Cobb bounced a grounder to third and chased his HG down the line, screaming for it to speed up and beat the throw. Ty puffed back, leaning over the railing.
“Did you give me the slowest HG you got?” he snarled at the A29.
The robot looked helplessly at Puppy.
“It’s the program, Ty,” Puppy explained.
“I would’ve beaten that out. I beat out shit grounders like that my whole career.” He reached for the A29, who dashed up two rows, terrified. “Fix the midget to make it realistic or I’ll turn you into a goddamn coffee pot.”
Cobb stomped into the dugout. A few balls bounced onto the field, then a glove sailed toward first base, followed by a bat broken into three pieces.
Their spirits improved by the end of the game. They celebrated in the clubhouse, Cobb with a three-for-four and Mickey going two-for-three and a walk in their nearly 22nd Century debuts.
“That was a helluva catch I made.” Mickey congratulated himself, sitting on a stool naked, sipping a beer.
“You didn’t have any wind,” Cobb said dismissively. “I had to deal with a gust.”
“I had fucking gusts, too. At the last minute.”
“Both of you played great,” Puppy said, pulling up a stool near their lockers.
“I always played great,” Cobb said, ignoring his teammates silently filing out, puzzled by all the excitement.
“Hurry up, the stadium is closing.” Puppy gestured about the empty clubhouse.
“I ain’t finished my beer,” Mickey protested.
“They’ll lock us in. The rules.”
“Ain’t for cleaning up, is it?” Ty sneered.
“Nothing can be moved, remember that,” he whispered even though they were alone.
“Skeletons, skulls, bullets, whatever is out there has to be kept exactly where it was.”
“Why?” Ty asked.
They really don’t know. Ty Cobb and Mickey Mantle wouldn’t, Puppy reminded himself. He didn’t know quite how much to tell them since he wasn’t sure why they were here. Maybe he’d give them the topline schoolchild version of Bad People Do Bad Things to Good People. He reflexively touched the thick scar at the base of his neck where his father, flying high in the atmosphere on Virginia Lemon Rum, had mashed his skull with a boot after Puppy returned home from third grade chanting:
“Hate kills
We are more
Feel the love
Come through the door.”
They’d taken his father away for a few days until his mother pleaded that he be given another chance as a parent. One child abuse outburst was all you were allowed; not a capital crime like pedophilia, but you lost all rights to your kid which pretty much meant all rights within The Family. Whatever they’d done in The Study, tucked near the Van Cortlandt Park skating rink, worked, because Alvin Nedick never went near him again, always standing back in the shadows of dim resentment.
Puppy waited until Mantle returned after splashing water under his arms from the chipped sink.
“There was a terrorist attack here in 2065 to protest the war. Amazon…Yankee Stadium has been kept open as a memorial to treason and you can go to jail for moving anything out of place.” Puppy tapped his watch, suddenly feeling shame. “We gotta go.”
“That it?” Ty snarled.
“No. But it’s enough for now.”
They walked in moody silence along River Avenue.
“Is that robot fixing my program?” Ty abruptly asked.
“I’ll talk to him,” Puppy said amiably, eager to talk about anything else but World War Three. “Mick, any tweaks to your program?”
Mantle thought a moment as they passed under the El. “I could be a little faster, too.”
“Running the bases, fielding?”
“Everything.” Mickey warmed to the idea. “Like before I hurt my knees.”
“The Commerce Comet,” Puppy said in mock awe. “That’s the wonder of the HGs. Makes you anything you want.”
Ty sized him up warily. “Not what we want, what we were.”
“Back in the last century. When was your last game again, Ty?”
“September 11, 1928,” he answered slowly.
“And you, Mick?”
He closed his eyes to think. “September 28, 1968, Fenway Park. Popped out. That was it.” He looked in pain at the abruptness of it all. Too slow on a fastball and it’s over.
“Long time ago. You guys need these HGs to look good, so I’ll make sure…”
“Look good?” Cobb scowled.
“Well yeah. I mean, you’re like well over a hundred years old.”
“Are you saying we can’t play anymore?” Cobb thundered.
“Guys. Be realistic.” Puppy spread his hands pleadingly. “You really want to take a chance on your legacy being tarnished by reality?”
“We don’t need that HG crap,” Ty ranted.
“But you’re…” Puppy gestured at their old, chubby bodies.
“What?” Cobb’s eyes bulged in fury.
“Nothing. The HGs are just so fast,” he replied angelically.
“So are we,” Ty shouted. “Mick and I are still Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb.”
“That’s right,” Mickey echoed. “I’m the fucking Commerce Comet. That’s how I died and that’s how I came back.”
Cobb’s nose nearly brushed Puppy’s chin. He calmed down just slightly. “But we’re going to need to practice a little.”
• • • •
ZELDA’S MIND GLAZED quickly over the monofilament lines. Or leaders. Why she should’ve been surprised that her stomach was visiting somewhere near her eardrum, well, surprised her. She’d never been on a boat before. She didn’t even swim. Floating on your belly on the East River sewage discouraged most youngsters, though Pablo and Puppy had dived underwater once; they were in the hospital for two days.
But she put on a brave front even when she ran out of Elmer’s Ding-Dongs. They sailed straight into the Atlantic Ocean, unfamiliar sea smells filling her nostrils. So much on shore was augmented, sometimes she wondered if she were real. Weather, sunshine, clouds. That
