Future Games

by John Shirley

  We all looked at Alex.

  “The way they were playing reminded me of something I read about when I was a kid. While you guys on the field were getting mopped up by aliens, I burned most of my data allowance doing some historical research.”

  A headsup limned her face, dense fields of scrolling stats. “It turns out this is not a new way to play baseball. In 1887, there was a St. Louis Browns player named James Edward O’Neill. He was known generally as ‘Tip’ O’Neill, because of his expertise at foul tips. He could keep any ball in play, never striking out, wearing down pitchers until he could get on base. Back then, walks were part of your batting average, so he didn’t care if he walked or hit his way on. His average was .485 that year.”

  “Almost five hundred?” Yoshi shook his head. “That’s pretty damn good.”

  “Yeah, but our six-legged friends are about twice that good.”

  “They should be,” Yoshi said. “They’re designed for it.”

  “So someone must have found a way to stop this O’Neill guy,” I said. “I mean, I’ve never heard of him.”

  “They didn’t stop him,” Alex said. “They changed the rules. Since that year, walks don’t count in your average. So these days, collecting four balls earns you about as much glory as getting hit by a pitch.”

  “Yeah,” Yoshi said, “except that the Tau don’t know about batting averages. We don’t even know if they can conceive of averages.”

  “Hell,” I muttered. “We don’t even know if they can count. I mean, they beat us like a rented mule. Seventy-nine runs!”

  “They clearly can count,” Chirac said. “They were quite exact in scoring ten runs each inning.”

  “Do you think that’s significant?” Alex asked. “Is it some kind of SETI thing, like they’re trying to establish a base-ten rubric for future communication?”

  “Perhaps they were declaring,” Ashley Newkirk said. “In the mother game, a far better side doesn’t keep relentlessly thrashing an opponent once they’ve beat them. Wouldn’t be cricket.”

  “But ninety runs?” I said. “That’s one hell of a safety margin.”

  Yoshi grunted. “It’s nothing to the score they could have racked up. They let us off the hook after ten runs an inning. Our pitching only ever got their pitcher out, and then only about every other at-bat.”

  “Thank god they don’t know about designated hitters,” Jenny muttered.

  Alex still had her headsup on, and her fingers moved. “So we manage only one out every eighteen ups, which is three outs every fifty-four. That’s fifty-one runs an inning. Which is . . . four hundred fifty-nine runs a game.”

  “Good god,” Ashley said, “that sounds rather like a—” He stopped without saying another word.

  “Like a royal ass-kicking,” Jenny Flagg said.

  There’s only one thing worse than always winning, and that’s always losing.

  The games went incredibly long now. The Tau innings were torturous. Each lasted thirteen at-bats, and every one of those went at least ten pitches. The Tau went through relief pitchers like potato chips on Super Bowl Sunday, leaving half the human inhabitants of the planet walking around with their arms in a sling. Late in the game, we had to intentionally walk to save our arms for the gimme outs. Otherwise, there’d be no one left who could throw a strike at all.

  Playing the Tau was so depressing that it became hard to motivate nine players onto the field. Chirac and the rest of the xenos were merciless, however. They weren’t about to give up their close contact just because a bunch of whining soldiers and construction workers didn’t want to get their butts kicked every day. And Chirac refused to give us a bigger strike zone. Just as she had when the Taus were losing, she insisted on sticking with Alexander Cartwright’s rules.

  Halihunt and NASA didn’t like the way things were going any more than we did. The U.S. media took less than a week to go into crisis mode, with long essays about how the country’s ascendancy was clearly over. Beaten at our own game by the first aliens we’d run into. My team’s inability to get an out became the current metaphor for America’s outdated infrastructure, our dependence on old paradigms and fossil fuels, our preference for force over finesse. Halihunt’s sponsorship schemes crumbled like a cheap taco in a Texas tornado, and their stock price took a beating. How was our little colony supposed to save the American economy if we couldn’t throw a strike?

