A Planet for Rent

The Champions

We are the champions.

The best on Earth.

The defenders of human pride in the sporting arena.

The public knows it. They have confidence in us.

We know it because their raucous cheers rock the fuselage of our aerobus like thunderbolts when they detect us in the sky. Our vehicle, painted in the colors of Earth, descends from the high-velocity lane and heads along the wide avenue toward the stadium, gliding a few scant yards above the heads of the fervent crowd.

They worship us. We’re their idols. If we win today, we’ll be even more than that. Practically their gods.

“What a sea of people. The pilot’s going to get us killed,” grumbles Gopal, our coach, looking down through a hatch. He can’t help it. These ceremonial pre-game entrances always make him jittery. But the rest of the team, including me, really enjoy it. It’s a beautiful tradition, and what would Earth be if we gave up our traditions, too?

Our pilot is used to crowds, and he confidently drives the aerobus above the ocean of humanity. Doesn’t even glance down.

I do. The sight of thousands of faces wild with hope, thousands of hands shooting me the V for Victory, gives me strength before each game.

Today I’ll need it more than ever. This is going to be the toughest Voxl game of my life. My gateway to fame if I do well. My path to becoming a has-been, a nothing, if I fail.

I’m going to go out there and give it my all.

Everybody else on the team knows how important today is, too. Each in his own way is focused on a single idea: winning. Nobody wants to think about a loss…

Losing would mean eternal shame. Maybe the end of our careers, maybe no Voxl team would ever want to give us another contract…

Just thinking about it brings bad luck.

But no. Victory is ours. It has to be. Today, we’re not just the best Voxl players on Earth right now; we’re the best in years. We are the champions, and this might be the year.

Never before have six humans this good at Voxl played together on the same team.

Mvamba, tall and skinny as a basketball player, is kneeling in front of a miniature folding altar. Praying in his deep Bantu dialect to a tribal fetish, carved from a piece of wood as dark as his skin.

Sometimes it really does seem to help if you believe in a personal, intimate little god who watches over you, pray to a protective spirit or a guardian angel. Not even two years ago Mvamba was a regular guy driving broken-down old aerobuses around Sydney. Just one more African immigrant, left stateless after the xenos sank their whole continent in Contact times. A scout from the local team, the Black Hands, saw him throw a rock at a mugger and decided to give the kid a tryout. His career rocketed straight to the top: center forward for the Black Hands, offensive back for the Melbourne Skulls… and now, his big shot. A chance only one player in ten thousand will get: defending the colors of the whole Earth. A rookie couldn’t ask for more. Most likely, he’s giving thanks to his fetish for his good luck.

Here, watching Mvanda’s prayer with a smirk, is Arno Korvalden, the Danish defensive back. The Blond Hulk. A committed atheist and the burliest guy on the team at 412 pounds and six feet nine inches. Also the oldest hand. He was playing with the Copenhagen Berserkers back when I was still swiping credit cards in the outer ring of the Havana astroport. Sportswriters have been speculating about his retirement for some time. But the Great Dane keeps on playing, and right now he’s the best defender on the planet. Not that he cares much how Earth does; Arno is a pragmatic guy, a mercenary who only responds to the scent of money. Gopal only got him to play with us by promising him a huge bonus, which he’ll make win or lose. Anybody else and there’d be doubts about how well he’d play, but the Blond Hulk is a man of his word. And, simply put, he only knows how to give one hundred percent. Obviously he’ll do his very best.

Yukio Kawabata is here and not here. Though his body is present, the Zen Buddhist trance he’s been in for nearly an hour has probably sent his spirit back to the imperial Edo of his samurai ancestors. From the way he plays it, Voxl is obviously just a modern equivalent of Bushido for him. Yukio is an idealist through and through. He can afford that luxury; he’s rich enough already. His family owns a nice block of shares in the Planetary Tourism Agency. That’s why he doesn’t care how much he makes or whether he wins or loses. He plays well, better than anyone else; that’s his obsession. And he’s a terrific right center, with reflexes and fast legs that are the envy of lots of professionals in the League.

The League…

The League is like Mecca and Valhalla put together for any Voxl player. The League is where teams of every race meet and compete. The armored, incredibly agile insectoid grodos versus the polyps of Aldebaran, slow to move on their wide, muscular single feet, but with hundreds of whip-fast tentacles to make up for their speed. The hulking, red-carapaced Colossaurs versus the rapid, svelte Cetians.

The League means astronomical salaries, unimaginable bonuses, the ability to travel anywhere in the galaxy. And an entourage of publicists trying to get you to use their expensive, sophisticated gear. Being a player in the League is almost better than being a god.

The League is the dream of every human player. It’s only there that Colossaur, human, and polyp can play on the same side, no difference, no racism. At least in theory.

Jonathan, our veteran player, has told us the story a thousand times. He was there, at the top. But then he fell. He’s never told us how or why, and we’ve never asked him. The first rule of group life: respect everybody else’s secrets if you want to have a private life of your own. That’s the only way the team can eat, travel, sleep, and play, always together, without killing each other. Follow that rule, and you avoid the unnecessary expense of psychologists and counselors. Ignore it—and they’ll still be a useless expense, because they won’t prevent or even delay the inevitable explosion of violence.

Jonathan must be busy with his medical monitor, as he is before every game. He keeps obsessive track of his blood pressure, pulse, erythrogram, temperature, and the hormone levels in his blood. I get the impression he’s taking it too far. His expulsion from the League must have broken something inside the complex machinery of his mind. But who cares, so long as he plays as well as he does. And his fixation on keeping in top physical condition has brought about the miracle that maybe even he no longer believed possible: At the age of forty-two, he’s been given a second chance. After eight years, three of them without setting foot on a Voxl court, he’s made it. He’s the only human who’ll have played for Team Earth twice. If he doesn’t make it now, I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. And I don’t want to be around when it does.

The situation of the Slovsky twins is totally different. They’re only eighteen, and they’ve been playing practically since before they learned to walk. The sons of Konrad Slovsky, the famous coach, Jan and Lev were already famous when they were kids, before I ever touched a voxl. This is their first year as pros, and they don’t look nervous. They are two bundles of muscles and sinew trained to perfection. And as if that weren’t enough, the two of them play together with the sort of perfect coordination I’ve only seen in holovideos of Cetian clone teams.

They’re all engrossed in their holographic simulator. Sometimes I feel sorry for them. They never talk about women or holofilms or even drugs. Maybe it was their father’s fault: he’s nearly turned them into robots, superspecialized Voxl-playing machines. If something or someone stopped them from playing, it would be like keeping them from breathing. Their life is about getting better and better at it. For them, no training is ever hard enough. If Gopal ever wakes up with the unlikely idea of going a little bit easier on the team, Jan and Lev will probably protest and accuse him of treason against Earth or something like that.

Monomania seems to be an essential condition for becoming a good Voxl player. At least if you’re human.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m still me. Whether I haven’t gone crazy, sacrificing my whole life to this game…

Sometimes I also wonder what I’m doing here.

But much more often I’m amazed at myself. At how far I’ve come, starting from as far down as I did. In five years, from petty street pickpocket to high-performance athlete. From failure to triumph. From anonymity to fame.

If my mother could see me now. Her always telling me I was a bum, a lowlife criminal, no good for anything but Body Spares. And my father. I hardly remember him; lost in space with his homemade starship, trying to make an unlawful escape. Running away from poverty when I was just two…

Or María Elena, the first girl I made love with. At sixteen I was more scared than she was, and she was eleven. She was running away from boarding school to be with me. Where could she be now? Probably drowning in the swamp of social work. An orphan girl doesn’t have too many options. At least her physique should help her: she was always pretty, and you could tell she was going to have a great body. She was already practically a little woman at eleven: tall, slim, coalblack hair, cinnamon skin, jet-black eyes.

My mother, who kept telling me about my future in Body Spares, was the one who ended up there because of a fight with her neighbors. She always had a bad temper, and in the end the cheap rum had made it worse. By month two she was dead; an Auyar picked her to be his “horse.” But thanks to the measly enough death benefit I got from the Planetary Tourism Agency, I was able to buy my first set of Voxl gear, second-hand but functional. And I started playing.

It was an all or nothing bet. Like my whole life has been. An orphan boy doesn’t have too many options…

Yes, I’ve been lucky. But I need to keep on being lucky.

