The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  Boss One fluttered through the hall. “You have all passed the Combine. You will now join your team representative. Be aware that other species may be joining you at this point. It is a crime under Creterakian law to use racial insults against other species, and that species-based crimes such as assault result in far harsher penalties than the same crime against a member of your own species. Intolerance of other species is not allowed under Creterakian law.”

  Boss One fluttered to his perch.

  The voice once again came over the loud speaker. [TEXAS EARTHLING PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

  A blue line glowed on the floor. Alonzo and a lanky black-skinned man, probably a quarterback, walked down the hall.

  Alonzo waved. “Good luck, Quentin. I hope I see you in the playoffs.”

  [SHORAH CHIEFTAIN PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

  Three men wearing green dots on black walked to the end of the hall. All three were obviously quarterbacks, and Quentin knew two of them would probably open their lockers in a week to find a ticket home — only one would make the cut.

  [IONATH KRAKENS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

  Quentin stepped out. For a second, he thought he was the only one in orange and black, but another man fell in line behind him. Quentin hadn’t seen him during the combine nor did he recognize the face. The man wore number 26.

  Quentin followed the blue line, his new teammate right behind him. Two hallways later, an airlock hissed open and he found himself on a empty deck in the landing bay. The deck had four doors — the eight-foot high one that Quentin had just walked through, another just like it, a narrower one twelve feet high, and one ten feet high and eight feet wide.

  The view port showed that the deck’s sealed airlock connected to a hundred-foot-long shuttle, an older model but neatly trimmed out in orange and black. Five Creterakian guards waited there, flittering about, first in the air, then hopping on the floor, then hanging from the ceiling, never staying still.

  “I am Boss Seven,” the lead Creterakian said. “Line up on the blue line.” At his command, a blue line appeared on the deck, perpendicular to the airlock. Quentin did as he was told. He turned to number 26, his new teammate, a burly, thick-chested man with legs the size of sonic cannons. He had dark, yellowish skin and a curly beard that hung to his chest.

  “Quentin Barnes,” Quentin said, offering his hand.

  “Yassoud Murphy,” the man said, shaking Quentin’s hand. Quentin finally recognized the man’s face — Yassoud had broken the Tier Three rushing record in the Sklorno league and led his team to the championship of the Tier Three tournament.

  “Glad to have you aboard,” Quentin said. “I saw highlights of your performance in the finals.”

  Yassoud nodded. “Yeah, thanks. That was a pretty good game. I cleaned up on the point spread on that one.”

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You bet on your own game?”

  “Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Everyone bets in the Sklorno leagues. What, you never bet on your own game?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Well, you should,” Yassoud said. “There’s money to be made if you know the odds. There’s bets for everything in the GFL, man. Take me for example, did you know the odds of me making it through the season without serious injury are three-to-five?”

  “That’s not very good.”

  “Not very good? Are you crazy? Three-to-five is great for a rookie. I’m only here because the Krakens third running back caught Fenkel Fever from some girl on Earth. He’s out for the season. That means I’m third string, so I won’t see a whole lot of action playing behind Mitchell Fayed and Paul Pierson. But then again, you know how frequently running backs get hurt in this league. Everyone except Fayed, anyway — that guy can take more hits than a battle cruiser. They don’t call him ‘The Machine’ for nothing.”

  “What are my odds to start, about even?”

  Yassoud laughed. “Start? Hardly. Odds are three-to-one that you don’t even make it through the season before they ship you back to the Purist Nation.”

  Quentin felt anger instantly overtake him. “That’s bull.”

  “Nope,” Yassoud said. “It’s not. Three-to-one.”

  “Why the hell is that?”

  “You’re a Nationalite,” Yassoud said. “You’ve probably never met other species face to face, let alone played with them. Did you know that only twenty percent of Purist Nation rookies make it through their first season?”

  Quentin shook his head. He’d had no idea his people held such a dismal success rate.

  Yassoud continued. “It’s true. You backwater jokers usually can’t handle the inter-species dynamics. Hell, I’ve got a thousand on you dropping out before the season is half over.”

  Quentin paused a moment, trying to control his anger. “Then you made a big mistake.”

  Yassoud shrugged. “We’ll see. You win some, you lose some.”

