“Houdini!” the South Florida fans screamed at the goalie in tribute, but Zermann paid no attention to them — opening herself up again, glancing around her for no more than a second, and fisting the ball away sideways like a bolt of orange lightning at Brickner, who caught it in his elbow and tightened in for spin—
And the horn went. Catie jumped up and flung her arms around Zermann’s brother Kerry, who had been sitting beside her rigid as a statue for the last fifteen minutes, but now was jumping up and down and screaming “Slugs! Slugs!” like everyone else within the twenty-meter diameter that circumscribed the Slugs friends-and-family area. From behind her, Hal caromed into Catie, and she dropped Kerry Zermann and pounded her brother’s head in sisterly delight. All around them the crowd of sixty thousand was in bedlam, and in the spat volume team members of all kinds were hugging each another and jerseys were being pulled off and sent sailing across the volume to other players, who slipped them on and came across to shake hands, some cheerfully, some with scowls. The announcer was shouting into the main sound link, “—and South Florida and Chicago tie, two-two, with Moscow Spartak falling by the wayside with an own goal and only one score during the whole of an incredible game, one that’ll go down in the record books for sheer unpredictability and brilliant play — the umpire congratulating both sides now as the Slugs and the Fire progress to the quarter-final stage, both teams going into the positional lottery along with New York, Los Angeles, the Grasshoppers of Xamax Zurich, Manchester United High, Rio de Janeiro, and Sydney Gold Stripe. A game that will go down in spat history for possibly the latest…”
Catie found herself wondering later, The latest what? — for when things quieted down again enough for her to notice things, she was in the “locker room” with the Slugs, their entourage, and about fifty other people, mostly from the sports networks. The locker room wasn’t any such thing, of course, any more than it had to be in any other virtual sport. The players’ actual bodies were mostly in their own homes, and if they needed showers, or someplace to change their clothes, such things were only steps away from their own implant chairs. But the need for a place to celebrate after a won game, and to deal with the press, still existed, and so here they all were, the Slugs laughing, shouting, jubilant even after only achieving a draw. At first Catie tried to keep herself calm in the midst of all this, but it was just silly. So much excitement, so tightly concentrated, simply overwhelmed your senses — the reporters running around sticking virtual mikes (representative of link-out programs to their own broadcasters’ servers) into people’s faces, the champagne being squirted around with total abandon — for when the session finally broke up, no one would actually be sticky, and no money for the bubbly stuff would actually have been wasted — the hoots and shouts of victory, the jokes and jibes, and the big stuffed banana slug being paraded around the locker room, with some team members and hangers-on bowing to it ceremoniously, and others following it around in an impromptu conga line — Catie couldn’t help but laugh, especially when George’s co-captain, Mark, left one interview with the CNNSI reporter and came up to her with what looked like a very big peanut butter jar wrapped in prismatic gift paper. He was holding the lid on, and he said to Catie, in a mysterious voice, “Want a look?”
“Sure,” Catie said.
He opened the lid. She peered in. Then she raised her eyebrows and said, “I thought they were bigger.”
“Aww,” Mark said, sounding disappointed. Plainly he had been expecting a more emphatic response. “And you looked like such a sweet, innocent little thing, too.”
Catie grinned. “Guilty on one count, maybe. But when you’ve had as many weird things put down your back by your little brother as I have over the last seventeen years, one slug more or less doesn’t matter much. Besides, I think that one’s asleep.”
“Asleep? How can you tell?” Mark stared into the jar. “Listen, seriously, how can you—?” But at that point one of the reporters from AB/NBC came up to Mark with a “mike” and started asking him questions about Chicago’s “front five,” and Catie slipped away, grinning. That response had paralyzed her brother, too, a few years ago, and had won her at least an hour of peace somewhere along the line.
Very slowly the locker room began to clear out, and as it did, George Brickner drifted over toward Catie, glancing around him with an expression that overtly looked like satisfaction. But there was still something else going on too, that uncertain quality in his gaze that Catie had noticed before and had not been able to put a name to. Seeing it again now, it began to bother her more than ever. If there was a form of art she preferred above all others, it was portraiture, and after a lot of studying of faces, over time, she was beginning to get a sense of whether the face in question was (for lack of a better phrase) comfortable with itself. George’s face was not, and Catie kept wondering why.
“Well,” he said, watching one last reporter getting into Melendez’s face again, “at least that’s over. Now we start getting ready to go into the lottery.”
Catie raised her eyebrows at that. “You’re going to have to coach me here a little, George…I’m still new to this game. Though I think I heard some of the reporters going on about this earlier.”
“Oh. Well, at the quarterfinal level, the teams that have ‘survived’ that long go into a lottery to determine who plays who in what order. Originally, it was a way of avoiding accusations that one team or another was using undue influence to have first crack at the spat volume on the Space Station.” He waved away one of his teammates who was coming at him and Catie with one more champagne bottle. “Pete, why don’t you drink some of the stuff? Nice vintage, no calories!”
The answer was a rude noise, after which Dalton departed to squirt someone else. “…Anyway, later they kept the same routine to make sure that time slots in the dedicated ‘sealed’ server were distributed fairly, since the security protocols in the single server only allow one game to be played at a time. A spat tournament isn’t something you can stage over multiple venues, like a real-world sport. At least it couldn’t be done so far. That may change now. With money pouring into the sport the way it has been, they’ll be able to afford to set up and maintain at least one more dedicated server, maybe two. One of the good things that’ll come of all this sponsorship, I hope, eventually.”
George sighed then. “At least the hardware upgrades will be good if the software is improved…the stuff we have is already getting kind of clunky. In particular, there are problems handling the larger ‘crowds.’ That’s an increasingly thorny issue, and it’s going to get worse as the virtual ‘gate’ gets bigger and more and more people are attracted to the sport.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re longing for the good old days when spat was smaller, and only a few aficionados would turn up….” This was something that Catie had heard from at least one of the commentators over the past couple of weeks.
George laughed at her. “Are you kidding? This time, right now, is going to be looked back on in twenty years as spat’s golden age. I like it the way it is.” Then his face clouded. “I’d like it better still, though, if we’d won today. We should have.”