I kiss my cross with the image of the Virgin of Caridad del Cobre, blessed by Cardinal Manuel Castro himself. When he gave it to me a week ago, he said I was the pride of his diocese and my people’s hope.

Protect me, dear Virgin. Keep my rebounds on target and my throws perfect. Free me from all wounds and give victory to your most faithful son: me, Daniel Menéndez. You, who can do everything…

The pilot drives the aerobus languidly. We pass between two walls of floating hologram ads, grazing them. We could have flown straight through them without trouble, but that would have meant dealing with a hailstorm of complaints from the advertising companies. Not even Earth’s heroes are above commercial laws.

Past the titanic holoposters, there it is. All ours.

There’s supposedly room for three quarters of a million people in the Metacolosseum of New Rome. Six levels. Sixty gigantic holoscreens. Enough airconditioning for a mid-sized orbital city. Entrances large enough to let in small asteroids.

Today it’s full to bursting. The tickets for this game are always sold out nearly a year in advance.

We float through the main entrance, above the sea of people, dotted here and there with silvery bubbles. The force fields of the prime box seating of the richest and most paranoid xenoids. Other extraterrestrials, more confident about their tourist immunity, prefer to risk getting their data cards lifted in order to enjoy the jubilant atmosphere of the human throng. The authentic local color. The incomparable emotion of being one more person in the audience at the Voxl game of the year—Voxl, the galactic sport, as the reporters and advertisers like to say.

We set down on one of the two empty towers that lead straight to the playing court. We all look at the other tower and think the same thought: who will our opponents be this time?

We’ve faced players from every race in the simulations. We know the strong points and weaknesses of every species, their tricks, their skills… but not even the best holograph can be more than a pale reflection of reality.

As soon as the landing gear of the aerobus touches down, the hemisphere of the force field closes above us, hiding us from the public and the public from us. Gopal is the first to leap down, and half a minute later I’ve got the whole team lined up in front of him.

Our old coach stalks back and forth in front of us, his hands behind his back and a scowl on his face. He looks more like an old general than ever. Finally he stops and sighs. Here comes the speech. I think, with a cynical sense of relief, that it’ll be his last.

“Players!” he booms, and now he’s more like a drill sergeant, because no general would howl like that. His voice sounds too loud for his long, gaunt body.

“I’m not going to tell you all what you already know. I’m not going to remind you how much is riding on your victory, today, right here. I just want you to think about one thing: that we’re humans. The sons of Earth…”

“AND PROUD OF IT!” we scream, as he has taught us.

“Good.” His smile fills our hearts with something ineffable. “Do you all know what it means to be the pride of Earth? It means that, just this once, it doesn’t matter if you were playing on opposite teams in the World Championship six months ago. Or if the countries where you were born have hated each other to death since before Contact. Now we’re all one thing: humans. And they’re all xenoids. The enemy. It’s us against them. It them or us. And nothing else matters.”

He let out a deep sigh. “As for the rest, I hope you already know it after six grueling months of training. And if you haven’t learned it, may Allah help us.” We all smiled at the joke, added to break the tension.

Jonathan glances at me and winks. Meaning, “The old man says the same thing every year.” Probably true, but I can’t laugh. As team captain, it’s up to me to set an example.

“Forget defense. We’re playing to win. As the game develops I’ll be giving you instructions,” Gopal adds, and his olive Hindustani skin looks pale with exhaustion. “But don’t forget that you’ll have the last word, because…”

“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!” The battle cry fills our hearts with faith, and Gopal grins like an old gargoyle.

“Yeah… What I was about to say, though, was that you’re the sorriest troop of monkeys I’ve ever seen set foot on a Voxl court. But, sure,” he winks at us, and for a fraction of a second he’s nearly Mohamed Gopal, the Delhi Wonder, once more, the first human to play in the League, “now you’ll get your chance to prove me wrong.”

Jubilant, confident, laughing, we race off to our changing rooms. Each has his own, the door marked with his name. As always, Mvamba comes in last. He doesn’t know how to read. He waits until everyone’s there so he’ll know which is his by simple elimination. Well, some skills aren’t strictly necessary for being a good Voxl player.

And you really don’t need to be able to read in today’s world. Computers talk, so do credit cards… Even so, the African’s illiteracy is a secret between Jonathan, himself, and me. We especially promised him that Arno Korvaldsen would never find out. The Blond Hulk made such cruel fun of the Slovsky twins for not knowing who Julius Caesar was, if he ever learned about this he’d make Mvamba the target of his taunts for months. And ridicule is practically the only thing the former aerobus driver fears. He’s so shy…

It isn’t easy to live and play as a team. Not for anybody, especially not for the captain. My position brings lots of responsibility and not much credit. Everybody’s always waiting to see me make a mistake or forget something, from the coach to the substitute player. Meanwhile, the only praise I get is winning. The eighteen points on our scoreboard. It’s only then, without needing anyone to tell me, that I think I’ve really done a good job. Never perfect, though. No such thing as a perfect game in Voxl.

The second I slide the door open, the antigrav field lifts me into my room. They say that League stadiums have internal teletransport booths and that none of the spectators come out to watch live games because they all prefer to see it on holovision.

Bah. They say so many things about the League… Here on Earth, the holonet broadcasts the games, too. Sure, there are lots of details that you can appreciate better, replays from different angles, in slow motion or infrared… But it can’t be the same as being right here in the Metacolosseum, roaring at every move the teams make. If it were, why would so many xenoids be coming here instead of watching it from the comfort of their hotel rooms?

I start gearing up. The ceremony is as ancient as Voxl itself. Some two thousand years old, from the time the Centaurians started playing it on their frigid world, long before they came into contact with other intelligent races.

Gopal helps me on with each piece of the uniform, just as personal servomechs are doing in each of the other teammembers’ changing rooms. Helping the captain dress is an ancient privilege for the coach… and our last chance to exchange views.

“Careful with Mvamba’s leg, it’s still weak from his latest defracturing treatment,” he whispers while helping me pull the medical monitoring and feedback lining over my bare skin. It’s a complex device that will oversee my physical status, second by second. My metabolic stress levels and any fractures, sprains, or dislocations will be logged by the system. It will also make sure my heart doesn’t explode while the device administers the hormone and stimulant dosages I’ll need to bear up under all the stresses and strains of the game.

“You think the twins will make it through to the end of the match?” I ask, bringing up an old point of contention: for me, despite their undeniable physical conditioning, they could still use a little battle hardening.

Gopal nods confidently. But he whistles a catchy tune from Delhi that I’ve heard him hum other times when he’s nervous and doesn’t want anyone to know.

He’s not positive they’ll hold up either. I’ll keep that in mind.

Over the inner lining he places the shock-absorbing coverall that will protect me from the effects of the force field suit, the outermost layer of my armor.

“Keep an eye on Arno,” Gopal is still counseling when he begins placing the field generators on me. “Sometimes he forgets he’s on defense and he tries to win the game all by himself.”

I nod. I’ll keep an eye on Arno.

When I turn the suit on, an impenetrable force field surrounds me. A calculated diffraction effect makes it glow in the glorious pink and blue of Team Earth. And the number 1 that identifies me as captain, under the triangle logo of Planetary Transports Inc., our official sponsor. May the Virgin protect them a thousand times.

Competitive gear for a first-class Voxl player is incredibly expensive. Factor in the strict technoscientific quarantine to which Earth is subject, which means that practically every piece of gear has to be purchased from the Centaurian corporation that hold nearly exclusive manufacturing rights throughout the galaxy, plus the fact that the training equipment, special diets, and all the rest practically double those costs, and you start to realize that the guys at Planetary Transports are true patriots. That they’re highly committed. And that they’re likely to boil us alive if we don’t validate their investment by giving a good performance they can use as advertising.

For a quarter of what they’ve invested in feeding me, monitoring my medical condition, training me, and suiting me up, my father could have bought himself a first-class ticket and gotten off this planet safe and sound.

I’m going to dedicate this match to you, Papa… wherever you are. If you weren’t pulverized by an asteroid or recycled by the gypsy junk-hunters, maybe you’re still tumbling along out there, frozen for all eternity. All I know for sure is that you didn’t make it. Sorry, old man. A few more years and I would’ve taken you on a trip. Of course, you had no way of knowing that, or patience enough to wait for the miracle…

And you, Mama, forgive me… I always talked back to you, telling you that your sharp tongue and bad temper would get you sent off to Body Spares. But I hated being right.

Body Spares. Spare me.