  Needless to say, the rest of the world just ate it up with a spoon. Finally, the little guys were kicking our ass. But we were forbidden from giving up the game. The last thing Houston, or Washington for that matter, could abide was for us to look like bad losers.

  We were still damned if we did and damned if we didn’t.

  And boy, was my right arm sore.

  Other than our troubles on the field, everything was going swell. Work on the array was still on schedule. The solar collection elements were finally propagating in the mica-rich soil, turning a huge mountainside into a shimmering mirror. It was beautiful at sunrise, and generated enough power to contribute significantly to the tube. Our transport rations tripled, then tripled again, and we even got to the point where we could reverse the usual flow, sending a few specks of Tau dust back to Houston for analysis. As our power increased and the math held up, morale recovered quickly from our perpetual losing streak. Once the tube got wider and more stable, humans could pass through safely. The nagging question of when and if we were all getting back to Earth had been answered.

  We had a long dry spell, the Coriolis rains not interrupting our power supply for long enough to fully charge our batteries, and managed to keep the tube open for fifteen straight days. Finally we had the stability to make every teleport a smooth one, and that’s when some genius in Houston got the idea . . .

  It was Alex and Yoshi and me again. This time in secret.

  We kept the transport shed unlit, using the night vision on our headsups. It was local midnight, when the fewest humans would be awake to notice our little brownout. If something went wrong—a one-in-forty chance at our current power levels—we didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, here on Tau or back in the rest of humanity. I would have kept Yoshi out of it, but he was the only MD who I could imagine being sympathetic to our little plan.

  Alex stepped up to the tube controls, checking the connection strength, and nodded to me. I could see her fingers crossed in the grainy green of my headsup.

  “Night vision off, unless you want to go blind,” I said. My accomplices, the tube, and shed disappeared into blackness.

  “Three, two . . . ” Alex said softly.

  The tube glowed, and suddenly everything was as white as a fresh snowfall at noon. I heard a shout of surprise somewhere else in the camp as we leeched every drop of juice. On Earth, whole cities must have flickered.

  The light sputtered, then dropped off into blackness again.

  I switched my headsup back on and blinked until the green shapes became recognizable.

  “Alex, you don’t have to look.”

  “Not a problem, sir.”

  “Do I?” Yoshi asked.

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  I saw Yoshi’s headsup flicker to life as he stepped forward toward the transport. I popped the clean-seals and was surprised by the absence of a vacuum hiss. Of course, they’d spent the extra power to send air along this time.

  No point in waiting. I pulled the lid up hard.

  “Madre!”

  That was a good sign.

  “Madre de dios!”

  “Mr. Rodriguez?” Yoshi asked. “How do you feel?”

  “Like someone put mescal in my cornflakes, man. Do you guys do this all the time?”

  Alex and I looked at each other. This was our first hint that Sammy “La Bamba” Rodriguez had not been fully briefed on the situation.

  But at least he was alive.

  The Tau human team had a new ringer.

  After two years and four months (Earth time) in a community of
twenty-nine people isolated from the rest of the species by light-years, walking into a mess tent with a brand new human being creates something of a stir. Some don’t notice him, almost don’t see the newcomer, as if the stranger recognition centers of their brains have atrophied. Some react as they would to an invader when encountering the first unfamiliar face in years. A few immediately want to screw the guy. Most simply think they’ve lost their minds.

  Only Jenny Flagg immediately saw what was up.

  “New talent?”

  I nodded. “Get a team together, a good one. The best eight we can field, for a game at the usual time.”

  “But not the usual game, I see, sir.”

  I nodded. “And pull Hunter off whatever he’s doing right now. We’ll need an hour of warm-up to acclimate La Bamba’s arm to point-nine-five gees.”

  “You got it, sir.” She stood, scanning the mess tent for the best players, a happy smile on her face. Jenny had never stopped trying to win.

  “She’s cute,” Rodriguez said.

  I blinked. It had a been a couple of years since I’d heard a typical male response to a new female face. “Let’s talk about baseball, Mr. Rodriguez.”

