Wolf and Raven

He nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to see her again, too. Did you manage to get Lynn back to her apartment in the tower before her folks called Lone Star?”

  I shook my head. “They called, but I have a friend at Lone Star who intercepted the report, calmed them down, and gave me a call on my car phone.” Lynn and her parents work for Fuchi and share a family suite of apartments in one of their corporate towers downtown. Because she is an only child and because the corp encourages close familial ties, her parents tend to worry a bit. I get along well with them, but come the witching hour, her mother gets anxious. “Lynn said her mother wanted to know if we had a nice time, what with the evening being so short and all.”

  I pulled off my leather jacket, then shrugged my way out of my shoulder holster. As I turned to hang the Beretta Viper-14 beneath the jacket in my locker, my right shoulder popped audibly. Jimmy looked up and I worked my shoulders around, eliciting a similar pop from the left shoulder. “Batting practice left me stiff.” Jimmy waved Thumper over. “Wolf, take off your turtleneck and that kevlar vest. Thumper, work some of that Atomic balm into his shoulders.”

  “Relax, Wolf. Relief’s here.”

  I pulled off my shirt and vest as Thumper dipped his index finger into a squat white jar of red gel. It came out with a big gob pungent enough to make onions weep, and the Old One started howling because of the way it smelled to him. I did my best to ignore his whining and just let myself luxuriate in the warmth as Thumper worked it deep into my shoulders and neck. “Man, Thumper, that’s great.”

  Jimmy smiled, then nodded at a grizzled dwarf bearing a black case. “Time already, Coach? We got a couple of hours yet before the game.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “The league’s got someone here to go over things, so I expect the whole process will take longer.” The dwarf reached over and bent Jimmy’s right ear down, exposing the chipjack set into his mastoid bone. From the case he drew a small chip and slotted it into the jack with a click.

  Jimmy let his head droop forward for a moment, then he hummed faintly while the chip coach moved on toward the ork[22] who played third base.

  I glanced back at Thumper. “What’s Jimmy doing?”

  “Warm-ups. Letting the software blend with the wet-ware. Transition’s not easy all the time.”

  “Right. I should have figured.” Activesofts become active the second they’re inserted into a chipjack, but to assume that every user has instant or perfect command of them is absurd. If that were true, all golfers could slot and run Tiger 4.2 and smoke their friends. Fact is, though, that the wetware side of the equation is full of variables and unless someone is able to focus himself and integrate his physiology with the activesoft, he won’t get the most out of it.

  To use the activesofts, all players had to be chromed. Some went all out, getting their eyes done and, like Ken, altering their appearance to look like a player of old. Others, like Jimmy and Thumper, took a more conservative approach. Fiber optic cables had been worked into Jimmy’s optic nerve bundle and implanted in his eyes so he could get the data presented by the batting helmet. His wired reflexes and muscles would then respond accordingly and hit or miss in a statistically appropriate manner.

  The advantage to the conservative approach was that it left Jimmy and Thumper looking entirely normal. I’d known plenty of gillettes who reveled in the alien look their mods gave them, but not everyone wants to be a chrome-king. I suspected that having another person ride them during a game was disorienting enough for some that being reminded of it when not on the field was preferable.

  Jimmy blinked his eyes, then covered a yawn with his hand. “Sorry about zoning on you there, Wolf, but I had to put my playing face on. I’m going to Verification. When you finish dressing, meet me there.”

  “Right.”

  Thumper slapped me on the shoulder, then went off to minister to another player. I hung my clothes, including my kevlar vest, in the locker and started putting on my uniform. Leaving my vest off did not please me, but kevlar isn’t commonly worn beneath a uniform[23] and the Seattle club bosses didn’t want me giving out any hints that something was wrong. So far the attempts at sabotage had been subtle to the point of being nothing more than vapor, so the danger quotient was low on this job. Otherwise, Doc Raven would have sent Kid Stealth in to bat clean-up.

