“Are you serious?” Laura asks.

We’re down in the armory. I can’t remember getting here. I do remember the screams from the observation deck when I walked away. I feel sorry for Bucky, I really do. But he did it to himself. Besides, it’s not like the injury is permanent. Breaking ankles and kneecaps is just for old time’s sake, a throwback to the old days. A bit of excruciating pain, sure, but modern medicine can fix all of that in twenty minutes.

“Yep,” I say, leaning up against my armor. It feels good. Something stable. “He cursed me out while the Bookie was working on him. He kept at until there weren’t any more words, just screaming. And you know what? Bucky can scream really loud.”

Laura sits down next to me and takes my hand. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

“You know the most annoying part? I should have known better. I should have picked somebody else.”

“There was no way you could have known.”

“Sure there was. I could’ve checked up on his story. Gotten his medical records. Then I would’ve known from the start.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Don’t beat yourself up over what you didn’t do. You can’t change it. You can only move forward.”

I smile. “Sometimes that’s the hardest part.”

“Not really. Easy as putting one foot in front of the other. A child can do it. Who are you going to get to replace Bucky?”

I close my eyes. Squeeze them shut, more like. Maybe this is all a dream, and everything will be all right when I open them again. Nope, still shitty. “I have no idea,” I say. “Bucky’s been trying to fuck us all season, and we’ve been winning anyway. Maybe we don’t need one.”

“You know as well as I do that that's not true.”

“So where am I supposed to find coordinator this late in the season?”

“You could always ask Jager. I’m sure he knows somebody.”

I groan. “I really don't need to be asking him for anything else. I'm not sure I want to know what I owe him in exchange for shutting down Hysis.”

“Rick, it’s not just about finding the right guy. It's about finding the right guy for these players. They're going to be pissed when they find out that Bucky was trying to throw games. They’ll want somebody they can trust to not fuck them over.”

“And you think Jager is the only guy that can provide somebody like that?”

“You know I'm right, Rick.”

“Yeah, I just hate to ask him.”

Laura shrugs. “Why ask?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you hold a late season tryout? That way–”

I sit straight up. “Brilliant!” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re fucking brilliant!”

“What? What did I say?”

I swear, sometimes I think that Laura was placed in the universe to get me out of jams. It’s not like she’s the one extracting me from some idiot situation I invariably put myself in, but she appears at the right moment, or says the right thing, or looks at me in the right way, and I change course. I know exactly what to do to replace Bucky.

Replace Bucky. The words are hard to think. But he betrayed me. Not once, not twice, but every time we played a game. The non-asshole part of me wants to believe his reasons were just, but the angry voices in my head drown out the compassionate ones. I don’t want to be compassionate right now. I don’t want to try to understand him, to put myself in his shoes and see the world from his perspective. Bucky’s perspective is bullshit. You don’t sell out friends to settle debts.

I toggle my comlink. “Maurice!” I shout. I’m so excited that I forget to have the mental conversation and go the old fashioned way.

Maurice responds right away, as always, but he sounds peevish. Like I’d woken him up or something. “Mr. Stern, why do you sound like you’re underwater? You’re not actually talking out loud, are you?”

“We’re having tryouts!” I say. Still shouting.

“For what? We already have a –“

“For a new defensive coordinator. I fired Bucky.”

“You what? But I—”

“Doesn’t matter! We need a new one. We’re going to have tryouts. I need you to put it together.”

“Very well, Mr. Stern. When do you want to have these tryouts?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tommo – what? What do you mean, tomorrow morning?”

“Well, we’ve got a game in four days, and I need a couple days breaking the new guy in. So, yeah, tomorrow morning. Unless I’m asking too much of you.”

“Did I say that?” Maurice snaps. “Did you hear me say that, Mr. Stern?”

“Put the word out to the pirate clans that we’re looking, and that tryouts are tomorrow. Got all that?”

“Mr. Stern, I have dictated the Galactic President’s inauguration speech from memory. At gunpoint. I believe I can remember your sixteen word sentence.” I stop to count. Maurice sniffs. “I can hear you counting in your head, Mr. Stern. Sixteen words, I assure you. Was there anything else?”

“No. So I’ll let you get to it then! Bye!”

I disconnect and turn back to Laura. “Well, that’s all set. You have any plans this afternoon?”

