Darius squatted behind home plate. Normally, this was a good place for him, a comfortable place. The place he was built for, his right hand ready and his left inside the cool leather of his catcher’s mitt. But today, the searing heat of a blazing sun was like an iron on his cheekbone. Pain was flooding down the bones of his face and drove an ache through his jaw like he had just left a bad appointment with the worst dentist.
He spit the excess saliva his mouth seemed to be making into the dirt.
It had surprised him when they said they were going to operate on him and still put him into the game the next day. The team owners, “The Family Slay” as everyone liked to refer to them, had insisted he have the procedure and play against Japan. They could have put in the backup catcher, but The Family Slay wanted their expensive build in the World Youth Ball Tournament. Final game. World title.
He didn’t remember much of the surgery. A small military medical doctor, her pretty eyes glittering at him over a mask, and a turtle. He had an unexplainable memory of a turtle. A dream of looking down onto a frozen earth from outer space.
He shook his head to clear it and get his mind back into the game. He flashed his hand signal again, and the pitcher shook his head “no” right back at him, again.
Darius mumbled a curse.
Darius stared out at the pitcher’s mound. The heat, the pain in his face, and the crazy dreams from yesterday, none of them equalled the current problem he had. That problem was the pitcher, Bucky Slay. Owner’s son.
Big ol’ Buck out on the pitcher’s mound wasn’t enjoying the heat so much either. The heat, the stress, and the fatigue of pitching at this level. Darius knew that Bucky had started to touch on the ragged edge of all he was capable of. He could tell by the way his throws had changed. Bucky’s arm had just tanked. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it, so he kept insisting on throwing heaters.
Almost the end of the game, and they were in the lead. About to win the youth world championship, but Bucky had worn himself out and wouldn’t take himself out of the game. Sure, he was big, fast, and strong, and he was still throwing heat, but they were starting to come wild. Darius had started to feel it in the catch. The balls didn’t sink into his mitt and go still; instead, they kicked and spun like a wild thing, refusing to be caught.
Bucky wouldn’t shut himself down. Darius would have to do it. And he’d have to do it before the next pitches started coming really wild. He’d hit someone or throw an uncontrollable pitch. And then runs would score, and they would lose.
Darius pushed his hand through his face mask to put pressure on the bandage. Man, that hurts, he thought, then flicked Buck the hand sign again. The same signal that had just been ignored twice. Drops of blood splashed into the hot dirt off his fingertips.
To Darius, the surgery was difficult for him to properly recall. It all felt like a dream to him. But the bloody stitching and pain below his right eye, the tiny video feed floating in his vision, and the round silver drone hovering behind him told him it had all happened. Someone had even painted their matching team number on the drone, a white jersey zero with a thin red border.
Seeing the signal, Bucky shook his head “no,” leaned back, wound up, and let go with a pitch.
Darius knew the pitch was gonna be wild even before Bucky released it. The drone’s antigrav drive emitted a soft electronic whine as he stood up, and the drone moved automatically to position itself to the right of the plate.
The ball was coming fast. Oh great, Darius thought. A wild heater. Nothing more difficult to stop.
The ball started out low and then curved high over the plate. Darius winced as it struck the batter with a resounding “smack” on the helmet and careened off the top bar of the backstop.
The kid took a few staggering steps backwards, and Darius steadied him with a quick hand on his elbow.
Lucky for them, the ball was dead, so he didn’t have to worry about a run scoring. Bad luck for the batter because that hit sounded like it hurt, even with the helmet on. Bucky threw like a cannon.
Darius scanned the sky for the ball. When he couldn’t spot it, he looked to the drone feed. The drone could track multiple objects simultaneously, and it was tracking this one.
With a few steps, he put himself under the ball and easily caught it. He was glad his legs were back to normal, no numbness, just as fluid and quick as they had ever been.
He stood with the ball in his glove and glanced out at second base. Nova stood there. She winked at him. They both knew that if that pitch had been any wilder, she would have scored. She was another engineered player. A Russian designated runner hired by the Japanese this season, and extremely fast.
The seats in the stadium were packed, and the home crowd “booed” at having their batter struck.
Medical staff was making their way out to home plate to check on the batter.
More chattering from the stadium announcer over the loudspeakers. The tone of the announcer’s words had an ominous sound as the player took off his helmet.
The loudspeaker's voice changed. Darius didn’t understand Japanese, but he recognized the same uplift in tone and phrase that always preceded commercial breaks.
The umpire droid behind home plate, the big black robotic bulk, came to life and took a one-thump step backward.
A commercial flashed on the jumbo screens. A spinning drink box grew ears and transformed into a rabbit that hit a home run and jumped around the bases in a cartoon stadium.