  Spikes, even the short ones for use on turf, feel weird on the feet when walking across cement. They lacked traction on the wet part of the floor where Babe walked out of a cold shower, naked except for the water sheeting off him and the pouches under his eyes. He sniffed the air as he walked past me, then drifted in toward the lockers, gently calling out Thumper’s name.

  Before I could get to software verification, Bobby Kane, the short, squat team manager pulled me into his office. “Wolf, I want you to meet Palmer Clark. He’s with the League’s Office of Verification. Mr. Clark, this is Wolfgang Kies.”

  Clark stood a centimeter or so taller than me, and where I tended toward being lean and wiry, he still carried a fair amount of muscle. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Clark. I remember when you played here in ’43. Even though you were playing for Cincinnati and against us, well, I was one of ‘Charlie’s Hustlers’ out in right field. You were great.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled painfully enough that I guessed the last thing he wanted to deal with was a gushing fan, so I sobered up. “The club informed the Commissioner they had brought in an independent troubleshooter, and we applaud their initiative. I wanted to meet with you just to stress the importance that nothing about this be leaked to the outside world. Not a word of it. If any hint of scandal got out concerning our system, well, that would be the end of all of it.”

  “Wolf’s the soul of discretion, Mr. Clark.”

  “I’m sure he is, Bobby, as is this Raven person he works for. Most impressive, the record they’ve racked up. I just need to be sure they understand the extent of our need for secrecy. This whole problem is utterly vexing, and I appreciate the help, but baseball must come first.”

  From the expression on Clark’s face and the tone of his voice, I began to get a read on him and what his words really meant. “Look, I’m not here to grandstand or step on your toes. I’m just going over stuff and asking questions because everything that’s obvious to you guys isn’t so obvious to me. I’m just an interested observer, nothing more. And I won’t say a thing about any of this—not only do I work with a baseball fan who would make my life miserable if I destroyed the game, but I’ve become friends with folks like Jimmy and Bobby and I’d not hurt them.”

  “Good, just so we understand each other.” Clark’s expression lightened. “Now what can I do to help you?”

  I hitched for a second, my mind blanking as it sorted through a million questions. I started to backtrack through my short-term memory, then came up with a general query. “Jimmy’s in Verification. Mind giving me a datadump on that process?”

  Clark smiled as if I’d served up a fat curve with the bases loaded. “We use a simple, helmetlike device that flashes ultraviolet signals in through the player’s eyes. His scalp, facial, and ear muscles react in accordance with the pattern sent to them, as it is interpreted by the statsoft. We read the electronic activity of those muscles and match them against the expected response. If there is a variation from the expected response, we test futher. If the statsoft is bad, we lock the player up with a coded message, then pull the software he’s loaded. That’s verified and if it’s been tampered with, the player is out and the team dealt with if the modifications have enhanced the player at all and they are to blame.”

  “I take it that doesn’t happen very often?”

  Clark shook his head confidently. “The system is foolproof, so no one even bothers to try anymore. At least they didn’t. This is why it’s so vital we find out what’s happening now, because the slippage in performances could jeopardize Seattle’s playoff hopes.”

  “Got it.” Despite the urgency in Clark’s voice, I sensed a distancing between the two points
in that statement: he wanted to know why Seattle’s players were slipping, but he really didn’t care that they were. Seattle had never been one of the strongest draws in the game. As far as merchandising went, they really bit; which was why the team’s faux franchise stuff did so well. The San Diego Jaguars, for example, had a much better logo and better-looking uniforms that brought lots of added revenue for the team and the league. Clark, looking at things from a league perspective, wanted to stop the tampering, but perhaps only after things got to the point where Seattle would finish behind the Jags on their way to the pennant race.

  I gave Bobby and Clark a smile. “I’ll keep my eyes open, see what I can see.”

  Clark nodded solemnly. “Good. We need to stop this before any real damage is done.”

  * * *

  Sitting in the dugout had me full of all sorts of conflicting emotions—all of them good and crawling through my brain like toddlers wanting to be in the front seat of a car. Lining up on the third base line for the national anthem was a real kick, especially with Valerie and Lynn sitting in Val’s box and waving at me. I didn’t see myself on the Megatron screen out in center, but I knew I could the replay of the game later at home. Being there was a thrill, the fulfillment of a dream I never really knew I had. Just knowing that something I might do on the field would rivet the attention of thousands of people all at once, well, that’s really heady stuff.