  “I am here to play.”

  “You know our problem.”

  “I’ve seen video. You have trouble getting a strike-out. They keep tipping until you walk them.”

  “Right. They’ll give you the first two strikes, but after that it’s impossible.”

  “Not for La Bamba.”

  “We’ll see. Just make sure you throw soft for the first two balls. Nice, easy strikes. Might as well not give them any warning.”

  “Don’t worry, Colonel. I will win your game for you. For America. For humanity.”

  Sammy Rodriguez was a man in purgatory. Early in his brilliant career, it was thought he’d be one of the great pitchers in the history of the game. He’d been a rare unanimous selection for the Cy Young Award. Over his first three playoff series he’d managed an ERA of less than one, and was one of the few modern pitchers who regularly went nine innings. He’d come within a walk of a perfect game three times. The guy could even swing a bat. He had an average of .274, the best of any pitcher in the National League. On a planet of amateurs, he was Babe Ruth squared.

  He also had an addiction. The man liked to gamble. If only he’d kept it to the horses, the slots, the Super Bowl—hell, anything but baseball—he’d be in Tampa right now instead of seven light-years from the nearest beach. But for the moment, he was banned for life from the game he loved, an exile odious enough that he had risked a quite possibly fatal ride down a quantum tube to get one more crack at immortality. And, of course, redemption of a very lucrative kind.

  NASA and Halihunt loved this narrative. Immigrant laborer embraced and enriched by his new country, falls from grace due to tragic character flaw, and rebuilds his life on the new frontier. The story was all set up and ready to go. They had been working the U.S. media around to the angle that we were the underdogs now, playing to win against a superhuman foe whose idea of baseball was pernicious and un-American and, frankly, not baseball at all. But La Bamba had come here to save us—in secret even, wanting no credit (and in case he’d turned to mush in the tube)—and to save baseball itself.

  If the Taus realized we had a newcomer, they didn’t show it.

  Sammy bounded out to the mound with that walk we’d all had two years before, not quite toned down for the low gravity yet. NASA had been training him with a specially designed, taxpayer-funded, ninety-five-percent-weight ball for a couple of weeks, so after a few perfect deliveries to Hunter, I’d decided to save his arm for the game. The two of them had spent the rest of the morning on a new set of signs. I wanted every advantage in this first encounter. It was possible the Tau would adapt to his pitching after a few games and prove once and for all that they could beat any team of humans, professional or amateur, at any time. But at least we’d have this one win after our string of fifty-three losses.

  I was pleased when the first Tau stepped up to the plate, the one with reddish dots who’d started our losing streak in the first place. She would be the one to suffer maximum shock when La Bamba opened up his big guns.

  “Play ball,” Chirac yelled, and even the humans in the never-reached outfield looked ready to go.

  Rodriguez followed my advice and sent the first two in soft and easy. The Tau let them by, giving up the strikes.

  La Bamba, it must be said, had a sense of drama. He allowed himself a long warm-up for the third pitch, checking the bases as if they were loaded, squinting at Hunter’s sign although we’d already agreed on a screwball for this pitch.

  When he let fly, it was spectacular. I’d never watched a major-league pitcher from dugout range before. The ball screamed toward the plate, looking to go inside. The Tau had picked up its hind feet, ready to step back for a ball, when it broke back to the right and down, smacking into Hunter’s glove in the middle of the strike zone.

  “Strike three, you’re out!” Chirac cried.

  The Tau had struck out looking.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but the creature seemed a bit stunned as it headed back toward the alien dugout. Except for when the Taus declared after ten runs, that particular player had never gotten out in her career.

  “Builds character,” I said to myself.

  La Bamba worked his magic on the next two aliens in short order. They managed a couple of pokes to send the ball foul, but they weren’t ready for his speed and breadth of repertoire. After years as the best pitcher on the planet, I had forgotten how mediocre I really was. Probably, that was for the best. I’d done very little to prepare our alien friends for what a real human pitcher could do.

