Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  "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 signalled 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 ok
ay, 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."

  He shook his head, pulled down his filter mask and spat. "That is no way to win." He walked to the mound without another word.

  He fought the first batter in the order, but the red-spotted Tau took him apart, whacking his fastball around like a piñata on a short string. Sammy's arm was faltering, weakening with every pitch, and the pain finally convinced him that Alex's plan was the only way. For the next seven batters, Hunter stood off to the side to catch underhanded throws, and we watched the Taus' score climb to thirteen. Then La Bamba plugged away at the pitcher, taking her down with four exquisite pitches. Eight walks later, they had twenty-one. For a second out, Rodriguez's third pitch caught the pitcher looking with a crafty knuckle ball that dropped like a rock into the strike zone.

  He walked eight more, until they had twenty-nine, then motioned Hunter back to the plate.

  It was a fierce battle, fifteen pitches of trench warfare with a full count and bases loaded, eight more runs looming if La Bamba let the pitcher on base, but he finally managed to find that third strike. She went swinging.

  Bottom of the ninth, and we were two runs behind. And we did not want to go into extra innings.

  Yoshi batted first. He took a vicious swing at the first pitch and sent a pop fly soaring into the red sky. Three Taus converged beneath it between second and third, squeaking at each other as if telling jokes while they waited to make the catch.

  Then came Hunter. He fouled off the first, then let a strike go past, then missed a fast ball that Joe DiMaggio couldn't have connected with.

  Two up, two down.

  La Bamba was next, and we all relaxed for the moment. He would at least keep us alive. At a National League game, you usually take a piss-break when the pitcher's up, not realizing that most of them are in the top percentile of humanity. Against the still-amateur Taus, he was batting a thousand so far.

  Alex went on deck, warming up with two extra bats. I remembered with some nostalgia the days when we'd had only one Slugger, worn electrical tape around its neck to replace the grip, and nothing at stake.

  The first pitch came in, and Sammy ignored it.

  "Strike one!" Chirac proclaimed.

  He stepped back on the second pitch, scratching his ear disdainfully.

  "Strike two!"

  He moved into a bunter's crouch. When the next pitch came in, he glanced it off toward third base, well foul. He foul tipped the next one as well.

  Alex jogged over and hissed, "Is he doing what I think he's doing?"

  I nodded. "He's getting them back. Playing their own game against them."

  "Why doesn't he just wail on it?"

  He bunted another pitch foul.

  "Could be his arm. Could be his ego."

  He stepped back from the next pitch, a ball. One-fourth of a walk.

  But La Bamba's plans were subtler than we knew. Two pitches later, he hauled off and swung for real, hoping to catch us all by surprise. But the bat cracked like a rifle shot, scattering splinters from home plate to the mound. The ball bounced tepidly to first, where the baseman picked it up and stepped on the bag.

  Humanity had lost again.

  · · · · ·

  "Maybe a team entirely of pro pitchers. One for every inning."

  "No, all-star swingers to rack up a big score, with lots of relief at the end."

  "Better hope they never hear about the designated hitter rule."

  We were sitting in the mess tent—defeated players, the military, the xeno team—trying to figure what to do next. Somehow, the discussion had got around to whether any team of humans could ever beat the Taus.

  La Bamba sat with his head on the table, three ice packs strapped to his pitching arm. He kept saying, "Everything, everything."

  Alex rubbed his shoulders. "Cheer up, Sammy. You'll still be a hero for trying."

  He turned his head from side to side without lifting it from the table, as if rolling out pie crust with his face.

  "No, I lose everything! House … car …"

  I shared a look with Alex. "Rodriguez? You didn'tbet on this game, did you?"

  He was silent.

  Then I remembered that some London bookie had offered twenty-to-one that humans wouldn't beat the Tau on their own planet anytime this year. Rodriguez must have figured that his secret call-up was the fix of the century.

  "Swimming pool," he whimpered.

  "You win for humanity, huh?" I said.

  Alex shrugged and continued to rub his shoulders.

  McGill groaned, his eyes rolling up in his head. "This is a PR disaster! We bring in a pro to beat the poor defenseless aliens, and we still lose. Then it turns out our ringer was betting on the game."

  "Maybe you should just sneak me home. Like you snuck me here," Rodriguez said. "Forget this game ever happened."

  "That would be nice," I said. "But not everyone on this planet is U.S. military. We can only control the story for so long."

  Alex stopped her massage. "Wait
a second, Sammy. Did you say send you home?"

  "Yes. I want to go home now. My arm is broken."

  I swallowed. La Bamba had not in fact been fully briefed. "Rodriguez, you do know that the tube isn't up to two-way teleport yet, right? We don't have enough power for a push from this end. Nothing bigger than a speck of dust, anyway."

  "Speck of dust? What?"

  Alex leaned closer, her hands still on his shoulders. "You can't go back for six months at least, Sammy."

  "Madre!"

  · · · · ·

  Late that night, Ashley Newkirk showed up at my tent.

  "Any brilliant solutions to your sporting dilemma yet, Colonel?"

  I looked up at him through a haze of Iain Claymore's whisky.

  "Not much of a dilemma. Don't see that I have any choice one way or the other. Lose or lose does not constitute a dilemma."

  "And you were so close. Poor Mr. Rodriguez doesn't have another game in him?"

  "He's on strike. Breach of contract."

  "Ah, labor disputes. Always a messy business in sport. But surely there are choices. You could give up the game."

  I shook my head. "Make us look even worse. Besides, there's glory in losing. Must soldier on. Every country remembers the battles they lost: Bunker Hill, Pearl Harbor, Gallipoli, Damascus. 'Remember the Alamo,' we still say in Texas. No survivors that fine day, Ashley. Not a one."

  "Do you really think that today's game was a sublime and memorable defeat?"

  "Not particularly." I poured myself another drink, not offering. "All I hope is that once the oil starts flowing, everyone'll forget all about baseball. Until then, we'll just have to look bad."

  He nodded, and took a seat uninvited.

  "What if I said there was an alternative?"

  I looked up at him.

  "A way to take some of the sting out of losing. Maybe even win a few for humanity."

  I emptied the glass down my throat, then slapped it to the table. "Talk."

  He handed over a piece of paper. I took it carefully. Real paper was still something precious here on Tau. If you've ever moved a box of books, you know how heavy it can get. But we all had a notebook or two: the only place to store our private thoughts.