  Ken’s always slotting the Babe Ruth statsoft began to make more sense.

  Technically speaking I could enter the game. Because we were in September, the teams carried an expanded roster and they had me on the active list to explain why I was practicing with the team and why I’d go on the road with them when we went to play for the Coastal League Pennant. The actual chances of my playing were nil, of course, because I couldn’t really hit and, even if I did get my glove on a ball, I didn’t know enough strategy to know what play to make where. I had, however, paid close attention and mastered all the signs, so I had a vague idea what was going to happen in the game[24].

  We were even with the Jaguars and if we could get ahead of them, we’d have homefield advantage through the series, which would be a great advantage. We were up against the Portland Lords—our downcoast nemesis. Even though they were at the bottom of the league, they thrilled at the idea of playing the spoiler. On the mound they had an elf who was slotting Rosy Ryan, using his stats from the 1923 New York Giants. Rosy had given us trouble earlier in the season and tonight was no exception.

  The seventh inning came and went with no score on either side. Our pitcher, Pete Weatheral, was playing Nomo from ’03 and had a two-hitter going. Ryan had a five-hitter and hadn’t been scored upon because of some great fielding by his third baseman. Bottom of the eighth Ryan began to tire, so Bobby Kane had someone pinch-hit for Weatheral, with one out and one man on. Sacrifice moved our runner to second, then our leadoff guy hit a double into the gap in right center, scoring the runner. Next batter up hit a worm-burner to third and the hitter was thrown out at first to retire the side.

  Our 1-0 lead evaporated with a single and a homer to lead off in the top of the ninth. That left us down one after our reliever struck out one batter and walked the next, then caught out the fourth man in a double play. We were really lucky to get out of that inning so easily, and we all knew it.

  Bobby Kane stalked through the dugout, clapping his hands. “We have a chance to win this one in regulation, men, so let’s do it. Babe, you’re up. Jimmy, you’re on deck. Nothing fancy, just get on board and come home, got it?”

  Babe winked at Bobby and donned his batting helmet.

  “Better put it out, Jimmy. I don’t want to have to run fast to score.”

  “Yeah, just get on, Showboat.”

  I smiled as Jimmy came over to the bat rack and selected his bat. “You’re handling the pressure well.” Jimmy shrugged. “Can’t let little things get to you.”

  “Winning’s a pretty big thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but the details are all small. For example, you check the scoreboard recently?”

  I glanced out at it there in center, beneath the Megatron screen. Save for a single, burned-out bulb, everything looked fine, then I saw that the Dodgers-Jaguar game had ended with the Dodgers winning by a run. “We take this game, we have a full game lead going into the game on Monday night.”

  “Yeah, that’s one thing.” Jimmy settled his helmet over his head and his voice became muffled. “Their pitcher is another.”

  The Lords had put an ork on the mound, and the scoreboard reported he was slotting Fat Freddie Fitzsimmons from the 1939 Brooklyn Dodgers. The stats displayed weren’t all that great, but Freddie had won about three times as many games that year as he lost. Since he dropped the last two games he’d played for the Lords, statistically speaking, he was due for a win.

  I frowned. “Ruth ever face Fitzsimmons in real life?” Spike shook his head. “Careers overlapped, but Ruth was mostly American League and Fitzsimmons was entirely National. Only place they could have faced each other was in the World Series, but they missed each other by a year. That’s what’s so sharp about how the game’s played now—greats and near greats can face each other again, to decide what might have happened once upon a time.”

  Kane spat brown juice into a corner. “Ruth would have creamed him. Fitzsimmons never did well in series play.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true, statistically speaking.” I watched Babe stalk toward the plate. He had the tight little walk down and seemed as natural there as the shouts of hotdog vendors and the smell of popcorn in the park. A couple of Lords’ fans—standing out easily in their kelly green and teal jerseys, yelled insults at Babe as he gently tapped dirt from his spikes with his bat.