  For our ups, we led off with Rodriguez, and he managed a credible double off the third pitch. From second, he caught my eye and nodded his head, showing some respect. The Tau were fine pitchers; they simply were no more prepared for a pro batter than they had been for a pro pitcher.

  The rest of the human team rose to the occasion, lifting their offensive game so that La Bamba, then Hunter and Alex could score in the first. Rodriguez ploughed through the Tau order for the next two innings without breaking a sweat, and by the time the fourth rolled around, we were up eight to zero.

  And the reddish-spotted Tau was back.

  After the first two strikes, she shifted her stance, adjusting the bat to bring it higher. He threw her a standard curve next, which she managed to glance past Hunter. She fended off the next two pitches as well.

  An epic battle ensued. Rodriguez worked her from every conceivable angle, attacking the strike zone with knuckle balls and screws and straight-up speed. But she deftly kept her at-bat alive.

  I was so mesmerized by the contest that I almost missed Alex waving at me from third. She was making our sign for intentional walk.

  I passed it to Hunter, who signaled La Bamba. The man waved it off at first, but after a few more foul tips he relented, letting the Tau on base. As long as it was just this one, we could afford it, and we had to keep Rodriguez’s arm in the game.

  We got out of that inning okay, but the Taus were gradually adapting.

  They scored their first run in the seventh. Our ringer had intentionally walked a couple of Taus who were proving troublesome, and had been whittled down by a third. With two outs, they were back at the top of the order, and Redspots managed to force in a run before Rodriguez sealed the inning.

  By that time, the human team had scored twenty-three, the most runs our dispirited crew had put together in ages. But it was clear the Taus were getting better with every inning, analyzing the new pitches coming their way, and full counts were the norm as they wore down La Bamba’s arm with long and exhausting at-bats.

  I sighed. If only this had been a seven-inning game. But the geniuses at NASA had demanded a regulation nine.

  In the eighth, the Tau really started to score. The effortless look had returned to their batting, and Hunter was panting from chasing the
foul tips that soared over his head. La Bamba pitched heroically, pain distorting his face with every throw, but they chipped away at our lead. With the bases loaded he dispatched their pitcher, battled through the order for one more out, then got the pitcher again. Seven runs, for a total of eight.

  Rodriguez came back to our dugout, all the low-gravity bounce gone from his step, and clutched an ice pack to his right arm.

  “How’re you doing?”

  He looked at me sullenly. “We will win, Coach. Don’t worry.”

  Alex trotted over from third. “Colonel, we’ve got twenty-three runs, so we’ve got to get seven more.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If Sammy keeps fighting every batter, he’s going to lose his arm for good. But he can still get their pitcher. Hell, even you get her every once in a while.”

  I let that pass. Yesterday I’d been the best pitcher on the planet. How quickly they forget.

  Alex continued. “If Rodriguez walks the other eight players, that’s three times through the full order. Twenty-four batters on base, minus three to load: twenty-one runs. That’ll give them twenty-nine total. If we can haul thirty runs, we win. And we’ve got two more ups. We can do it!”

  I nodded, but seven runs in two innings was a tall order.

  “Let’s see how this one goes.”

  We almost sealed it in the bottom of the eighth. Alex passed the word that we needed more runs, and we managed to load the bases. La Bamba, gritting his teeth in pain, drove in all three of them, then Alex sent him home. After a couple of strike-outs, we had the bases loaded again.

  But Jenny Flagg let us down. The Tau sent her a meat pitch, and she dropped her usual Texas-leaguer into the close outfield. The Tau were already in motion, though, coming in to make the catch.

  She staggered to a stop on the way to first, hands over her face.

  I shook my head. You had to admit the Tau had learned a lot from us.

  “Don’t worry, Jenny,” I shouted. “We’ve got one more inning.”

  I told Rodriguez the plan.

  “Eight intentional walks in a row? Madre!”

  “Don’t fight them, Sammy. Save your arm for the pitcher. She’s the weak link.”