Chapter 13 #2
Raaze stood behind Cait’s chair, one hand braced on the headrest, and watched the orbital complex resolve from a distant glitter into something that made his throat close.
The Summer League stadium hung in high orbit above Nethlaar, a massive ring structure that dwarfed the cargo haulers and passenger liners clustering around the docking spires.
Holographic banners stretched between the stadium support pylons, cycling through team colors and sponsor logos in patterns he knew by heart.
Blue and silver for the K’Trav Daggers. Deep crimson for the X’Vian Dominion. Gold and black for—
He looked away quickly.
“Fred, what’s our approach vector?” Cait’s voice was steady and professional.
“Docking control has assigned us berth seventeen-gamma in the civilian auxiliary ring. Estimated arrival in fourteen minutes.”
Raaze watched the stadium grow larger through the viewport, its curved walls reflecting the system’s sun in flashes. He could see the main arena now… the transparent dome that let spectators watch matches as stars wheeled overhead.
Memory slammed into him between one second and the next, blindsiding him. Air that carried that unmistakable stadium scent… the faint metallic tang from the energy barriers and the smell of fresh-cut turf from the pitch. His nostrils flared, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.
This had been his domain. His kingdom. He had been king here, and the roar of a hundred thousand fans used to hit him right in the sternum as soon as he strutted out onto the field. He’d been more than a king… he’d been a god.
“There’s a lot of traffic,” Cait’s observation brought him back to the present. “More than I expected.”
“It’s the Summer League.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “The biggest event of the season. Teams from forty-seven systems. Media coverage across the Empire and gambling revenue that could fund a war.”
She glanced back at him. “You okay?”
No, he was the opposite of okay. He stood in the cockpit of a battered cargo hauler, wearing clothes he’d bought at a frontier trading post, about to sneak into a venue that had defined his entire adult life using a human facial scrambler and a fake name.
“Fine,” he said.
The scrambler control sat in his pocket, a small disc that would project a subtle distortion field over his features.
Cait had explained the technology… It didn’t give him a new face, just made his existing one harder to focus on, harder to remember.
Low-tech human garbage, but security wouldn’t waste a scan on something this primitive, which made it perfect.
League security scanned for biometric spoofing or holographic projections.
They didn’t scan for a device that simply made people’s eyes slide past you.
“Docking control, this is KA-TSZ requesting final approach clearance.” Cait’s hands were steady on the controls as she rattled off their fake ID number. “Cargo manifest filed under reference seven-seven-delta.”
“KA-TSZ, you are cleared for approach. Follow the beacon to berth seventeen-gamma. Welcome to the Summer League.”
The stadium filled the viewport now. Through it he could see individual sections of seating through the dome, and the massive holo-projectors that would display replays and statistics.
Hunkered under them, on either side of the multi-level automated pitch, were the team’s armories and locker rooms, along with the medical bays.
Cait guided the ship with the ease of long practice, and a second later he felt the clunk through the deck under his feet as the docking clamps engaged.
“We’re down,” Cait said, powering down the engines. She spun her chair to face him. “Registration opens in two hours. You ready?”
He adjusted the collar of his jacket. It was plain, unadorned by team colors or other identifiers.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Like a playboy with more ego than talent,” Cait said, her lips quirking up at the corners.
He grunted, not bothering to deign the comment with an answer. She’d called him that before, so he’d checked the human definition of the word and hadn’t liked it.
If the boot fits, the voice murmured. He ignored it again.
“Then let’s go.”
He’d activated the scrambler before they left the ship, but he still wasn’t used to the hum against his skin, and it itched like mad.
His reflection in the polished floor panels looked…
wrong. Not different, exactly, just difficult to focus on.
His features seemed to shift when he tried to examine them, sliding away from his gaze like water off heated metal.
The registration hall occupied a converted cargo bay near the civilian docking ring…
Unlike the spectacle of the stadium, which was designed to impress, this was functional and efficient.
Fluorescent strips cast harsh light over rows of processing stations where clerks in League uniforms handled the endless stream of participants, support staff, and media personnel, all clamoring to register for the event.
He paused in the doorway. It had been a long time since he’d had to register in person for any event, and for a moment, he let the chaos wash over him.
The smell hit him first. The sweat of too many bodies packed together in one area mingled with the scent of antiseptic and heat oils that hung around any group of professional athletes like cologne.
Over it all was the particular electrical tang of high-powered holo-projectors. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
“Wildcard registration is station twelve,” Cait said in a low voice, consulting the directory display. “I’ll wait by the refreshment kiosk.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
Station twelve sat at the far end of the row, separated from the main team registrations by a stretch of empty floor that felt like a statement all in itself.
The clerk behind the desk was young, barely out of training halls, and obviously bored.
His eyes flicked to Raaze without interest, then back to his display.
“Name?”