At press conferences there’s always some reporter, dumb as a rock, or maybe just misinformed, who asks the classic question. As if it were the most baffling riddle in the world: why don’t we just use the bodies of “horses” specially designed for Voxl, instead of putting our own bodies at risk?

At first I’d go off into long explanations. Now I just look at them and smile. Idiots.

The punishing training sessions and the huge doses of synthetic hormones and drugs we subject ourselves to, at the risk of destroying our metabolisms forever, are no fun, true enough. But there’s no other way.

Completely suited up, with the suit turned on but my helmet not yet connected, I stand up and take a long look at myself in the mirror. Six foot three, 230 pounds of pure muscle. Not uniformly distributed, the way it would be on any average bodybuilder, but beautifully concentrated, almost sixty percent in the legs. Each of my thighs is thicker than my waist. My calf muscles are as big around as my head. In normal gravity I can jump five feet eleven inches straight up without even flexing my legs. I have quicker reflexes than a hysterical wildcat. I can drop a coin, roll to the floor, and catch it in my mouth before it hits. A Voxl player’s body is the most precious equipment he possesses—and the hardest to acquire.

An anatomy like this has to be carefully cultivated, sometimes for years. Years of training each reflex, each muscle, to reach perfection. I wouldn’t trade even the strongest body straight from a Body Spares booth for my own. Not even the body of a twelve-foot Colossaur. I wouldn’t know how to handle it like I do this one. It wouldn’t respond to me in the same way.

Only one in ten thousand humans has in his genes the potential to become a Voxl star. Only one in five million has what it takes to become, someday, a member of Team Earth. The champions.

Having this muscle power so concentrated in your legs can be a bit much, even a pain, in everyday life, it’s true. But we’re Voxl players because—among other things—we aren’t multimillionaires. If we could use one body to train and play in and another the rest of the time, we’d simply have no need to play. And we wouldn’t. Except Yukio, maybe.

But for now, even he doesn’t have enough money to afford the luxury of using a body that isn’t his own.

It’s true, since there’s two sides to every coin, that some unlucky players rent out their bodies to Body Spares for pretty good money. Their main clients are xenoid ex-players curious to see what the body of another species feels like. For them, it comes out pretty cheap.

But even those bodies, compared to ours, are like twentieth-century helicopters next to a late-model aerobus…

While I’m thinking all this and looking at myself in the mirror with satisfaction, Gopal places the captain’s vocoder between my teeth. Like my teammates’, mine is a combination of dental guard and laryngophone. It allows me to communicate with the rest of the team and to activate or deactivate the field shield by flicking a special switch with my tongue.

My vocoder also has two other tongue controls: one to talk with Gopal without the rest of the team overhearing us; the other, more important one lets me stop the game clock whenever one of my players gets hurt or if we want to go into a strategy huddle.

Just as I’m finished getting dressed, the warning bell rings: time to head for the court. Off the court, with my suit turned off, each step I take is as ponderous as a graceful tyrannosaur’s. I climb onto the antigrav field, which now whisks me straight to the place where we’ll meet our challenge.

We still don’t know whom we’ll be facing.

In the World Championship and in League play, you always know your opponents beforehand: their favorite formations, even the clinical histories and psychological profiles of each player. And based on all this information you draw up a strategy.

But not in this match.

The League team that will be playing us won’t find out far in advance, either. Maybe it’s only now, as their ship is already entering the suborbital trajectory for Earth’s troposphere, that their coach will be informing them of the League’s irrevocable choice: they are the ones who will be testing their strength this year against Team Earth…

We walk out onto the court.

Or, better said, we enter into it. Voxl is played inside an enclosed rectangular hall, measuring about twenty-five feet high by fifty wide by one hundred long. That is, one by two by four arns by the standard Centaurian measure.

The walls of the playing court are still transparent in both directions, so we can see the crowd going wild outside. Lots of them with their faces painted half pink, half blue, waving huge flags with Earth silhouetted against a backdrop of stars. We can make out the convulsive movements of their mouths and their necks strained from yelling. But we can’t hear them. It’s completely soundproof inside here. And when the game begins, the polarized walls will turn opaque for looking out. Nothing must distract the players of the galactic sport.

“They’re saying, ‘Go Earth, pink and blue, we’re gonna stomp all over you!’ and ‘Earth, Earth, Earth is hot, the xenoids, they ain’t diddly squat!’ ” Jonathan’s voice comes over our headphones, letting us know what’s up. He can lip read. He taught deaf kids for three years after they kicked him out of the League. A crappy job, but it beats starving to death or sinking into male social work, super-dangerous and illegal.

He chatters incessantly. Seems nervous. He’s normally quiet as the grave before a match. I’ll keep an eye on him. I don’t want him to fall to pieces right now…

Suddenly Jonathan points up, and Mvamba does the same. No need for them to say anything. It’s almost telepathic, the way we can tell the entire stadium has fallen silent.

The League players have arrived.

The ship is black. Blacker than black. So dark it gleams in the setting sun like an immense and ominous beetle. It docks at the empty tower, the visiting team’s, and the dome of the court immediately hides it from us.

Even so, we’ve had time to notice that the ship is at least ten times the size of our aerobus. They must have onboard changing rooms. As usual, the League team will come down ready to play.

I look at my men for the last time before the decisive moment. Mvamba. Arno. Yukio. Jonathan. The Slovskys. And me. Humans all. To the xenoids, we’re trash. Members of the most backward, despised, subjugated, and humiliated race in the galaxy. Relentlessly crushed in our crude primitivity by technologies so advanced they seem like magic to us. By economic powers so massive they could pay their weight in gold for every Earthling and even for the whole planet itself without much effort. By destructive forces so extreme they could wipe the entire solar system from the galaxy.

Humans, like ninety-nine percent of the audience.

For them and for us, this is our only chance for revenge. The only occasion when, once a year, we can face off with them, the proud, domineering xenoids, on nearly equal terms.

It doesn’t matter that no human team has ever managed to beat a League team in Voxl.

We are their hope, their demand for justice, their favorite sons, their thirst for revenge. We have to win.

We’re going to win. Because we are the champions.

Because we have all the anger, if not all the strength.

So, if any justice exists in the universe, victory will be ours.

We all feel the same way. Even though no words are spoken…

We see the mouths in the crowd distended in a silent scream of infinite hatred. And before turning around, we already know that behind our backs the League team is walking onto the court. We wheel about in unison to face them. To see them, to gauge them, to meet them.

My eyes and all my teammates’ eyes scrutinize them avidly. Gathering data, imagining likely strategies, weighing possible strengths and theoretical weaknesses. They must be doing the same with us.

Voxl teams are limited by weight, not by the number of players. No more than 1,263 pounds, exactly six Centaurian paks.

Our team weighs that much on the nose. Jonathan, our sub, matches the 201 suited-up pounds of Yukio, our lightest player. There’ll be six of us on the field, and we haven’t left a single gram of advantage to our opponents.

There are just four of them; they’re betting on strength.

Their defensive back is a Colossaur who’s been surgically stripped of the bony plates of his natural armor. Under his still-unplugged, transparent suit, his skin is a strange pale pink instead of reddish-brown. A real giant of his race; must weigh about 650 pounds. Clever trick, that amputation: on the field, where we all wear the same armor, the thick natural carapace of a native of Colossa would merely be dead weight. So he gains mobility and keeps 650 pounds of muscle, plus the added advantage of a very strong tail.

I seem to see the Colossaur’s tiny sunken eyes smiling as he scans our lineup. Not even the Blond Hulk, with his 412 pounds, could meet him in a direct hit, and the dirty scum feels safe. He knows we’ll have to spend most of our time trying to avoid him.

Before dismay can chill my team’s spirits, I tell them over the vocoder, “Forget about running away from the ogre. We’re going to control him. In pairs—I don’t want any heroes. You listening, Copenhagen? Anyway, he’s not much for legwork… We’ll beat him on the rebounds. Mvamba, you’ll help the Hulk check that shelled mollusk. And if he looks too big, look at him with one eye closed and he’ll seem smaller.”

Their laughter tells me everything’s going well. It’s very important, if you want to be a good captain, to toss in a joke at the right time. It raises morale.

Apart from the Colossaur, there are the Cetians. Two handsome specimens. Identical as raindrops. Like they’re clones. Worthy opponents for the Warsaw twins. If Jan and Lev manage to check them, they’ll have graduated to manhood.

