Future Games

by John Shirley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Two up, two down.

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

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

  The first pitch came in, and Sammy ignored it.

  “Strike one!” Chirac proclaimed.

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

  “Strike two!”

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

  Alex jogged over and hissed, “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

  I nodded. “He’s getting them back. Playing their own game against them.”

  “Why doesn’t he just wail on it?”

  He bunted another pitch foul.

  “Could be his arm. Could be his ego.”

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

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

  Humanity had lost again.

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

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

  “Better hope they never hear about the designated hitter rule.”

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

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

  Alex rubbed his shoulders. “Cheer up, Sammy. You’ll still be a hero for trying.”

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

  “No, I lose everything! House . . . car . . . ”

  I shared a look with Alex. “Rodriguez? You didn’t bet on this game, did you?”

  He was silent.

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

  “Swimming pool,” he whimpered.

  “You win for humanity, huh?” I said.

  Alex shrugged and continued to rub his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Speck of dust? What?”

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

  “Madre!”

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

  “Any brilliant solutions to your sporting dilemma yet, Colonel?”

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

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

  “And you were so close. Poor Mr. Rodriguez doesn’t have another game in him?”

  “He’s on strike. Breach of contract.”

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

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

  “Do you really think that today’s game was a sublime and memorable defeat?”

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

  He nodded, and took a seat uninvited.

  “What if I said there was an alternative?”

  I looked up at him.

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

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

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

  On the sheet was a list of equipment. I skimmed to the bottom and cried out at the total mass.

  “Christ, Ashley, fifty kilos? La Bamba just about blew NASA’s budget for the year.”

  “All very necessary. And I’m sure Halihunt still has some money socked away.”

  I sighed, nodding. Whole political parties had disappeared by underestimating the wealth of oil companies. And Ashley’s idea had one unmistakable advantage: It got me off the hook. I imagined long, luxurious days of worrying about solar arrays and oil drills instead of batting orders.

  “Have you talked to Dr. Chirac about this?”

  He nodded vigorously. “She’s
thrilled with the idea. Wants to do a comparative study and all that. But I leave convincing Mr. McGill to you.”

  “And you think we can win?”

  He sighed. “If you insist on putting it in those narrow terms, yes. There are certain tactical advantages which I would be glad to explain.”

  “Spare me.” I took a deep breath and nodded. “If NASA and Halihunt are game, I am. Just one thing: Do you really need the uniforms? We’ve got some already.”

  “But we have baseball uniforms, my dear colonel. They have colors on them, for God’s sake. If we want the Tau to have a genuine cultural experience, we simply can’t take the field in anything other than all white.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  He sighed, rolling his eyes. “It just wouldn’t be cricket.”

  Four days later, I visited Ashley in the field.

  “No, you’re supposed to be at third man!” he was yelling at Jenny Flagg. “Third man, I said! You’re at fine leg! Get over to third man! Good heavens. Look, just move over to bloody left field!”

  She finally nodded and jogged across the outfield.

  Or perhaps it was the infield. Backfield? It was hard to tell. The two wickets were placed about twenty meters apart in the middle of the field, and there were two Taus batting. I seem to remember that cricket switched directions every half-dozen pitches or so. There were fielders dotted all around me, dressed in the fresh new white uniforms that had cost Pasadena its air-conditioning for three long summer nights.

  As Ashley Newkirk continued his battle with field placements, I found Alex standing close to one of the batters, just to one side of the newly rolled rectangle of dirt between the wickets. She took off her helmet as I approached.

  “How’s it going, Captain?”

  “Pretty well so far. We got their first batter—sorry, batsman—on a deflection. The one with red spots, and we got her for only twenty runs.”

  “Only twenty?”

  “It’s okay; they’re chasing our score of three ninety, and that’s just our first innings.”

  I shook my head.

  “Bit funny playing without gloves, though,” she added.

  I looked around. “Hunter’s got some.”

  “He’s the wicket-keeper.”

  “Ah. And how come you’re the only one with a helmet?”

  “Because I’m at silly mid-off.”

  “I recognize all those words, Alex, but not in that order.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m standing right next to the batsman, in case she tips it short. But it’s a bit dangerous if she hits it hard, which is what ‘silly’ means. Yoshi’s at short leg on the other side. And take a look at that slips cordon.”

  I followed her gesture to the row of five fielders strung out behind one of the Tau batters. If only we’d thought of that for baseball: just put the fielders behind the batter. Any foul tip would go straight into their hands.

  Of course, you can’t put your fielders in foul territory. Wouldn’t be baseball.

  “How do the Taus like it?”

  “They love it. The attendance is bigger, at least. It’s the perfect sport for the Taus. You can hit the ball in any direction and score.”

  “So how come they aren’t beating us yet?”

  “Because you can’t get a walk in cricket. Simple as that. And we can put fielders in position all three hundred and sixty degrees around them. The field placements are totally up to the captain, um, to Ashley. We have a chance of catching any deflection they make.”

  I nodded. Simple as that.

  “What if they come up with something unexpected? Like their foul tipping in baseball?”

  She shrugged. “Ashley says the game’s been played for eight hundred years. Seems like it’d be hard to come up with any new tricks.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  “Colonel, please?” Ashley had set his field, and waved me off.