  “Fat suet-sack, you couldn’t hit if they delivered the ball on a tray!”

  Ken smiled the way Babe Ruth would have, then pointed his bat toward centerfield. That brought a cheer from our fans and derision from the Lords side. Then Ken set himself, drew the bat to his shoulder, raised it a bit, and waited.

  Bobby swore and kicked the bench beside me. “No! No, no, no! Of all the stupid . . .”

  “What?” I looked at Jimmy, but he just pointed at the Megatron. It showed Ken’s face as big as could be and his eyes were plainly closed. “What’s he doing?” Jimmy shook his head. “It’s how he shows contempt for the pitchers.”

  “It’s how he shows contempt for the manager.” Bobby spat more tobacco juice into the corner. “Fine to do when we’re a dozen runs ahead and he’s hitting into a stat curve, but now?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Gotta believe, skipper.”

  Kane growled. “I believe I’m going to kick his butt over the fence if he strikes out.”

  The first pitch came in and Babe swung at it. He didn’t get all of it, but he got enough to foul it off into the stands. He smiled serenely and got set again, then took a pitch that came in high. A second pitch was outside and he didn’t go for that one either, which puzzled me. How does he know?

  The Old One growled deep within me. It is his nature to know, Longtooth. As you know when trouble comes, he knows what is good and what is bad.

  Somehow I doubted that. “He must be peeking.”

  Jimmy turned and winked at me. “Doesn’t see much through those lashes of his, but sees enough.”

  The fourth pitch came in and Babe nailed it pretty hard. It skipped off the infield between short and third. The leftfielder picked it up and threw to second, but Ken had barely rounded first and danced back to the safety of the bag. There he raised his hands and accepted the adulation of the crowd, tossing his batting helmet to the first-base coach and pulling on his uniform cap. He continued to smile and wave, then turned toward his image on the Megatron, doffed his cap, and began a bow complete with cap flourish.

  He never straightened up from the bow and instead plowed face first into the infield dirt. Laughter started as if this were some joke, then his body twitched as if he’d landed on a high-power
cable. He flopped over onto his back, his cap flying from nerveless fingers. Froth formed at the corners of his mouth, then another seizure shook him and he lay still.

  Bobby and our trainer streaked from the dugout and joined the first-base coach standing over Ken’s body. Bobby turned and waved urgently to the dugout, sending our chip coach scurrying onto the field, then from the bullpen I saw a golf-cart with a stretcher coming out. The dwarf chip coach pulled the statsoft from the chipjack, causing Ken to convulse one last time, then the trainer and Bobby lifted Ken onto the stretcher. The chip coach traveled with him off the field.

  Bobby came jogging back to the dugout and pointed at me. “Take off your jacket, Wolf. You’re pinch-running.”

  I blinked at him. “Me?”

  “You.”

  “But. . .”

  He waved me out of the dugout and draped an arm around my shoulders. “Look, you’re fast, you can run the bases.”

  “So can anyone else.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not being ridden by some byteghost.” I felt a chill run down my spine. “What are you talking about?”

  Bobby shivered. “I’ve seen that reaction one time before, in the minors. Someone had hacked a statsoft and that’s what happens to the player when he’s running bad code.”

  “But Ken went through verification.”

  “Right, something else caused the failure. Don’t know what, but until I do, you’re running for him.” Bobby slapped me on the back. “Chance to live a dream, kid. Don’t let us down.”

  “Nothing fancy, I remember.”

  “Well, that was for Babe. You I need in scoring position. Watch the signs and do what the coaches tell you to do.”

  I stripped off my jacket, tossed it into the dugout, and ran over to first base. The public address system announced, “Now pinch-running on first, Keith Wolfley[25].” Had it not been for two wildly enthusiastic female voices, the singsong mantra of the hot dog vendors would have drowned out the cheer that went up for me. I got on first and smiled at Red Fisher, the first-base coach. “What advice you got for me?”