The Slovskys are heftier than the slim pair of xenoids, who must not even reach two hundred pounds each. Probably their equals in coordination. But speed is another kettle of fish. The natives of Tau Ceti aren’t just as beautiful as angels, they’re also as nimble and slippery as eels, more than any other humanoid. They’re almost a match for the insectoid grodos, the fastest beings in the galaxy in spite of their armored chitin exoskeletons.

Well, at least they didn’t bring any grodos. There’s no way to remove the weight of their shells without killing them…

But what really has me worried is their fourth player. There’s a look of disgust on Gopal’s face. The twins’ jaws have dropped. With a peremptory gesture I order them to keep quiet. None of the other players seem to have recognized him.

It’s Tamon Kowalsky, the former captain of the Warsaw Hussars who led them to championships three years in a row. And the captain of Team Earth five years ago. Jan and Lev grew up in the shadow of his legend. Their father was his coach…

Now he’s a traitor. A sepoy. A turncoat mercenary who sold out to the League and is playing against his own race, against his own planet. He has a credit tattoo over his right eyebrow, which speaks for itself about the privileged economic status he’s achieved. But it’s a sure bet he’s a social pariah, a lonely outcast.

He probably has enough in his account to buy the whole Metacolosseum and maybe half of New Rome, but it doesn’t look like the money has made him happy. Behind his wild mustache, his face has the same sour look as ever—or worse.

He’s superfit. About 240 pounds, a little more than my current weight. Can I take him on? I’ve seen him play with the Hussars. He was already fast then, and nobody was better than him at picking up rebounds. Since he joined the League he must have gotten tons better. I’m going to need Yukio with me just to neutralize him.

My guys are looking curiously at Kowalsky. Dangerous.

I’d better tell them who it is.

“That’s Tamon Kowalsky, from the Hussars. Samurai, you and I will take that renegade. Banzai?” I ask. The Japanese looks at me, and his eyes blaze. Bushido does not forgive betrayal.

“Banzai. Domo arigato, Daniel-san,” he replies, half-joking. We studied Japanese together, but of course he speaks it much better. Genetic predisposition, maybe. Ever since they instituted Planetary as the common language for all Earth, historical languages are just a hobby for a few nostalgics.

The bell rings and we approach our opponents to give the traditional Centaurian greeting: the slightest of contacts between the tips of our fingers, our arms held out straight. A paranoid race, those Centaurians, I always think at these moments.

Returning, we energize our suits while the polarized transparent walls go opaque to hide us from the audience. Gopal returns to his room, and we remain there, waiting. Watching, all our muscles taut, for the voxl to materialize.

These seconds drag by like centuries.

The voxl is not a ball but a spherical concentration of force fields. It has mass, though not much, and it bounces off the walls… But that’s where any comparison with a basketball ends.

There are two very curious characteristics of the way it interacts with the force fields of the six court surfaces. The first is that it gains speed instead of losing momentum every time it bounces. As if the walls had an elasticity coefficient greater than one. It takes just five or six rebounds for the voxl to move at such a high velocity that not even our hypertrained reflexes can really follow it.

The second peculiarity is that, like all force fields, it is extremely slippery. Which means that the angle of its bounce will be almost entirely unpredictable. Even when it strikes perpendicular to the wall, ceiling, or floor, you can bet the voxl will almost always shoot off at an angle of at least five or ten degrees of deviation—and at a higher speed.

The only things that slow the voxl down (and not by much) are the force fields of our suits, which have the opposite polarity. But it is so slick that it doesn’t make much sense to try to catch it directly. It’s impossible to hold; all that will happen is that it will fly off slowly in the direction you least want it to go.

Batting it produces similar effects. You might as well wrap it up with a bow and hand it to the opposing team: it will tumble off in any direction at all, the more slowly the harder you hit it.

The surest way to control this willful object is to use soft, almost tender strokes to change its direction and velocity. With lots of practice and at least as much good luck, you can almost get it to go where you want.

As if all this didn’t make Voxl difficult enough, our suits also pick up velocity when they bounce against floors, walls, and ceilings, though not as terribly quickly as the ungraspable voxl. Largely because at the outset of the game, the gravity in the court is turned down to 0.67 g, the normal value for Centaurians, and that slows the action down a bit.

You can see why one journalist said that a Voxl match, especially a match played by novices, looks a lot like a madman’s notion of how planets move through the solar system.

The scoring system isn’t very rational, either, at first glance. The match ends when one team accumulates eighteen points. But the points don’t accumulate one at a time. No, that would have been way too easy and too boring for the sadistic Centaurians.

The first goal, by either team, is worth six points. The second and third are five each. Fourth, fifth, and sixth, four points. The seventh and eighth goals are worth three. After that, if neither team has won yet, the remaining goals are worth one point each, with a win requiring a two-point margin.

Games rarely go into single points. The system is conceived so that the stronger team, the one that can prove its superiority and dominate the first four goals, will leave the other team on the field in the shortest time possible. Or, as they used to say where I come from, “Adiós, Lolita de mi vida!”

Nor is it very easy to score a goal. The Mayas may have thought that it was nearly impossible to propel the rubber ball on their tlachtli, using only their knees, hips, and elbows, through the high stone hoop barely wider than the ball itself, but if they’d seen Voxl they would have thought their game was child’s play.

There are only a handful of rules. You can touch the voxl with any part of your body, but there is no hoop or goal posts or anything of the sort. You make a goal by sending the voxl on a triple rebound between two opposite walls (including floor and ceiling) without any interference from the opposing side after the last touch from the player who sets it in motion.

And doing that, again, is anything but easy.

When you also take into account the fact that the concept of fouling or rough play doesn’t exist in Voxl, you’ll have a better understanding of the true purpose of the forcefield armor suits. First and foremost, they keep the players’ backbones from being shattered into a thousand pieces half a minute into the match. The suits have the curious and highly useful property of possessing a large moment of inertia. In addition to their tendency to act like a compact mass whenever hit by an external impact. That is, when a 650-pound Colossaur falls on top of you going a hundred miles an hour, you won’t be inexorably pulverized; instead, you will “merely” be sent flying slowly in the opposite direction…

Even so, injuries happen all the time. And that’s where the sub comes in, to take the place of the wounded guy while the medical monitor fixes his sprain, dislocation, or broken bone with its orthopedic machinery, making him good as new with a nice dose of custom drugs and regenerative synthetic hormones.

The bell rings again. It’s coming. Any moment now…

There it is!

The size of a human head and tinted a vivid green, the voxl materializes against the immaculate white of the court. The League team uniforms are magenta blurs, racing to capture it. We’re bolts of pink-and-blue lightning, out to stop them. Bursts of color, putting the spectators’ visual agility to the test as they try to decipher the tangled web of our nearly supersonic movements.

Mvamba picks up speed by bouncing off the Great Dane’s stomach. Kowalsky and the two Cetians use the Colossaur’s huge shoulders to do the same. The Slovsky twins flank the walls. Yukio bounces off of me, and I set off spinning across the floor almost frictionlessly, aiming to sweep opponents aside and intercept the voxl.

The Colossaur smashes into Mvamba, rolls over him, and keeps going. Mvamba is swept aside like a feather, spinning erratically. Arno tries to cut off the ogre from Colossa, but is unable to contain him. Bad. Oh, better: the Slovsky twins run into the Cetian clones and dominate them. Yukio gains control, and the first bounce is ours…

But Kowalsky jumps and avoids my sweep. He goes after Yukio, runs into him, uses the momentum to get off the ground. Very bad. He reaches the voxl after its second bounce and sends it sideways. One bounce, two… One of the Slovskys (I can never tell them apart) intercepts and dominates it. Our bounces. One, two,… The Colossaur steps in. Arno tries to stop him, but a half turn and a twist neutralize him, and the third bounce is ruined. He’s strong, this Colossa kid.

Now he’s dominating. One, two… I’ll stop this…

But here comes Tamon Kowalsky, slipping between Yukio and me and separating us. Very talented… Three.

They’re good, they’re the best damned players I’ve ever met. I call time and coach my players.

“Now it’s their serve. Dangerous,” I warn them over the audio system. “Arno, you underestimated the Colossaur. You’re no match for his strength, one on one. Yukio and Mvamba, take care of that ogre. Play him for speed. And you, Great Dane, neutralize that renegade. As if your life depended on it, Korvaldsen. Twins, good play, guys—keep doing that, but don’t get cocky. Those clones are real treacherous.”

