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…
SEVENTH GOAL SCORED BY EARTH!!! EARTH TAKES THE LEAD ON THE SCOREBOARD! SIXTEEN TO FIFTEEN! EARTH, EARTH, EARTH!
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.
EIGHTH AND FINAL GOAL, FOR THE LEAGUE. EIGHTEEN TO FIFTEEN. LEAGUE WINS. LEAGUE CAPTAIN TAMON KOWALSKY INJURED.
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…