  Quentin started to speak when the twelve-foot-high airlock door hissed open. Two Sklorno stepped onto the deck. Quentin had seen them on the net before, but never in person. They were tall, probably nine feet apiece — twelve long feet, if you counted the tail that extended past their legs. Translucent chitin covered black skeletons and ghostly images of semi-translucent internal organs. They reminded Quentin of full-body Human X-rays he’d seen in his childhood schoolbooks. Coarse black fur jutted out at every joint.

  Their legs practically screamed speed and leaping. Translucent two-foot segments, folded back like a grasshopper’s legs, ended in a thick pad of a foot with five long, splayed toes.

  The legs supported a slender body-stalk that curved backwards like a bow. Two long arms — coils of translucent, boneless muscle three feet long — jutted out from three-quarters of the way up the trunk, in the approximate position where a Human female’s breasts would be. Each Sklorno wore a orange-and-black jersey, with the numbers “81” and “82,” respectively, on the trunks below their coiled arms.

  Even though he’d seen Sklorno heads a few times on the Web, they still took some getting used to. Two curled raspers hung at the top of the body-stalk, just below the head, partially covered by a chitinous chin-plate. When unrolled, the raspers reached to the floor. Hundreds of tiny teeth coated each rasper — they could tear through most anything. Back in the Wartimes, stories abounded that the Sklorno ate their enemies. Humans were supposed to be a particular favorite.

  The head itself was nothing more than a softball-sized block of oily, coarse black hairs. Sklorno heads didn’t require a lot of volume, as the brain was located in a long column on the back of the trunk. Four boneless eyestalks, each a pebbly, deep magenta, jutted from the furry black ball. The eyestalks moved independently, like intelligent snakes on the head of the mythical Medusa.

  Boss Seven shouted something in the high-pitched click-and-squeal Sklorno language. The Sklorno walked up to the blue line, eyestalks waving as they examined every angle of the flight deck. Quentin fought down a wave of revulsion. He felt grateful the two wore jerseys — otherwise, there was no way to tell them apart.

  Number 81 stood on Quentin’s right side, and Number 82 stood to the right of Number 81. Number 81’s raspers rolled out, wet with saliva. A thin strand of drool dangled from the left rasper, wetly swinging down the eight feet to the floor.

  “You are Quentin Barnes?” Its voice sounded like a combination of bird whistles, but Quentin had no problem understanding the words. He nodded in acknowledgement. It lowered itself; rear legs folding up like a grasshopper’s. In that position, it stood just under six feet tall, and actually looked up at Quentin.

  “I am Denver,” the Sklorno said. It used its tentacle-arm to point at the other. “This is Milford.” Another string of drool dripped down from Denver’s left rasper. Quentin fought the urge to turn away.

  “You are great thrower,” Milford said. “The Sklorno people watch you on the net. I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you.”

  “No,
I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you,” Denver said. “I will catch majority of passes.”

  Milford turned suddenly and stood tall, extending to a full nine feet. “No! I will catch majority of his passes!”

  Denver also stood, eyestalks waving wildly, tentacle-arms whirling in a threatening pattern. “No! You will be on the sidelines watching me catch passes!”

  Milford’s body began to shake, sending streamers of drool flying across the flight deck. The boneless arms stretched back, as if to strike at Denver, then suddenly five Creterakians brandishing entropic rifles flew between the two Sklorno.

  “Cease hostilities!” Boss Seven said loudly. “Cease or you will be deported before you can report to your team.”

  As quickly as the flare-up started, it ceased. Denver and Milford sat down on their tails. They twitched and moved and squeaked, just a little, as if neither was capable of sitting perfectly still or remain perfectly quiet. Their ever-moving eyestalks flittered in all directions.

  “You must be one sexy guy,” Yassoud said quietly. “The girls are fighting over you.”

  “Girls? They’re females?”

  Yassoud rolled his eyes. “Don’t they teach you backwater Purist idiots anything? You never took basic multi-species biology?”

  Another nursery rhyme jumped into his brain.

  The crickets have eyes on top of their head

  Grab them and pull them they’ll soon be dead.

  With Satan’s soldiers don’t ever be kind

  They can’t see to sin if they are made blind.

  Quentin shrugged. “I know how to kill them. That’s all the biology the Nation is concerned with.”

  Yassoud laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Sklorno females are the athletes, the soldiers. The males are these little two-foot-high things, kind of like a furry black ball.”