Voxl on the visitors’ side. It touches the floor, shoots off. One of the Cetians controls it, a Slovsky intercepts. But doesn’t dominate, lets it get away. The Colossaur, confused by Yukio and Mvamba. Arno corrals Kowalsky against the ceiling. Here’s my chance.

I jump in and capture it. Dominate it, and here goes the bounce: one, two… My guards forgot about the Colossaur’s tail. It flicks me aside with a skillful backslap and I mess up my own goal.

Now it’s a Cetian with the voxl. Kowalsky blocks me, but the Slovskys jump in. One bounce…. The twins are fast, they snatch it before the second rebound.

They block the Colossaur’s back and pass it to Yukio, who makes a breakaway. He’s our lightest player, our swiftest. One, two, thr… Kowalsky blocks it at the last second, goes into a secret pass, and now the Colossaur has it. He’s too slow, he’ll have to pass it to one of the others. Arno?

The Blond Hulk gets there on time, sets his weight and inertia against the giant xenoid’s, and spoils his pass. Voxl out of control. Jan Slovsky traps it at low velocity, bounces against the ceiling. He’s magnificent. How did he capture it?

I stop one of the Cetians. This is going well. The Slovskys: one, two, thr… Kowalsky, again! The worst thing is, the twins are following the same playbook their father created for that renegade when he was captain of the Hussars. That won’t work.

Now he rebounds, evading Mvamba. This Tamon is a thorn in my side. Lev Slovsky joins in, his brother supporting him from behind: the renegade can’t escape the pair of them. They’re like one mind in two bodies… Shit, he tricked them! He wasn’t trying for a goal. He passes to a Cetian who’s not guarded. I try to get there, but… Floor, ceiling… Yeah, I have time…

Ohhh… The Colossaur hurls Mvamba, blocking my way. Floor again: that’s three. Hell and damnation.

I call time again.

“Captain, I suggest you switch tactics.” Gopal’s voice is cold. He only calls me “captain” when he thinks I’m not doing it right. But what more does he want? “Be creative: they’re expecting twins against clones and for you to go for the goal. Kowalsky is the real danger; have the Slovskys stop him, and leave the clones to the African and the samurai. Your skill against the Colossaur’s brute strength, and that leaves Arno free to go for the triple rebound. He can do it.”

“We’ll see,” I reply, a little skeptical. It’s a risky formation, but it might work. I’m not sure I can handle the Colossaur. Nearly three times my weight, and besides, that tail… But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. End of time out.

There’s the voxl, on their side. They head out, intending to hold to the strategy that’s already given them an eleven-point lead. They hesitate for an instant when they notice our changed lineup. What were you expecting, weirdos? Humans must be the only animals who will trip over the same rock twice—but never three times.

The twins completely cancel out Kowalsky on the second rebound. Good for their morale: seeing that they can take on their idol. Mvamba and Yukio are keeping pace with the clones, the voxl is left unguarded, and the Colossaur can’t decide between the Dane and me… Perfect, he’s going for the one with more body weight.

Arno doesn’t even try to keep the voxl; he passes it to me, and the ogre pivots and comes after me. He’s not going to have enough time. Kowalsky tries desperately to get out the trap. But the Slovskys have learned their lessons well; they’re impenetrable.

Sheesh, this Colossaur is fast for his size. He’s almost on top of me already. Now, the surprise: when the magenta mound reaches me, I pass to Arno. Who’s totally free. The Colossaur is on top of me… I curl into a ball to protect myself, while I glimpse Arno out of the corner of my eye controlling handily. This is going to be a rude awakening.

One, two… pain. The impact twists my back, something seems to break. I scream. Darkness. And from far away, over my headphones, my team shouts victory.

Black, everything black and hot.

“That was a brave play. Even suicidal, I’d say. Like trying to stop a charging bison. You were lucky to get out of there alive,” Gopal’s voice comes across the void.

He’s proud of me, old man…

I emerge from unconsciousness for good when he claps me on the shoulder. The electrodes of the medical monitor are tickling me. I can’t feel my legs, but that’s nothing new.

“Four?” I ask with a smile. My mouth feels woolly.

“Not that bad, just three broken vertebrae. I told you, you were lucky to get out alive. A couple of minutes in the defracturing machine and back into the game with you. You still have a good induced regeneration quotient. It would take Arno twice as long to recuperate—he’s really abused his body.”

“I take pretty good care,” I sigh, relieved, trying to sit up and watch the holoimage of the game that’s monopolizing the former Delhi Wonder’s attention. But I can’t manage. It hurts too much. “What are they doing now?”

“Arno’s leading them, they’re trying to do the trident,” Gopal explains, lost in thought. It isn’t so easy to take in the whole picture of the game from outside. “Don’t wriggle so much. Now you’re getting a hundred milligrams of regidrine. Daniel, that play turned out well, but we can’t repeat it. I have to protect them.” He looks away from the hologram and smiles at me. “You’re the best captain I’ve ever had. None of the others would have sacrificed like that for a goal. Facing down the Colossaur by yourself was crazy.”

“But it worked,” I smile. That’s it; it’s on his conscience, since he’s the one who suggested it to me. “And it was my decision, not your fault.”

“Obstinate as ever. The first time I saw you, I knew you were the sort who’d never stop till you made it,” he says, not listening to me. “Oh, Daniel, if the rest of the team had your heart…” He watches the holoimage and clicks his tongue, disgusted. “Look, they made them fall for the old shell trick… Mvamba still has lots to learn. Nobody’s going to keep them from letting the League score another goal.” He looks at me and sighs. “Ready, champ?”

“Let’s go,” I answer; I’m ready. I can feel my toes again.

He helps me suit up a second time. “This time, try leaving the Colossaur unguarded… If you can block his passes, all his strength won’t do him any good. Good luck, champ!” he sends me off with a pat on the back.

I return to the court at the same time the announcement comes over:

Yes, Gopal was right: once they let them form the shell, they could kiss that fourth goal goodbye.

I gather the team around me.

“Hey, let’s not let it get us down. We can do better, am I right? Gopal thinks we should leave the de-shelled giant unguarded.” Skeptical whistles. “You’re right, it’s crazy. So let’s just pretend to do it,” I crack my knuckles enthusiastically. “At the moment of truth, let’s have the twins against the Colossaur, Mvamba and Arno against the Cetians, I’ll take on Kowalsky, which leaves Yukio free to score. And, heads up, a little bird told me that if the shell worked for them last time, they’ll most likely try the cross next. That’s what the Hussars always did, remember?” Confident laughter.

That’s my team.

Like I’m a fortune-teller. They try to fake us out by starting off with the trident (copycats!), but then they form the cross. Kowalsky up the side, one of the clones up the middle, the other on the other wing, the Colossaur bringing up the rear.

Mvamba and Arno play against the Cetians, the twins pretend to be confused and leave the Colossaur behind, unguarded. Kowalsky shoots forward and here he comes, handling the voxl. He’s going to pass it, he can’t resist the temptation. Now!

The switch-up. The Slovskys stop the magenta mound practically cold; I’ll never get tired of saying it, those kids have talent. Arno squashes the ex-captain of the Hussars into a corner (I’ll have to kiss him for that steamroller move). I control one clone, Mvamba mixes it up with the other, and now Yukio has the voxl.

My samurai feints behind the Colossaur’s back (yes, he’s already cut free, a couple of two hundred-pound humans can’t hold 650 pounds of xenoid for long) and gets one bounce… Mvamba and the twins in a scrum with the giant, while I’m practically doing somersaults to block the clones. Kowalsky gets away from Arno (too slow and heavy to hold him) and rushes over, but Yukio screams “Banzai!” and wraps him in the serpent’s embrace. The voxl moves on its own, from inertia. Two… The third rebound is completed right in front of the Colossaur’s nose. Timed to the fraction of a second. I’d give half a million credits (if I had them) for his helmet to go suddenly transparent. A look of surprise, of rage, of both?

How do you like that, Gopal? In the end, we did leave him unguarded.

We scream like crazy and hug in a frenzy. The magentas look at us without moving. They must be burning with anger.

Kowalsky comes over and turns off his helmet. His broad whiskers stick sweatily to his cheeks. He smiles. No fury, all pro. “Hey, kids, chill—it’s just a game.” He comes even closer and whispers to me, “But put a move on, mestizo,” he nearly spits the insult in my ear. “Win or lose, I make more in one day than you do in a year. I’m in the League, get it? Something you can only dream of. Don’t forget: I already made it to the top.”

