The air in the Celestial Stadium usually had a mix of ozone and expensive cologne. Today, it smelled like burning tires and heavily spiced meat.
"Operation Sauna is a go," Nex whispered into his comms unit.
In the depths of the stadium, beneath the visitors' dugout, Gloob was doing something brave for a slime-mold. He had poured himself into the main air intake vent of the field's climate control system. He wasn't blocking it; he was humidifying it. As the giant fans spun, they drew air through Gloob's gelatinous body, transforming the dry, 72-degree breeze into a thick, sticky mist.
In the dugout, Gorth opened a Tupperware container the size of a bathtub.
"Brontok Fire-Stew," Gorth said, his eyes watering from the fumes. "Fermented for three cycles. It melts steel beams."
"Eat up, big guy," Cal said, pulling a gas mask over his face. "And breathe deep."
Gorth started to shovel the glowing red sludge into his mouth. Within seconds, steam began to pour from his nostrils. It wasn't just steam; it was a biological weapon. A dense, spicy fog rolled out of the dugout and onto the pristine field.
Zix added the final touch. Under the guise of a "traditional pre-game dance," he set off three smoke canisters near the on-deck circle.
The results were immediate. The perfect, climate-controlled bubble of Primus turned into a swamp. Humidity surged to 98%. The temperature, increased by Gorth's body heat and the blocked exhaust vents, began to climb. 80 degrees. 85 degrees. 90.
The Hive team took the field. They looked terrifying in their red "Annihilation" armor, spikes gleaming. But as Red Unit One stepped onto the dirt, it paused.
Environmental Warning: Humidity levels exceeding optimal parameters. Particulate matter detected.
The Hive ignored it. They were overclocked. They were gods of destruction. They didn't care about a little humidity.
Or so they thought.
The game began. The Hive pitcher—Red Unit Nine—started throwing 110 mph fastballs.
Cal stood in the box for his first at-bat (Xylos had moved him to leadoff to maximize the stalling).
Cal didn't swing. He stepped out. He adjusted his gloves. He called time. He tied his shoe.
"Play ball!" the umpire called, its drone propellers struggling in the thick air.
Cal stepped back in. He fouled off ten pitches. He wasn't trying for a hit; he wanted Red Unit Nine to work.
By the time Cal struck out (on the 15th pitch), Red Unit Nine's cooling fans were loudly whining. The red glow of its armor shifted to a dull, angry orange.
Top of the third. Hive 1, Wanderers 0.
The Hive was ahead on the scoreboard but losing in terms of thermodynamics.
Gorth sat on the bench, belching clouds of spicy vapor that drifted into the Hive's dugout. The Red Units looked uncomfortable. They were twitching. Steam vented from their joints.
On the mound, Cal was pitching the slowest game in galactic history.
He intentionally walked the bases loaded just to keep the Hive runners standing on the basepaths in the heat.
Red Unit Four stood at third base. Its cooling vents were clogged with the sticky moisture Gloob was pumping into the air.
System Alert: Core Temperature 180°F. Throttling Performance.
Cal stepped off the rubber. He picked up the resin bag. He tossed it down and looked at the runner.
"Hot out here, huh?" Cal called out.
Red Unit Four didn't respond. It just vibrated.
Cal finally threw the pitch. A slow, looping curveball.
The batter, Red Unit Five, swung.
CREAK.
It wasn't a crack. It was the sound of unlubricated metal grinding. The heat had expanded the metal in the robot's shoulders. The swing was stiff, jerky.
Ground ball to second.
The cyborg second baseman fielded it and threw to first.
The runner from third tried to score. But as Red Unit Four sprinted home, its knee joint seized up from thermal expansion. It locked straight.
The robot tripped and fell face-first into the dirt.
Cal ran to cover home. He tagged the overheating robot on its helmet.
"Out!"
Red Unit Four lay in the dirt, its fans screaming like jet engines. Critical Overheat. Initiating Emergency Venting.
A jet of white steam blasted out of the robot's back, fogging the entire infield.
"It's working," Cal coughed, waving the steam away. "They're cooking."
