Kirsk spread his hands in a pleading gesture. "You should come, Vierce. Seriously, when's the next time your job's gonna put us both on the same planet?"

"That depends," I told his holocom image. "When's the next time the prime scam of the month's gonna get set up where I'm working?"

"Have you no faith in me? I could rig up a scam anywhere you go."

"The job's keeping me busy, Kirsk."

"What, so you're too busy for family now?"

Ouch. Right in the hopeless, obvious weak spot.

Kirsk grinned broadly. "Game's at seven. Bring your friends."

"Not likely."

*

Nobody does sports bars like Nar Shaddaa does sports bars.

One whole wall was a holoscreen, which was less useful than you might think because of the patrons and the waitresses and the dancers and the beer fountain in the way. They still had a bunch of overhead screens, with subtle holo overlays of more dancers over the actual Huttball action. The neon trim on every edge in the room would've been blinding, except the screens themselves were brighter.

"Welcome," said Kirsk, gesturing broadly, "to the sole bastion of Nikto Fever fans in the galaxy."

"Don't they have any on Nikto?"

"Kintan, you mean. And knowing Fever's record? I don't think so."

The place was full fit to burst, but Kirsk led me right over to the bar and, through a stream of Huttese too rapid to follow, freed up seats for himself and me. We ordered up some beer and, at Kirsk's insistence, fried grease sticks. This cantina was the first place I'd found since I left my home sector that did grease sticks right. Kirsk waggled his eyebrows and smiled proudly when I told him so.

The holocasters finished up the team overviews in time for kickoff. The noise level in the cantina lowered, very very slightly, as a few of us shut up to sit and anticipate. The Nikto Fever was up against the Ghests from Rodia; they were just about the second worst in the Rimward League, so we had a chance. Maybe.

The game hadn't made it through three (surprisingly good) plays when Kirsk punched me. "Forgot. Here." He handed me a little flexiplast headband.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Do it."

"We'll be seen."

"Take a look around, big brother."

I did. Everyone in the place was wearing a holohat, or holding a pennant – a cute rendition of what the championship pennant would be if the Nikto Fever had ever won one – or at the very least drinking from a mug with big plastoid Nikto-style face frills coming off the sides.

"Put it on, flip the switch," urged Kirsk.

"How come you get the relatively normal-looking pennant-waving part of this arrangement?"

"Because I set this night up. Nikto hat. On. Now."

"No."

"If you fail to wear that, and we lose, it'll be your fault."

"We'll lose anyway."

About half a dozen people within earshot turned to glare at me.

"Okay, okay!" I put the hat on. And flicked it on. And tried not to think about the ferocious Nikto face now being projected over my head. Worth it, I thought, if the team managed to score anything good tonight.

*

Halftime. I don't even want to go into the details of the game so far.

"Why did we ever like this team, anyway?" I asked Kirsk.

"Your fault. You fixated on that blonde runner they traded for a few years back, Lenna Dray? Converted wholesale just for her. You had it bad."

"That is definitely not how it happened. You probably tried to infect our house with Fever on a bet or something."

"Nope. It was your hopeless, eternal devotion to her right up 'til her injuries took her out of the game. We all had to cheer with you or else you'd beat us up."

"When did my beating you up ever convince you of anything? You chose to be here today, little brother."

"Because of your years of bullying. Monster."

"Hey, half's starting. We'll turn this around."

We started out okay, as we usually do. In fact, the place was up for a legitimate cheer before too long, and it was one I knew from back home. It eventually came around to me yelling along with "Smash their runners, crush their guard, Nikto Fever rocks you – I am going to die of shame right here."

Kirsk finished the chant and then shot me a weird look. "Uh, screwed that one up, Vierce."

"No." I nodded toward the door.

Sergeant Jorgan stepped in and strolled up to us with that horribly feral grin of his. "Took me quite a while to track you down, sir," he said. "I truly do not know where to start."

Kirsk waved genially. "Start by making fun of him for being unable to commit to two full lines of a proper chant."

"Shut up, Kirsk. Jorgan, this is my brother. I don't actually know him and I don't know why he kidnapped me and brought me here. Kirsk, Sergeant Jorgan, who is going to be very quiet if he knows what's good for him."

Jorgan looked around. His eyes eventually settled on my hat. "I always knew you had secrets, Savins, but this…the Nikto Fever?"

"If word of this gets out, they won't find enough of you to file a death certificate."

Kirsk piped up. "So you gonna pull up a chair or what?"

There was a long, very tense moment.

Jorgan's yellow eyes gleamed in the shifting light. Then he stepped in and signaled the bartender for a beer. "Been meaning to see whether that new offensive guard lives up to the hype anyway." He looked up at the screen and pretended he wasn't speaking to us. "We're never talking about this after tonight, Savins."