I don’t answer, and he turns his helmet back on.

A crude psychological trick, insulting me. Yes, I’m mestizo—my skin is the color of café con leche, I can’t deny it. In pure logic, it would be stupid of me to feel insulted by what he said. But there was such contempt in his words…

Something is burning inside me.

Want the voxl, renegade? We’ll give it to you, but good. Let’s see if the guys in the League know how to lose.

I call my team over.

“Okay, they’re asking for it. Let’s drive them crazy with the tunnel. We’ll start by pretending to lose control right away, at the serve, and throw them off guard. And we’re going to erase those six points they’re up on us. Because, what are we?” I shout this last question.

“THE CHAMPIONS!” they reply in unison.

Nothing in the universe can stop us now.

I pretend to mess up my control of the voxl and send it flying away from me at an odd angle, gaining velocity. They fall for it like fools, all chasing after it.

So Yukio easily reaches the other end of the court. And when a Cetian goes after the rebound, the line already has the field split down the middle. Arno crushes the clone, whose pass to Kowalsky goes wide. Lev Slovsky takes it, and there you have the tunnel effect: Slovsky—Mvamba—me. And Yukio, protected behind the wall of bodies, open for the goal. One, two… The Cetians crash into Jan Slovsky and me, Kowalsky tangles with Mvamba, and… What are they doing? But Arno isn’t even part of the play! The Colossaur is rushing at him full speed! Shit, no…!

“ARRGGHH!” The Blond Hulk’s scream of pain blasts through the headphones. He didn’t have time to turn off his vocoder…

The paramedics cart off Arno Korvaldsen, mercifully unconscious. His enormous back twisted into an impossible knot, his limbs convulsing. The doctor looks at me and shakes his head. He won’t get over this.

Sons of bitches, giving us the goal so they can take out our defensive back. It’s a diabolical strategy. Jonathan doesn’t have the weight it takes to be an effective substitute for the Blond Hulk. We’ll have to reconfigure the whole squad.

The Slovkys, helmets already off, look on in astonishment as they carry the Dane off the court. Apparently they believed he was simply indestructible. They’re deeply shocked—and so am I. Injuries in Voxl are as common as sweat. But ones as serious as this are pretty rare.

The magenta but unmistakably human silhouette of Kowalsky comes up to me. He turns off his helmet, smiling sarcastically.

“Poor old Dane, he hurt his widdle backsy. They shouldn’t let the elderly play with us, the best guys in the League, no matter how big they are. Sometime unfortunate accidents happen… This is Voxl, mestizo. Let’s see how well you do now without your defensive back, Latino.” He turns his helmet back on and leaves.

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything to him. Didn’t break his neck, like I’d really love to do. He plays for the League, and when the game clock is stopped, he’s as untouchable as a god. Like all xenoids.

The last time a human Voxl player responded to a Centaurian’s insults and stuck four inches of steel between his ribs, the xenoids sprayed the entire Melbourne Astrodome with mushroom gas. Only five thousand people were killed, crushed in the panic to get out, but two hundred thousand humans were condemned to a slow, horrible death, watching their lungs rot for the next ten years, until the end came. There are worse things than mere death…

And the worst part is, the Centaurian didn’t even die from the stabbing. There’s no justice in this world.

Gopal comes over, his expression inscrutable, and whispers, “It isn’t worth regenerating that body. Multiple head injuries, eight vertebrae pulverized, six broken ribs. Worst of all, brain dead. They’ll have to autoclone him—his insurance will cover the expenses. When was the last time he recorded his consciousness?”

I sigh. “Arno was a meticulous guy. Right before the match. How long will it take?” I finally ask.

“An hour, I think…” Gopal shrugs. “Mechanical wombs are getting faster all the time. And it’s been a long time since I saw anything like this…”

Yes… When you play Voxl, you know it could happen to you at any moment. At first it’s very scary, but after a while you get used to the idea. When all is said and done, if your insurance covers it, and the worst is never going to happen to you… And then, all of a sudden, it happens near you. Very near. And you realize that you’re never going to get completely over the fear of dying. Because it’s horrible. It always will be, even if the darkness only lasts for a while. Even if resurrection is guaranteed.

Arno won’t see how this game ends.

I call the team. I can see in their faces that they already know.

“An hour,” I tell them anyway. “You know already. He’ll wake up plenty of pounds lighter, he’ll have to get his new body ready all over again, more hormones, more training, special diets and all that… A Voxl player’s body doesn’t just depend on his genes. It’ll be at least half a year before he can play again. So I really want, as a gift when he wakes up, for us to be able to tell him, ‘Arno, we won. We did it for you, Great Dane.’ What do you think?”

We shout.

We are the champions.

Of course we’ll win!

Full of faith, we run to the hydromassage tank.

We’ve already reached a point no human Voxl team has gotten to in decades of matches against League players. Thirteen to fifteen. The last time a Team Earth got past the ten point mark against xenoids was twenty-six years ago, captained by the Delhi Wonder—our very own Mohamed Gopal.

All the executives of Planetary Transports Inc. must be patting themselves on the back for sponsoring us. In exchange for their large and risky investment, now they have exclusive rights to the five minutes of half-time advertising in the game of the millennium. Worth billions.

Like all the other annual Voxl matches between humans and xenoids, this one is broadcast via holovision to the five continents of Earth, to all the worlds that comprise the League, and even to those colonies that have their own orbital hyperantennas. At this moment, more than four fifths of the entire human population must be in front of their holoscreens, praying to their gods for our victory. And probably a good fifth of the entire galaxy is paying attention to the outcome of the game, though, of course, more out of curiosity than because they’re fans.

We’re going to show them that Earth is more than a mere tourist trap.

Though, without Arno, we’ll be walking a tightrope.

“Remember the Chinese box?” I ask the team while the vibrations of water massage our overexcited muscles. “It hasn’t been used in a long time… They might not be taking it into account.”

“That’s staking the whole match on a coin toss. Too risky,” Jonathan hesitated. His hands are shaking. He sure goes all or nothing. “I don’t know… If we score, it’ll only put us at sixteen. But if they stop us, counterattack, and score, we lose everything. We should be more cautious…”

“Screw cautious!” Mvamba sits bolt upright, sending water splashing everywhere. His eyes shine with the determination of youth. His ebony body, like a beautiful statue, is still trembling from the emotions of the game. “I say let’s do it!”

“Let’s do it. For the Blond Hulk,” the twins say in unison, square jaws jutted forward.

Yukio, narrowing his lips, nods in agreement.

Jonathan raises his hands, gives up, nods with them.

This is my team.

I look at them, proud. They’re as much mine as they are Gopal’s. First-class human beings. Faces of steel, pure determination. Faces like those of the agents on the Planetary Security recruitment holoposters. Earth’s soldiers. Faces like that of the stone-jawed worker whose enormous hologram is floating now over the Metacolosseum, broadcasting his message, “If you have to send a package, there’s nothing like Planetary Transports Inc. It’ll get there safe, it’ll get there today, any day.” As he says it, he crudely hugs the topheavy blonde smiling at his side, an image brimming with subliminal messages of virility and patriotism.

Except the face of this worker, and those of the Planetary Security agents, are just computer-generated forms. My team is real.

That’s the difference.

The League guys must think they’ve demoralized us by taking out Arno. Think we’ll start playing defense. Which is what we ought to do, by any logical criteria.

They can’t expect us to attack. Especially not to run a play as suicidal as the Chinese box.

Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll surprise them.

And all these years of taking synthetic steroids for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to transform my metabolism completely, of consuming stress relief drugs and neurostimulants that have driven me all but crazy, haven’t been in vain.

And all the aches on rainy days, reminders of the hundred fractures I’ve accumulated and the two autoclonings I’d prefer to forget, haven’t been in vain.

And all the time I’ve gone without having an erection that wasn’t electronically induced, without a normal girlfriend, without any friends or family other than one Voxl team or another, hasn’t been in vain.

Maybe everything will turn out okay. And then this will all have been just an investment. Risky but intelligent, in the end.

A sort of long-term deposit, so I’ll have a pile I can count on later for a secure old age without deprivation.

So I won’t end up, like so many others, joining the ranks of ruined former Voxl players. Dragging around the withered, useless remains of my oversized thighs amid moans of pain. Pining for a roof over my head and a plate of food, forced to rent out myself for a pittance to Body Spares, or falling into the underground male social work network to get by for a couple more days.