She stands up and stretches. “I’ve got three suits I need to tear down, why?”

I pinch her ass. She yelps and swats at me. “Ow! Rick, you do that again and I’m going to-ow! What the fuck did I just – ow! Don’t you dare try to tickle meeeeeee!”

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The old trick still works. Three pinches, a tickle torture and a small chase around the room. I still have the keys to Laura’s safe.

***

The following morning, I’m expecting another round of craziness in the main lobby on the Hercules. The last time I was here for tryouts, it was full of pirates. It was mayhem, like watching a pitched battle in, on and around a small-scale orgy, gambling den, and over five full-contact football games – all at once. This isn’t that. I’m taken aback at how quiet it is now. Sure, I’d only given a day’s warning, but pirates are notorious for getting all riled up on short notice. It’s kind of their thing.

The room is practically empty. I’m sure that I’d get an echo if I raised my voice. At the far end of the lobby is a man, sitting on the floor. He’s leaning up against the wall with his eyes closed. There’s a backpack next to his feet, a brown leather thing as worn and wrinkled as its owner. It moves, though, like there’s something sleeping inside of it.

“I’m officially creeped out,” I mutter to myself.

The man’s eyes snap open. I can tell with my enhanced vision that he’s looking right at me. Into my eyes. His stare is as the twitching thing in his backpack. The man plants his feet and walks himself up the wall. He never blinks.

The backpack’s top flips open. Something orange skitters out of it and up the man’s pant leg. It wriggles up and behind him and I see something bulge around his stomach and then it all smooths out. The man never moves.

I’m happy I’m standing over here and he’s all the way over there. If that had happened any closer, I would have backed up, closed the door, and then blasted everything out the airlock.

“That would be extremely uncomfortable,” the man says.

Whoa. The guy is telepathic.

“I am not,” the man says, “but my friend is. I see glimpses of your thoughts through her.”

“Her?”

My name is Sysianti, a voice says in my head. Decidedly female. Clipped diction. Disapproving. I know all about you, Mr. Stern, so yes, I disapprove. So much talent wasted on an infantile sport. Mindless entertainment.

“Who are you?” I ask, immediately alarmed that a telepath has access to my head. “Wait, are you here for the defensive coordinator position?”

I am to serve in that capacity, yes. To pay a debt. A poor exchange, but I will not argue the terms when they are so firmly in my favor.

“Debt? To whom?”

The man turns his head slightly, as if listening to a small whisper. “She says that’s none of your business.”

“How come she talks to me,” I ask, “and then sometimes she talks through you? No, back up a second. Is she the orange thing plastered all over your chest? I can see the hairs peeking out of your shirt.”

The faint whiskers disappears as the creature shifts position.

“Yep,” the man says. “My name’s Darden, by the way. I’m Sysianti’s kasha’re. I carry her from place to place. In return, she allows me to live without pain, without disease, and I get to see the universe from the vantage point of three hundred extra years. Nice exchange, if you ask me.”

“How’s the sex?”

Darden snorts. “It’s not like that. Sysianti’s kind don’t reproduce that way, anyway.”

“What kind is she, exactly?”

I am of the Neeci, she says.

I shrug. “Never heard of you. And you know, that’s really obnoxious. I’m having a conversation with your golf cart here, and you keep barging in.”

What is a golf cart?

I picture it in my head. “That’s a golf cart.”

Are you being offensive on purpose?

“Nope. It’s a gift. So, what’s your telepathic range?”

Suitable for a spaceball game, I assure you.

“Do you go both ways?” I ask.

I have sustained two-way communication with over eight hundred separate sentient beings at once, Sysianti said, and yes, I caught your feeble attempt at innuendo. And no, I was not amused.

“This isn’t going to be very fun if you don’t relax,” I tell her.

I am not here for fun. I am here to pay a debt.

“Nothing says you have to be so uptight when doing it, though.”

Darden looks at me for a long moment. He says in a dry tone, “I’m not so sure you’d be thrilled to know what she thinks is fun.”

I decide to agree with him. “How come I’ve never heard of you before? Seems like a powerful telepathic being like you would warrant top billing on the ‘Net.”

“Self-preservation,” Darden says. “Would you really advertise your existence if you could delve the minds of everyone nearby? People in power do not like telepaths. Anonymity is safer.”