Darius noticed Takira, the next up to bat, as he walked out to warm up. He looked like a bulldog and was oozing confidence. With Bucky so worn out, Takira was going to hit the next pitch right out of the park.
Darius handed the ball to the ump, who took it with a three-fingered hydraulic hand. He slowed as he walked past the medics. “First Bucky, then the bandage,” he thought to himself, pressing on it to try and numb the ache. He felt the same warm flow of blood against his fingertips but strode on toward the pitcher’s mound. The drone following him everywhere was taking some getting used to. The silver basketball hovered along behind him, emitting that little electronic whine.
On the jumbo screen, the commercial shrunk to the upper left corner and was replaced by a back shot of Darius’ jersey as he walked to the mound. The number eight looked like a sideways infinity symbol, and his name, “Pony,” was above it. Pony - it was the last name the old grandmother had given him. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it, but it was much better than what Bucky was about to call him.
But the game was going to come down to this. This turning point. What happened next, if the team won or lost, was up to Darius.
Fans were up and making their way to the concessions. It was looking to be a long break. That might just give me enough time to pull this off, he thought.
The drone swung out from behind him and drifted to his front. The AI that ran the drone operated it entirely. No one, not Darius, the stadium camera crew, or the team IT department, told the drone what to do. The IT department guys told him it would pretty much do its own thing. “It will just hover around and put itself where it thinks it needs to be.”
They said it took in every movement, anticipated, and moved to put itself in position. It determined what actions were important, key to the game. It made those calculations all at the same time and instantly decided what video was important to send.
But right now, this conversation was not for anyone but him and Bucky, and the drone could pick up audio along with visuals. If the screens wanted to broadcast what the drone was showing him, they could, and Darius had noticed many times when they had done just that during the game. Anything it transmitted to Darius could also be picked up by the AV staff. So he shouldered past the drone and stepped close to Bucky. The drone tried to move towards them. Darius turned back to it, and, placing his palm on it, gave it a gentle shove. It hovered back closer.
“Hey. Stay back,” he said to it. Seeming to obey, it halted and drifted away.
The back of Bucky’s glove was dark with sweat. It had been running into Bucky’s eyes, and he had been wiping it away. The sun felt even hotter out here to Darius. Bucky’s dark curly hair ran in limp wet coils from under his cap. His eyes were small and dark, set in a chiseled face over a thick neck. Bucky was no longer a kid. Hadn’t been a kid for years. He was one of those kids that needed to shave back when he was thirteen. This was his last season of youth ball, as he had aged out months ago.
“Hi, there,” Bucky said as he grinned his false grin for the cameras. “I know you wouldn’t dare come out here and lecture me on my pitching, so thanks for the nice little visit. I can assure you the weather out here is just the same as it was back there.” Bucky spat. Darius stepped back quickly enough, so the phlegm didn’t get his legs.
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Bucky closed the distance and brought his glove up in front of his mouth. “Now get your dumb ass back there and catch what I throw you, and you can also quit with the stupid lame-assed signals.” His glove thumped the front of Darius’ jersey.
To the cameras, it was a casual-looking gesture, but it had a ton of force behind it. Darius had to take a step back to keep his balance.
From a distance, it looked as if Bucky was smiling. Up close, it was the crazed grin of a lunatic, teeth clenched.
“Of course, Buck,” Darius said. He let his gaze drift around the stadium. “A long break. We got time. Nice view out here.”
He caught Nova’s gaze. Keeping her back to the second baseman, she pointed to Buck, crossed her eyes, and discretely twirled her finger.
Great, he thought. At least one other person knew his pitcher was cracking.
“I’ll talk to my folks. Next surgery you get will be us choppin’ those pesky legs off and sticking the Ump’s droid legs on you. I’ll have a remote control for ya. I’ll decide where you go. I’ll just press a button, ‘click’ and send you off the mound. I think I’ll talk to my old man tonight about it after we win this game. He’ll be in a good mood; he’ll want to reward me with a better toy than you.”
So… this conversation isn’t going well so far... he thought as he glanced past Bucky out to second base again. He’s even more wound up than I thought. Maybe Nova is really getting to him too... Bucky followed his gaze.
Nova was stretching those engineered legs, noticed them watching, stood and gave Bucky a cute wave. Darius couldn’t help but grin. Bucky caught part of the exchange.
“You got a connection on the opposing team, engin? Maybe I should report you to the gambling commission. Due diligence and all that.” Bucky’s look was cruel.
Darius flushed red. Now that was a damn good threat for someone so… dumb.
“Ya, Buck. No problem. Whatever you say. I shouldn’t be out here anyway. You’re right, I’m just greedy, taking all this sunshine away from you. But I just have one question before I go. Coach in the dugout gives me signs. I pass the signs to you. I’ve passed you four signs now. You’ve ignored every one of the coach’s pitch requests.”