  I retreated to the edge of the impact crater. Alex was right. There were at least two hundred Taus around the field, raptly watching the new game. According to Dr. Chirac’s first report, the aliens had decided to learn this new set of rules by more usual methods: sign language and direct example rather than passive observation. The xeno team was having its first face-to-face conversations with the Taus, pointing and miming to explain wickets and bowling and whatever the hell silly mid-off was.

  A breakthrough of cosmic proportions.

  Ashley had backed up to a spot about thirty meters from one wicket. He ran toward it, charging all the way up to the little wooden triptych and releasing the ball straight toward the Tau at the other wicket. The ball bounced short, flying up from the diveted ground at an unexpected angle. The Tau swung the broad, flat bat and got a piece of it. It soared over her right shoulder, just above the cordon of fielders behind her. She started running as Jenny, placed deeper, ran it down and threw it in.

  The two Taus held up their run, having changed positions once.

  “Not a bad stroke, eh, Colonel?”

  Iain Claymore had appeared next to me. He held one of Yoshi’s cameras and a small flask.

  “You understand this game?”

  He looked around and lowered his voice. “My mother’s from Manchester. Tell no one.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  We watched another delivery. The batter clipped it, angling it away at ninety degrees, just over Alex’s reach and almost to the edge. The Taus ran again, switching places twice.

  “Two runs, I presume?”

  “Aye. They’re learning to play cricket even faster than they did that daft American game.”

  I nodded, smiling to myself. “I just hope Ashley knows what he’s in for.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s not much fun to have your national game taken away from you.”

  Claymore lifted his head and laughed. “You Americans crack me up. Cricket, taken away from the English? Those poor bastards havenae won a cricket series in decades. The Indians, the Sri Lankans, the South Africans all kick the crap out of them on a regular basis. Christ, they were put out of the Cup by bloody Yemen last year.”

  I shook my head. “But what are they going to do when the tube opens for good, and aliens show up and beat them at their own game?”

  “Ach, that happened about two hundred years ago. Only they were called Australians.”

  I swallowed. “It’s not the same.”

  “Don’t be daft, Colonel. The English are wankers, but at least they gave up their empire gracefully. You lot could learn something from that. They don’t mind losing a friendly game against the old possessions. They don’t need to win. They’re just happy that two billion people on the Indian subcontinent drive on the left side of the road. It may not be much of a legacy, but it’s a damn sight better than the mess that you Yanks are going to leave behind in the Middle East.”

  I turned to Iain with surprise. I’d never heard him say anything remotely political before, unless his relentless attacks on Ashley Newkirk’s cooking counted.

  “But enough of that,” he said. “Let’s watch the game.”

  Of course, these days everyone on Earth has a opinion about Iain Claymore.

  All those years, as we all know now, our charming half-Scot had been brewing up more than whisky in his still. Slowly and surely, he had engineered a bacterium distantly related to the ones that eat oil slicks off the ocean surface, but adapted for Tau’s deep underground reserves.

  For a Greenpeace radical, he was quite an interventionist. By the time we started pumping, he had infected every oil reserve within a thousand clicks of our facility. Like metal spikes driven into old-growth trees, Iain’s creation made Tau crude useless for earthly consumption. No amount of retooling at our refineries back at home could save the tainted oil.

  But not everyone knows what really became of him. Contrary to the official story, “St. Iain” was not executed. As a United European subject, I didn’t consider him a traitor, whatever my comm
anders said. Besides, after all our labor and heartache on that planet, killing was too good for him.

  Instead, I exiled him on Tau after it was clear that the oil was useless, the array not worth maintaining, the tube closing forever on Earth’s first contact era after the last of us had stepped back through. And I made sure that Claymore had all the equipment and supplies necessary for a long, lonely life on an alien planet, surrounded by a hundred thousand inhuman creatures who wanted nothing to do with him except to play a very English game.

  Of course, to give him a fighting chance of staying sane, I let him keep his still.

  After all the whisky I’d drunk from it, I thought that only cricket.

  This unnerving story was first published in 1976, long before the format for the reality show Survivor was created in 1992. But Kate Wilhelm is still, so far, in the realm of science fiction with her version of a real-time survival “game” and the technology it takes for the masses to immerse themselves in a life-and-death competition—but not by much. As for an addiction to reality shows, “Ladies and Gentlemen, This Is Your Crisis!” may already be, well, reality . . .

  Ladies and Gentlemen, This Is Your Crisis!

  Kate Wilhelm

  4:00 p.m. Friday

  Lottie’s factory closed early on Friday, as most of them did now. It was four when she got home, after stopping for frozen dinners, bread, sandwich meats, beer. She switched on the wall TV screen before she put her bag down. In the kitchen she turned on another set, a portable, and watched it as she put the food away. She had missed four hours.

  They were in the mountains. That was good. Lottie liked it when they chose mountains. A stocky man was sliding down a slope, feet out before him, legs stiff—too conscious of the camera, though. Lottie couldn’t tell if he had meant to slide, but he did not look happy. She turned her attention to the others.

  A young woman was walking slowly, waist high in ferns, so apparently unconscious of the camera that it could only be a pose this early in the game. She looked vaguely familiar. Her blond hair was loose, like a girl in a shampoo commercial, Lottie decided. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember where she had seen the girl. A model, probably, wanting to be a star. She would wander aimlessly, not even trying for the prize, content with the publicity she was getting.