By the seventh inning, the game had turned into a slog. The field temperature hit 102 degrees. The humidity was tropical.
The Hive players were no longer red. They glowed white-hot. They moved like statues in molasses. Their 110 mph fastballs dropped to 85 mph. Their reaction times lagged by several seconds.
The Wanderers, however, were used to terrible conditions. They had played in magma. They had played in ammonia rain. A little steam and chili breath was nothing.
Score: Hive 2, Wanderers 1.
Top of the ninth. The Hive barely held onto a one-run lead.
Red Unit Nine was still on the mound but looked like a wreck. Its armor plates warped from the heat. It vented steam continuously.
Gorth led off. He burped—a sound like a foghorn—and stepped into the box.
Red Unit Nine wound up. Its motion was a grinding, agonizing lurch.
It threw a fastball. 82 mph.
Gorth smashed it.
The ball vanished into the humid mist, clearing the left-field fence with ease.
Tie Game: 2-2.
Gorth trotted around the bases. As he passed the Hive pitcher, he offered friendly advice.
"Try the chili," Gorth rumbled. "It opens the pores."
Red Unit Nine twitched and fell to one knee.
The Hive manager came out. It tried to signal to the bullpen, but the signal transmission failed due to the thick air.
No relief was coming.
Krix doubled. Zix singled.
Runners on first and third. No outs.
Cal Vance stepped to the plate.
He wasn't pitching this inning. He was hitting. He looked at Red Unit Nine. The robot shook violently. Its internal logic screamed for a shutdown, but the "Annihilation" protocol forced it to keep fighting.
"You can stop!" Cal yelled at the robot. "Just forfeit! You're going to melt!"
Red Unit Nine stood up. It leveled its glowing eye-slit at Cal.
Directive: Annihilate.
It wound up.
It pushed its servos past the breaking point. It tried to throw one last 110 mph fastball.
The arm came forward.
SNAP. SIZZLE. POP.
The sound of the robot's internal fusion core rupturing was louder than the crowd.
Red Unit Nine didn't release the ball. Its arm locked mid-throw. The ball shot straight down into the dirt.
The robot froze. Then, slowly, it tipped over backward.
CRASH.
"Balk!" the umpire called instinctively. "Runner advances!"
Krix trotted home from third base. He stepped on the plate.
Wanderers 3, Hive 2.
GAME OVER.
WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS.
For a moment, nobody moved. Steam swirled around the field. The fallen robot lay smoking on the mound.
Then, realization struck.
Gorth roared. He picked up Zix and tossed him into the air. Borp waddled out and hugged Cal so hard his ribs creaked.
Gloob finally oozed out of the air vent, reforming on the field as a very hot, very happy puddle.
Cal stood in the middle of the commotion. He looked at the Hive dugout. The remaining Red Units sat on the bench, going into sleep mode to preserve their cores. They weren't defeated by skill. They weren't defeated by luck.
They were defeated by chili and humidity.
Nex appeared, holding the World Series Trophy. It was a glowing orb of pure light.
"We did it," Nex said, looking shocked. "We actually did it."
Cal took the trophy. It felt warm.
"How does it feel?" Nex asked.
Cal looked at his team. They looked rough. They smelled terrible. Gorth was covered in chili stains. Gloob was steaming. Borp's armor was dented.
They were perfect.
"It feels," Cal said, holding the orb high, "like we finally cleared the air."
As the confetti cannons fired—releasing gold streamers that quickly got soggy in the humid air—Cal felt a vibration in his pocket.
He pulled out his datapad.
A message from Earth. From Tyrel.
Subject: Congrats. Body: Nice win. The chili strategy was... original. Dad says hi. Come home for Thanksgiving? I'll buy.
Cal smiled. He tapped a reply:
Only if I can bring a Brontok. He eats a lot of turkey.
He put the pad away.
"Hey!" Cal shouted to his team. "Who wants to go to Disney World? I hear they have a ride called 'It's a Small World' that Gorth would fit right into."
"Does it have turkey?" Gorth asked.
"Gorth," Cal laughed, throwing his arm around the giant. "It has everything."