“I already told you, soup for brains, the calls are weak. I’m going to finish this game with strikeouts. And now I’m going to beat Takira. Get back there and catch this next goddamned pitch. This is my team. I decide how this goes.” He spun his glove back towards home plate. “I’m not listening to the coach; the coach’s days are numbered.”
“Coach only runs the games as the planners tell him. Your folks hired the planners too, Buck.”
Bucky grinned even harder. Darius didn’t think that was possible. His grin notched one step up from crazed lunatic to mad clown. The drone tried hovering around Bucky’s shoulder, but he moved and blocked it and stepped closer to speak directly into his ear.
“And I say screw the plan.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to the bullpen. “Right now, that little piece of chemistry ass is on second...” He jammed his thumb over his shoulder at Nova. He hated all of the newly engineered augments even though his family had gotten him an augmented catcher. “The planners don’t know what goes down out here.”
Darius didn’t meet his gaze but looked out into the stands. The fans were coming back. He didn’t have much time left to save this game.
“But they do, Buck. It’s their job. They crunch numbers, run the stats, predict and forecast every possible scenario. Even right down to Nova on second and your heart rate elevated and the sun ten degrees hotter than it was supposed to be with Takira coming to bat. It all trickles down to us, here and now, our next move, like a big giant game of sliding blocks suspended over our heads; they tell us how to nudge this next falling block into place. All that planning has gone into the signal from Coach for us to walk Takira.
“I said screw it.”
“We’re still winning, Bucky. Right now, we’re winning this game. That’s all this is about. Just winning. Nothing more.”
Bucky leaned in to tower over him.
“’We’re’? What do you mean, ‘we’re’? You aren’t part of this team. You belong to me just like this glove does.” And he thumped the glove into Darius once again. “You’re here because of me. You got that, enjun? You’ll do what I say. You’re catching; I’m pitching. That’s how this works. I’ll win this game. Not ‘we,’ you piece of shit. Me. And why does it have to be like that? I’ll tell you why: because I’m bigger than this team, I’m bigger than this game and all the stupid planners. This is about next year for me and the year after. You don’t have a shot at any career. You’re just a piece of equipment bought and paid for. You’re nothing more than a really expensive catcher’s glove. And that little blonde bitch out there on second, she’s nothing but a pair of fancy cleats. I have the career.” He thumped his own chest. “I’m pro next year unless that bottle-made brain of yours has forgotten that.”
Buck rapped him in the head with his glove. It was a hard one. And Bucky was sure to flash the grin again for the cameras. Just a big joke. A brotherly tap between teammates.
The blow sent a stab of pain through Darius’ cheek that brought his fingertips up to the bandage again.
“Lookit, Buck. I’m just confused, that’s all,” he said, wincing. “You’re right. Do what you want. Strike em all out. But,” Darius said, “you walk Takira right now and you’ll be smokin’ for Yokiro. All the pressure will be on Yokiro. Walk Takira, like he’s a frickin’ joke. Then strike out their slugger Yokiro in his own stadium with a winning run on. Their slugger doesn’t want to come in and face you. You’re tearing this game apart and he thinks you’re setting him up to look bad. You listen to the bullpen and the signs I’m passing. We win this game and embarrass their slugger. They are your planners, Buck.”
Bucky paused.
Darius could almost hear the “click.” He knew he might have hooked him right there.
Buck turned and took his time to look out into the stands with his hands on his hips. The big boy is taking it, Darius thought.
Bucky turned back to Darius. “When those cameras come back on, I’m gonna strike 'em both.” His words had conviction, but the heat was gone. Trying to convince himself now. But the anger was gone. Darius had sowed just enough doubt to have him second-guessing.
Bucky wanted this. If he was the pitcher that won such a high-pressure game, it would be millions of dollars in the bank for him and lock him in for the top pro contract next season.
Bucky didn’t have long to cinch that professional career.
There were three engineered players here today. Darius, Nova, and Brock, their new relief pitcher who would be the one to come in and close this game as a win for the team. He wasn’t even an actual pitcher but a cricket bowler from Australia. To have him close would send Buck into a rage. Guys like Bucky would have a much harder time competing once they were all in the pros together. Some even thought the players like Buck without the new engineered sports augmentations wouldn’t have a chance.
So, Bucky had to get a good close on this game, but Darius knew Bucky couldn’t handle the pressure of a stolen base and both sluggers coming up in the batting order. But he wouldn’t admit it. Bucky’s pride wouldn’t let him walk twice in a row. Bucky’s pride, his selfishness, his greed, Darius thought, are NOT going to cost the team the championship.