I watch Jonathan from the corner of my eye. He’s still trembling, and rightly so. He’s practically an old man, and he hardly knows how to do anything but play Voxl. If he doesn’t make it now, he’ll never get a second chance. The end of his playing career is near… terribly near.

Today he’ll be a hero or nothing. Shameful failure or total triumph. He’ll be playing the most difficult position for a welterweight like him: subbing the defensive back. I know he’ll go out there and give it his last drop of sweat, his last gram of effort.

I look at Mvamba. Calm. At his age, barely at the start of his sports career and already a member of the Team Earth that hit double digits against League players, he’ll be showered with contracts. For him, old age is still a faraway menace. And compared with the Sydney where he grew up, that inferno of violence and filth, every day of his current life is a paradise. Whatever might happen, he’s already won, and he knows it.

The fact that he still wants to bet it all on the Chinese box, risking serious injury, speaks well of the fetish worshipper. He has great heart, this African ex-aerobus driver.

But maybe at the last minute his survival instinct will make him hold back… I’ll trust him ninety percent. Not a hundred.

Yukio is inscrutable as ever. He never joins in. He belongs and doesn’t belong to the team. When we go out on the town as a group, he prefers to head off on his own. I don’t feel he’s totally mine. If he didn’t play so well, I’d distrust him. What’s a superrich shareholder in the Planetary Tourism Agency doing here, sweating blood and risking his life with the scum of the Earth that we are? Playing for playing’s sake—I don’t get it. For honor? What honor do we humans have left?

What, other than survival at all costs, does a race that has been defeated and humiliated on every front have left?

The days of samurais and warrior glory are long gone. Contact came and changed everything. Now, Yukio Kawabata, the pathetic descendent of the feudal lords of Japan, is trying to wrap his nakedness and frustration in the tattered cloth that does such a poor job of covering us: dignity.

Ha. A human Voxl player, dignified? Like a passionate Centaurian, an educated rat, or a kind grodo. Absurdities. And if Yukio believes in them, he’s a dumb idealist.

But in the long run, it’s his business. Dumb or not, something tells me I can trust him absolutely. He’s made from the same material as the kamikaze pilots in World War II. Even when they knew the Japanese Empire had lost, they flew to their deaths in the face of Yankee artillery fire, shouting “Banzai!” in their explosive-filled Zeros.

Yukio would have been one of them, if he had lived then. He won’t fail me.

And the Slovskys? I watch their faces, flushed from debating the plays they’d made. Jan and Lev, nearly indistinguishable. Their cheeks still covered with peachfuzz, not a shadow of a beard. They’re kids. And at the same time, they’re like thousand-year-old men who’ve seen it all before and have lost interest in everything. Robots specially programmed to play Voxl, that’s how they’ve chosen to appear. But, I wonder, what lies beneath?

Do they hate the tyrannical father, the coach who forced them onto the court almost before they learned to talk? Do they hate me for making them face off against their idol, Tamon Kowalsky? Or do they love me for giving them a chance to play, though on opposite sides, with the beloved captain of their Warsaw Hussars?

But beyond the game, what are they? Or is it just that they aren’t anything else? They seem happy, arguing about Voxl all the time. Breathing Voxl. Sunk knee-deep in the shit of Voxl and enjoying it more than anyone. What was that old saying my mother always told me when I was a kid?

For a man who dies doing what he likes, even death tastes like heaven.

Lies. Heaven, shit. For the Slovskys, like for all the rest of us, death and defeat are going to taste like shit.

I can count on them to the very end, too. Deep down, their supposed lack of interest in everything but the game is just a mask to hide their infinite shyness and clumsiness outside the Voxl universe. Their shame at knowing they’re just humans. They aren’t so different.

We are the champions.

The best of the best.

The salt of the Earth.

We’re going to wash away the shame of Contact. Take revenge for that xenoid humiliation on the only field where we’re almost equals.

Inside the cuboid court, it doesn’t matter how many planet-sized battleships we humans can put into orbit, or how many millions of credits we can call our own in infobanks around the galaxy.

Or does it?

Because, can’t this League team count on medical monitors a thousand times better than ours? Simulators and training systems we can’t even imagine?

Sports equality is a pipe dream.

Otherwise… why hasn’t any Team Earth ever won one of these matches?

Until today.

Today is different. I can feel it in the air. Today… who knows.

Because we are the champions.

The best sextet of humans who ever rebounded off a Voxl field.

The great human hope.

The secret weapon of revenge—closer now than ever.

The pink-and-blues and the magentas are returning to the fray.

“Let’s see how well you move now, little Latino,” is Kowalsky’s whispered insult, his idea of a greeting before he turns on his helmet.

Sure, renegade. Let’s see how you handle it. Let’s see if the cunning in your human brain is a match for all six of ours. There’s a good reason why the League team wanted at least one Homo sapiens in their lineup. The Centaurians invented the game… but we’re the most creative now. And everybody in the galaxy knows it—that’s why they record all our World Championships and study them, to steal our strategies.

Sure, Kowalsky. You’re going to see how well I move now. Let’s see if playing in the League has taught you any new tricks—or just made you forget most of what you used to know.

It’s our serve. “Chinese box,” I remind my guys over the vocoder.

There’s the voxl, red now instead of green. Second half. How long has it been since a human team saw this color in a match against League players?

Dear Virgin, do not forsake me at this decisive hour.

Yukio diverts it without letting it touch the ground. A nicely controlled play. The Cetian clones take off to catch it.

Jonathan risks a collision with their full force and stops the voxl cold before the Cetians arrive. We wait. Kowalsky hesitates, then finally sends the Colossaur after us.

Now.

I rebound off Mvamba and wrap myself around the voxl. I can’t hold it, yet it can’t get out of the cage I’ve formed with my limbs, head, and body. I’m left defenseless; now everything depends on my team.

The Colossaur reaches me and I tense up—but the Slovskys shunt him aside before he can do me any damage. Well, what happens next is useful to us. His slight contact is making me float up slowly, and I suddenly arch my back, propelling the voxl against the ceiling.

First bounce.

As if in slow motion, Jonathan reaches it and wraps around it. I join the Slovskys: we have to immobilize 650 pounds of Colossaur! Mvamba stops one Cetian and the slippery Yukio gets Kowalsky and the other Cetian entangled. Jonathan reaches the floor, still wrapped around the voxl, which he frees almost tenderly.

Second bounce.

Jonathan took a big risk by squeezing the voxl with all his strength against the wall. Now it shoots off—fortunately, in the perfect direction. Back at the ceiling. God exists, He is here with us, and He guides our voxl. Thank you, sweet Virgin.

The Colossaur makes an all-out effort to reach it, sweeping the twins aside, but I pin his tail between my back and the wall. One second, two… He’s wriggling away, he’s too strong. And there’s hardly any friction between the force fields of our suits. The magenta mound reaches out with his tridactyl hand and…

Too late!

Third rebound!

This one was for you, Arno…

See now how well I move, renegade?

I can almost feel the court shaking. Out there, the Metacolosseum of New Rome must bursting with joy. Collective hysteria.

In here, we are the champions, and we’re going to win.

Going to take revenge for Earth’s humiliation, forever.

Going to earn a place in glory.

The next goal decides it all.

Our serve.

We salute Centaurian-style, with the tips of our fingers, arms outstretched.

And go on the attack.

For the first time in a quarter of a century, Earth is winning.

Mvamba—Yukio. The Slovskys show off with a swift bounce off the demoralized Colossaur’s chest, and they keep control. The court is ours.

Kowalsky tries to snatch it and fails, but the Cetians act in coordination and steal the rebound that Jonathan was about to capture…

There’s no escape: Mvamba steals from them and passes to me. I’ve got it: one, two… The Colossaur sweeps the Slovskys aside and messes up the play. He dominates. The twins neutralize him again but now the voxl is Kowalsky’s. The clones block me doggedly.

I slip away from the Cetians and thumb my nose at Tamon Kowalsky. The twins are controlling the Colossaur.

Tension. It’s a battle for the deciding goal.

Muscle fatigue. Adrenaline pulses into my blood.

Virgin of Caridad del Cobre, give us this goal.

The Cetians take Yukio out of circulation, hurling him into Mvamba. It doesn’t matter, he’ll get over it. I dodge the charging rhinoceros of a Colossaur and make a long pass to Jonathan.

He catches it between his legs and goes for the bounce: one, two…

An unguarded Cetian intercepts it and rebounds off the other one.