“Makes sense,” I say. “What kind of experience do you have coaching?”

Ever wonder why the Andosians win so much?

“Because they’re telepathic.”

No. They win because I’m telepathic.

“Andosians aren’t telepathic?”

They’re more empathic than telepathic. They feel what others feel, but they cannot achieve a true mind bond.

“So, you used to work with the Andosian team?”

I still do.

“What?”

Darden stretches. “She’s in more than one place at the same time,” he says. “Lots of places. Every so often, a Neeci splits in half, creating a copy. They’re all the same mind, different bodies. Sysianti and her kasha’re are all over the universe.”

“How many?”

“Numerous.”

My brain hurts just thinking about it. “Wait, so all Neeci are Sysianti?”

“No, sometimes Sysianti disconnects from a body, and if that body splits while they’re disconnected, then that new Neeci becomes its own being. I think it has something to do with the exponential increase in collective experiences. At some point it’s too difficult to re-forge the mind bond.”

“Ok. That makes sense, sort of.” I really have no idea but what to sound smart. “But what I don’t get is how you can work for the Andosian team and ours at the same time. Seems like a major conflict of interest.”

“If you agree to let her work for you, she’ll split from that node.”

“Just like that?” I ask. “How will I know that she’s actually done it?”

You have my word.

“And I’m supposed to just believe that?”

“Neeci can’t break their word,” Darden says. “Once a Neeci commits, there’s no turning back. It’s a physical and mental thing for them. If a Neeci breaks their word, the mind bond between their nodes shatter. All at once. It would be like if all of your limbs lost their connection to each other at the same time.”

“So she dies.”

“Not exactly, but the comparison fits. It’s a trauma every Neeci will fight to avoid.”

I consider it. This is Jager’s doing, I’m sure of it. He wants to win just as much as I do, and he made sure only one person showed up. It’s either this weird orange thing or another long search for a defensive coordinator. I don’t have that kind of time. Besides, if this is all true, I’m about to hire the person – or entity – responsible for the nearly unbeatable Andosians. I wonder what the League would say about this. Feels like cheating.

“It’s true,” Darden says.

“Wait, what’s true?” I demand. “That you work for the Andosians, or that this is cheating?”

“The first part.”

“Great. And I’d appreciate it you didn’t make it sound like you’re reading my mind all the time.”

“I’m not, but she is.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to come right out and say it.”

This is more efficient, Sysianti says.

I groan again. “You’ll get along great with Maurice. Does the League know about you?”

“No,” Darden says. “Use my name for the position.”

“Do you have any qualifications to be a defensive coordinator?” I ask.

“Do I need them?”

“We’re lucky that Chippers said I could run the team my way. Hiring hobos usually gets a coach fired.“ A grin splits my face. “This is great, though. Bucky’s going to think I hired some rando to replace him. Do I have your word you’ll split from the other node?”

I give it freely.

“Fine. You’re hired. If you need anything, talk to Maurice.”

“We’ve already spoken with your supervisor,” Darden says, “and arrangements have been made for our needs.”

“Supervisor? No, you’ve got it backwards. Maurice works for me.”

“He arranges all of your appointments?”

“Yes.”

“Tells you where to go, who to speak to, what to say?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“He instructs you on what to wear, what to eat, who you can shake hands with, and who you must avoid touching at all costs to avoid assassination?”

“Yeah, but hold on for a minute—”

“I believe you work for Maurice, Mr. Stern,” Darden says.

He’s smiling now. I’m not sure I like it.

“That is true,” Maurice says, coming up beside me, “but I would prefer it if you did not tell that to my clients. It makes it easier on everybody if they think that they are the ones in charge.”

I open my mouth to retort, but no words come out. No thoughts bubble up to suppress this terrible idea. Me, work for Maurice? Absurd.

“Perhaps it would be better if you found something to occupy yourself,” Maurice advises me. “No sense in worrying about things you cannot change, sir.”

“Right. That’s a good idea. What’s next for me on my schedule?”

“You have six minutes to spare before your next meeting, which is with the Shipping Guild.”

“Again?” I ask. “I hate talking to them. What do they want now?”

“Everything and more, sir, as always.”

“Wait, that’s not what they’re going to talk to me about, though, is it?”

“Of course not, sir. That was a joke.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell with you.”