Unit Seven's self-preservation protocol kicked in. It bailed out of the box, its body liquefying slightly to avoid impact.
But the ball had movement. It cut back over the plate at the last second.
"Strike three!"
Unit Seven reformed its shape. It stood there, staring at the umpire. It did not argue. It simply processed the error.
Cal walked off the mound. They were still losing 8-0. They were going to lose Game 1.
But as he entered the dugout, he saw Gorth grinning.
"You broke the shiny man," Gorth said.
"Yeah," Cal grabbed a towel. "I pitched like an idiot."
"We are good at idiot," Krix hissed, uncoiling his tail.
Nex looked at the datapad. "Their processing efficiency dropped by twelve percent in that at-bat. They struggle with... irrational variables."
"We lost the battle," Cal said, sitting down and watching the Hive team robotically take the field for the ninth. "But I think we just figured out how to start the war."
He looked at his teammates. A giant who ate furniture. A turtle in a tank suit. A slime mold. A three-eyed lemur.
"Tomorrow," Cal said, "we don't play baseball. We play something else."
"What do we play?" Gloob bubbled.
Cal smiled, a dangerous, chaotic smile.
"We play Calvinball."