Kowalsky hems me in.

One bounce, two…

Sweet Virgin, don’t abandon me now!

Yukio still dazed. Mvamba moves in, but erratically. He hasn’t entirely recovered…

My soul freezes when I see there won’t be enough time.

Now something is burning inside me. It can’t end like this!

I shout over the vocoder: “Revenge! Everybody on Kowalsky!”

…and three.

And we lose.

But it was too much for the Warsaw Hussars’ old captain. Jonathan, Mvamba, the Slovskys, and me, piling on him.

When they turn off the field and gravity goes back up from 0.67 g to our normal terrestrial 1.0 g, Tamon Kowalsky lies sprawled across the floor of the court, looking like a broken doll. The paramedics take him away without even turning off his suit. They only take off his helmet, which rolls across the floor.

“That’s Voxl, schmuck,” Jonathan mumbles, dealing it a splendid kick, angry tears in his eyes. “That’s for Arno—and don’t you ever insult a human player again.”

I look at him, astonished. How could he have known?

He shrugs, a stricken look on his face, and points to his vocoder. It isn’t the official model at all—it’s had a lot more than “slight modifications.”

“Sorry, Daniel,” he whispers. “Electronics is another hobby of mine. I thought if I knew what you and Gopal were saying I could play better. I placed a microphone in your helmet…”

“Forget about it, doesn’t matter anymore.” I pat him on the back, trying to seem nonchalant. “Hey… so, what are you going to do now?”

He smiles and shrugs again. “Well, I’ll manage somehow. I can always go back to teaching deaf kids. See you around—someday, I hope. Take care, captain.”

He leaves. A good guy, that Jonathan. Too bad.

Brooding, I take a few steps and pick up Kowalsky’s dented helmet. Disconnected, it’s as transparent as mine. Practically identical. No magenta, no pink-and-blue.

Maybe I shouldn’t have given that last order…

In the end, we’re not just humans, we’re equals.

Well, it’s not so serious, either. In half an hour he’ll have recovered and be celebrating another win with the Colossaur and the Cetians.

I wonder if he’ll still be their captain off court… They must have other rules in the League. Most likely, when it comes to salaries and privileges, he’s at the back of the magenta pack.

Mercenaries always pay a price.

He chose. Better a lion’s tail than a rat’s head. A full stomach without honor before hunger with dignity.

I look up. The walls are transparent again. I can see the crowds leaving the titanic stadium. Silent, hushed. Like every other year. But in twelve months they’ll be back anyway, the same crowds, hoping again for a miracle.

Why did you abandon us, Virgin?

We lost.

I’m having trouble getting used to the thought. I feel so empty I can’t even be depressed. Or cry, or scream…

Maybe next year they’ll let me be part of another Team Earth. Not as captain, of course, but something’s better than nothing… After all, with me leading, we almost beat the League.

“Stop thinking about it.” Gopal’s voice, and his hand on my shoulder, startle me. “Every game, somebody’s got to lose. It’s tough when it happens to you, sure… but there’s a little compensation sometimes.”

“Experience?” I suggest, cynically. And immediately want to take it back. I don’t mean to hurt him.

“No. Experience is what we get when we don’t get what we want,” he shakes his head. “I’m talking about… a whole other level of benefits.” His voice is trembling slightly. “Daniel, I want to introduce you to an important person. He’s very interested in meeting you. Over there…”

I turn around reluctantly. I’m not in the mood for rich, bejeweled fans, keen to console me and tell me that we’ll have better luck next time…

Surprise. He’s decked out in jewelry and he’s most likely a fan (what else would he be doing here?). But he’s no human.

Eight legs. Cold, multifaceted eyes. It’s a grodo.

“Modigliani is a scout for the League,” Gopal explains in a mischievous tone, behind which I think I can detect a little… sorrow? Envy?

I stare gaping at the insectoid. I still can’t believe it… This is too good to be happening to me…

“Mr. Modigliani, I am…,” I stammer, extending my hand to him. I would happily cover his grey chitin carapace with kisses.

Thank you, sweet Virgin, for hearing my prayers.

“Skip the mister,” the electronic voice crackles from a translator-synthesizer on the insectoid’s chest. He ignores my proffered hand, which I withdraw. “Just Modigliani. You know, Danny, you’ve got a tactical sense that I’ve rarely seen in any player.”

“Umm… Thanks, mis… Modigliani…”

“Well, now you’ve met, and since I can see you understand each other, I’ll leave you alone,” Gopal remarks, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m so happy you have a good future to look forward to.” He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Don’t sell yourself cheap. Don’t accept his first offer.” And again, out loud, “See you around… Danny.” There’s a slight mocking tone in the way he says it.

He’s never called me anything but Daniel. Or “captain.”

I watch him. He walks away, whistling. To be forgotten. He has no future to look forward to. After ten years as a player and fifteen coaching the ever-losing Team Earth, his fifteen minutes are up. Mohamed Gopal, the Delhi Wonder, is retiring for good.

I wonder what he’ll live from now. For him, as for the Slovskys, Voxl is everything.

I’ll call him some day… For now, I have more urgent business to attend to. I turn my attention back to the grodo.

“Modigliani… You picked a very nice name. Do you know who he…”

“No, and I don’t care. We just like Earth names with four syllables. There’s a music to them.” The grodo gesticulates bluntly with two of his chitinous legs and places another pair on one of my shoulders, forcing me to walk at his pace. He’s as tall as me, and thinner, but much stronger. “Okay, Danny, I like to get straight to the point. I followed the match closely. I was interested in Arno Korvaldsen and you. We’ll make him the same offer when he finishes autocloning. But he’s not young, and if he’s lucky he’ll last one more season. As for you…” He paused.

I have my heart in my mouth. Let it not be a pittance, sweet Virgin. You know I’ll have to take it, no matter what…

“Three seasons with the Betelgeuse Draks…”—tell me how much, you repulsive bug, I don’t care if you’re listening in on me with your telepathy, I’ll beg all the forgiveness I need later on but for now, just tell me how much already—“for half a million credits a season. Medical expenses and training costs included, same goes for accidental death insurance. What do you think?”

What do I think? A swindle, that’s what I think. I hope you’re listening in on my brain this time. The Colossaur and the Cetian clones who played against us today must make ten times that much. It would be interesting to know how much Kowalsky, their captain, makes. Maybe less than me…

It doesn’t matter what I think, Modigliani, because I have to think it’s fine. I don’t have any other options. I’m going to accept, you know I’m going to accept, I know that you know that I know. So stop pretending.

After all, I can consider myself lucky.

“Perfect,” I articulate at last, my mouth feeling full of clay. “When do I start?”

“Soon as you pick up your gear. My ship is leaving from the New Rome astroport in two hours. Look for it, its name is Velvet. I’ll expect to see you onboard.” Modigliani walks and pivots. “I’m going to see Korvaldsen…”

“And the others?” I still dare ask him, before he’s too far away.

“Oh, yes… The others,” he says unenthusiastically. “Not interested. Too old, one of them. Too green, the rest. Those twins, however—maybe next year.”

A terrible scream at my back. I turn. A long gleam of burnished steel stained with blood spins across the floor of the court. The commotion of paramedics rushing to the scene. No point even looking. I know perfectly well what it is.

Seppuku…

Yukio, theatrical as ever. He swore he’d commit harakiri if they beat us. Dignity as light opera, honor as prop. As if he didn’t know that, worst case, his family would autoclone him. These samurais and their cult of blood…

I’m more worried about Jonathan. And Gopal. They’re perfectly capable of walking out of here calm as can be, and then, far away, jumping into a tank of acid. To leave no traces.

Poor guys…

I feel sorry for them, but life goes on. Some rise, some fall. Each to his own problems. I’m not the captain of Team Earth anymore.

Dear Virgin, I’ll light you a candle at least as big around as my thigh. For all you’ve done and will do for me.

And when Arno wakes up, we’ll go buy three cases of beer each. And find us a good pair of social workers, doesn’t matter how much they charge. Because this is worth celebrating.

It isn’t every day you have this sort of luck: a contract with the League. Now, to travel all over the galaxy. To live.

Now I’m really going to play.

I’m sure Arno thinks the same, he’s so pragmatic.

The pride of Earth, the hope of humans, the revenge of the oppressed…

Screw that.

No we are the champions.

On the best paid team.

The only one that’s really worthwhile.

My mother would be proud of me—I’m sure of it.