Batey Ascending
Chapter 1

The crowd sounds alive tonight. I can hear them all the way inside the locker room. I’m nervous and can’t seem to stay still. There’s no sweat out there in the arena, no sweat in the changing rooms. Perfect isoatmospheric temperature control keeps everything clean, no wet foreheads or skin debris. That stuff will jam up the gear, and flying high in the Sphere at 70 feet, that’s more than just retirement. New Batey’s no joke.

I check my gear one last time, just to be sure. Helmet is a check. Works well enough to hide how mad-eyed I’m feeling. Arm guards are on. Minimal cover on the hands. That’s the penalty enough for using them, no touching allowed. The hands and feet aren’t tools for catching or kicking in this game. That just makes it much harder to steer the ball where it needs to go. That’s the spirit, though. That’s adversity.

Aside from that, I’m all set up. Nico Pengin is about to take the stage and start his pursuit of a National career. An AB comes in just in the nick of time to pick me up.

“You good now?”

I stand up and roll my arms and shoulders around. I’m feeling good, I’m loaded out good, I’ve got my Flash Flight boots on and ready to use. Arden’s gear is on another level, so it’s only right that it is now solely up to me to match it.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I say that with confidence. Gotta lead strong to belong. Feel good, to play good. I follow him out to the rest of the team, and we walk down the aisle. The stadium is nostalgic for a lot of people. The game is new but the seating, the jumbo screens, the walk-ins, all of that is just another part of what we left behind and what was brought back for us to appreciate.

Seeing it on TV was way different than living it out. You can tell it’s a broadcast and for a minute it drags you in. You forget you’re on a giant spaceship over a dead planet that used to be the home of your entire species, covered with fire and smog, and those who chose to stay behind and die out of fear and confusion over the saviors from the sky. It makes you feel like you’re home again, or, like we brought our home up with us in microscopic pieces.

I can hear the announcer already, simul-broadcast for the folks in the back who got more used to the U.B. language, two voices overlapping but in a way that feels real natural, one fixed at a regular frequency and the other like a rumbling noise in the back of my skull.

“Facing the RTG league,” they announce, “are the high rising underdogs of this division. With members of all backgrounds and minimal enhancements they aim to prove that there is spirit in their sport. Here they come: The Absolutes!”

Black is first and he’s loving it. He’s got his dumb, happy face on that projector pumping his fists around before he hops up, turns on his heels, and soars up with streams of light coming out of his boots into the holographic Sphere above. Then it’s IND23, faceless with a full shield mask opened up in the back so his long braids can spill out. Then Chilly is out, new waves in her hair peaking up to a cropped back, faceplate only so everyone can see her face. Go get it, sis.

“Come on, kid,” Gorri waited for me. Of course. We’re going up together. Him, white like he never lived a day in the sun, and me, black and proud, sharing the same smile and taking off at the same time into the air.

It feels good to fly. Way better with the new boots. They’re smooth and effortless, and those are the only words I’ve got for the sensation. It’s not like the old junk I had to rent and who knows how long ago that was. This is proof that I’ve come far enough to have some pride in what I’ve got. I’m rising up, literally, and into the Sphere.

The pressure’s different in here. The anti-gravity-sickness kicks in almost immediately. It goes away when I’m moving, which is going to be always once the match starts, but just floating in place I can see why people pay out for the compression suits like RTG have on. I feel parts inside of me moving in ways they really shouldn’t.

“You got this,” Gorri said. He’s been in this game so long I think he’s gotten used to it. Chilly’s managing, so I can too. We’ve both come too far to get beat by something like gravity. AB is showing off, going upside down in his signature pose, showing everyone the capital A on his uniform is right-side up even when he’s upside down.

I get up beside IND23, just crossing his arms and staring ahead. I see what he’s looking at. RTG is up to their name, they’re already in formation, a down slant crescendo with their Heavies in the back, fists together over their chests.

“Nico,” he says, voice boosted through his mask. “Remember what we talked about.”

“I remember,” I tell him. I lock eyes with the captain. Smug looking, prouder than he should be, hot and bothersome.

Fred.RTG. Fred’s not enough of a name. That team, and his brand, are the real him. No family, no love, no honor, just the selfish self that he is and always was.

The old me, from just a few months ago, would be mad. He’d be out for vengeance. He’d be getting hot and charging up to that line to give that guy a piece of his mind. I turn to Chilly and see her looking. She’s worried, but the me right now is here for one thing. Second point, Matchbox Formation. Chilly on my right, Gorri keeping goal, IND23 and AB up front as the two-man front.

I’m not here to shine for myself. I’ve had a long climb with a lot of hands pulling me up. I’m not just here to win. We’re here to win…

~~~