So, it was up to Darius.
Bucky thumped his hand into his glove. “I’m telling you, my arm is still good. I can strike him.” Just a hint of worry. He even has that smell, Darius thought. He didn’t know what it was. Stress? Fear? But those few times he’d smelled it in his teammates, things hadn’t gone well for them.
“I know that,” Darius said, his tone dropping down just like Bucky. Convincing. Agreeing. “You know that. But you play Takira now with an intentional walk, you’ll be right inside Yokiro’s head then you’ll rock him. Make him look like an idiot. You’ll take him out. Head-to-head. It’s gonna be on the top of all the feeds, Bucky. It will be the highest-rated youth series finale ever.” Darius gave the most convincing nod in his life. “It’s your game, Buck. You’ve got this.”
Bucky stepped back, stopped looming, and let his gaze run around the crowd. He looked down at his glove and slammed into it a few times.
“But I could still strike them both out,” he said.
Darius nodded low towards the backstop. “Four scouts sitting right there in the stands, Buck. Show them what you’ve got. They’ve seen the signs from the bullpen too. One of them is old Roger from twenty-six. I bet these signs haven’t changed that much. I bet he’s told the other scouts sitting there with him what the game plan is. I tell you right now, Buck, you stick to it and win this game. Those good old boys will be fighting each other for the chance to sign you before this stadium clears to the parking lot.”
Darius turned and walked back to home plate, the silver basketball drifting along behind him. He gave the ump a nod, took the ball, turned, and whipped it out to Buck.
A total lie. That last had been a blatant deception, but it had been the hook he had needed. He hadn’t seen any scouts; not like they weren’t in the stands. But if Bucky felt scouts were there, watching to see how well he executed the game plan, he might actually take the bait.
Takira took a few last warm-up swings. Darius thumped his hand into his catcher’s glove and crouched. He ignored the flood of pain from the side of his face. They had a game to win. The team needed to win and he would sacrifice Bucky to do it.
Takira stepped up to the plate.
The last commercial faded to black on the jumbo screen. They were back on. Live.
Bucky had his hands down at his side, undecided. Darius thought there was still a chance he’d throw a fastball, and it could be wild, no, would be wild. He leaned forward and tensed to be ready for a wild pitch and gave that walk sign one more time. Bucky pursed his lips. The crowd got loud. Something in Japanese and then in English came over the loudspeakers.
“Here we go, folks. The medical staff has cleared the hit batter, so one on first, with a runner already on second with Takira coming to bat. If this gets out of hand, the home team could take the lead. If the strategy is to walk Takira, that will only have slugger Yokiro coming up with bases loaded.”
Come on, you big lug. Don’t lose us this game with your stupid pride, Darius whispered into the back of his catcher’s mitt.
Bucky pulled up his glove and wound up to pitch. Through the drone feed, Darius caught a magnified glimpse of Bucky’s fingers on the ball. No special. Just a throw. This drone thing is actually ok. Darius thought.
Bucky tossed away from the plate. Darius stood up, stepped right, and caught the ball.
“Foul!” The ump called.
And then it called ‘foul’ three more times as Bucky walked Takira.
“Take your base!” The synthesized voice of the ump behind Darius announced. Takira let out a disgusted grunt, flipped his bat into the dirt, and walked to first.
Darius chucked the ball to the ump, gestured to the bullpen, and walked toward the pitcher’s mound.
The look of confusion on Bucky’s face morphed quickly into one of anger.
This was the last thing Buck expected to happen now. Darius was instigating a time-out. The coach stepped up and out of the dugout, stopping the game to change the pitcher.
Coach Denny jogged out to fall in beside Darius. The coach’s belly hump-humping under his jersey. “Is he done?” he asked, and then, with both of them looking down at their feet, Coach Denny gave the answer.
“Ya, he’s done.”
Bucky stormed down off the pitcher’s mound to meet them.
“Told him to load the bases so striking out Yokiro would make him look cool. Then I figured you’d swap him with this time out. His arm is done. I can feel it in my mitt. No control left. Feels like my little sister is pitching bumble bees to me.”
“I didn’t think you engineered types could have siblings,” the coach said. Darius liked the coach. He was a good man. He cared. He knew he wasn’t just livestock to Coach Denny. The coach just treated him like another kid on his team.
“Ya. Exactly. We need Brock out here.”
“Ok, kid,” the big man said beside him. “I’ll put in the closer on your call. But it’s your death warrant. Bucky’s gonna kill ya… you probably just cost him a few mill.”
“Just protect me from his family.”
“As much as I can. All I can do, kid, is back you up. And you know I do. Winning will calm the Slay family down. It always does. And we’ll win.”
And Bucky was going to blow his nut.