“Kavaan Vott.” The false identity Cait had constructed came complete with a fabricated competition history and a homeworld in a system remote enough that no one would bother to verify. Not unless they had a week to wait for the return ping.
The clerk’s fingers moved across the console. “Species?”
“Latharian.”
“Experience?”
“Local leagues,” Raaze said, the lie sliding from his tongue easily.
That earned him a brief glance, a flicker of dismissal in the clerk’s eyes before he returned to his screen. “Position?”
“Striker.”
The clerk snorted. Every player wanted to be a striker. It was the glory position on a team, the one where you scored the most points, got the most attention, and made the highlight reels.
But Wildcards had no position. There were no positions on a team of one.
“Entry fee is two thousand credits,” the clerk said in a bored voice, already flicking his screen back to what he had been watching before Raaze had walked up to the booth. He clearly expected Raaze to balk at the entry fee and wander off.
Instead, he slid a credit chip across the counter. “All present and correct.”
The clerk’s eyebrow rose in surprise, and he snapped the porn on the display off.
“You understand that wildcards enter the tournament at the preliminary round and must win three consecutive matches to advance to the main bracket?”
“I understand.”
“Medical clearance?”
Raaze slid him a data chip this time, containing his forged medical docs. The clerk passed it over the scanner. Raaze held his breath as it was uploading, but no alarms started blaring. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Wildcards play in preliminary rounds tomorrow morning. Group assignment thirty-seven: lockers in the auxiliary wing. Equipment check begins two hours before match time.” The clerk finally looked up, and Raaze saw the dismissal in his eyes.
Another novelty act. Another amateur who’d watched too many broadcasts and thought he could compete with the big boys.
“Report to field three at oh-seven hundred. Don’t get yourself killed out there, Vott.
Wildcards usually last about ten minutes. Next!”
Ten minutes. That’s all I need.
“Thank you.” Raaze collected his player badge and walked away before he could say something stupid.
Cait fell into step beside him as he passed the refreshment kiosk. She didn’t ask how it went. She’d been watching him all the time.
“The rounds are posted by the main concourse,” she said. “We should check the brackets, see where your group is.”
The main concourse was a different world from the registration hall…
all vaulted ceilings and polished floors.
Holo-projections high above their heads cycled through highlights from previous tournaments.
Raaze saw his own face flash past on one display, a clip from three seasons ago. He looked away quickly.
The roster boards dominated one wall, massive displays listing every team, every player, and every match scheduled for the five-day event. Crowds gathered in front of them, spectators and journalists and scouts all jostling for position.
Finding an opening big enough for the two of them, he pushed Cait ahead of him, using his bigger body to shield her as they got close enough to read.
He knew all the names… the K’Trav Daggers. The X’Vian Dominion. Draanth, even the Tarviisan Titans were here, and they were always a tough team to beat. His eyes moved down the list, cataloging threats and opportunities.
Then he saw it.
The Parac’Norr Exiles.
The name sat in the middle of the preliminary bracket.
“Holy trall, they actually did it,” he breathed, scanning the roster. Daavyn. Sorrath. Bravnak. Draanth, even Vaath.
They were here. Playing in the Summer League. The thing Prince Isan had argued for before disappearing in the middle of the night.
And he’d be playing against them.
The irony tasted like copper in his mouth. Males with claws and armor and feral strength. Males he’d trained because he was bored.
Trall. You trained them because you couldn’t stop yourself caring about the game even when the draanthic had exiled you from it.
His expression hardened as he looked at the roster again. He’d trained them, but they’d never played against him.
They had no idea what was coming.
His eyes moved to the main bracket. The professional teams. The ones that mattered.
Kotorix Ascendants.
There. The third match of day two. And on their roster, highlighted as their star player…
Vikrav R’Tev.
The name burned itself into his retinas. Vikrav. The mediocre player whose family had bought him a career by destroying everyone who stood in his way. Playing for the team he had been slated to transfer to, wearing the colors he should have worn.
Rage built within him, but nothing like the mindless fury he’d heard Blood Rage described as. This was cold and calculated. A weapon he would wield tomorrow on the pitch.
A hand touched his arm.
Cait stood beside him, close enough that he could smell the soap she used and the scent of her skin beneath. He took a deep breath, calming himself as her fingers rested on his forearm.
She didn’t say anything. Just stood there while the roster boards reminded him of everything he’d lost.
He looked down at her.
Red hair escaping from the practical knot she’d tied it in. Freckles across her nose. Eyes that saw too much and judged too little. The woman who’d agreed to help him when she had every reason to throw him out an airlock.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The slight pressure of her fingers said everything… I’m here for you.
Tomorrow. Everything they’d planned. His half on the field, hers in the corporate box with a dead man’s switch and evidence that could bring down the R'Tev. They’d expose the conspiracy, clear his name, and then—
Then she’d go back to her cargo runs and her ship, and her life. And he’d go back to… whatever was left of his.