  Quentin’s face wrinkled in surprise, remembering broadcasts showing the small creatures that seemed to throng around the tall Sklorno he now knew to be females. “Those things? There’s hordes of those. Those are the males? I thought those were pets.”

  Yassoud shook his head. “Ah, the wonderful education system of the Purist Nation.”

  Quentin again felt very stupid and hickish. The feeling made him want to hit someone. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve heard the word Denver. Isn’t that a city on Earth?”

  “Yeah. The Sklorno are football crazy. Once they start playing the game, they take the name of an Earth city or region because Earth was the birthplace of football.”

  “I didn’t know Sklorno could speak English.”

  “English is the language of football,” Yassoud said. “You either understand it or you won’t get to this level. The Sklorno players spend several hours a day working on it, but it’s very difficult for them. Quyth have no problem, of course, and the Ki can understand it well enough even though they can’t speak it for crap.”

  The ten-foot by eight-foot door hissed open, and a nightmare crawled out.

  Like the Sklorno, Quentin had seen Ki only on the net. Ki were often cast in Purist Nation movies as bloodthirsty monsters, or tricksters out to collect Human souls. With movie-making technology that could make any imagined creature as real as a Human, however, everything on the net took on a sense of fantasy. This Ki looked like the movie creatures, but a holocast simply didn’t do the species justice.

  Its twelve-foot-long, tube-shaped body bent upwards in the middle, giving it a six-foot long horizontal piece and a six-foot-high vertical piece. Bright orange skin covered with small dots of reddish-brown enamel covered the body. Six legs stuck out from the sides of the horizontal segment, each leg thick and just over four feet long. Two more limbs protruded from each side of the vertical body — these were shorter but thicker, with muscle rippling under the pebbled skin. Each upper-body limb ended in four stubby fingers.

  Five glossy black eyespots surrounded the vertical body’s tapered point. Ki were well known for their 360-degree vision. At the very top of the tapered point was the vocal spout, a small cluster of wormlike tubes. Between the top sets of vertical arms was the thing that gave Quentin nightmares as a child — the Ki “mouth.” The mouth consisted of six short, thick, sharp black hooks in a hexagonal pattern. Inside the hex was a pinkish hole lined with row after row of triangular black teeth. He’d seen many movies where the upper arms would drag Human prey to the mouth. The hexagonal hooks dug into the screaming victim, pulling it tight, while the triangular teeth ripped out chunk after chunk after chuck — bite, swallow, bite, swallow.

  What do I do if a Ki should attack?

  I get behind him with my foot in his back

  I bend him hard, his back gives a crack

  Because the High One loves me, and I love him back

  The Ki’s orange and black, four-sleeved jersey ran from the bottom of the vertical body to just under the horrific mouth. There was just enough room for a small number “93” on the chest.

  Quentin shuddered as he pictured the creature tearing through an offensive line, multi-jointed arms wrapping him up and taking him down. This Ki had to weigh at least 580 pounds. The smell of rotting meat filled Quentin’s nose. His face wrinkled in disgust, and he waved his hand to clear away the odor.

  “What is that stench?”

  Yassoud laughed. “Better get used to it, that’s how Ki smell.”

  Boss Seven barked out a command. The Ki language sounded hoarse, gravelly, guttural, and Quentin didn’t understand a word of it. The hulking Ki scuttled towards the blue line, its horizontal legs moving like a cross between an insect’s and an the oars of an old Greek warship.

  Yassoud nudged Quentin. “That’s Mum-O-Killowe. He played in the Sklorno leagues. Had twenty-six sacks in a twelve-game season, another five in the playoffs.”

  “You played against him?”

  Yassoud nodded. “Yeah. You can’t imagine how hard that thing hits. And he has no concept of the difference between practice and a game, so don’t get on his bad side.”

  Mum-O-Killowe stopped four feet from the blue line. He pointed his upper right arm straight at Quentin. The tubes of the vocal spout quivered as the nightmarish creature let out a long, barking sound. It then reared back and started lunging forward. Quentin had already taken two steps back before the Creterakian guards flew in front of Mum-O-Killowe, their entropic rifles aimed directly at his eyespots. The Ki stopped, turned his long body, and got on the blue line to the right of Milford.

  “Too bad,” Yassoud said. “Looks like you’re already on his bad side.”

  “Did you understand what he said?”

  “Some of it. It seems your fame precedes you. He said something to the effect that he saw your championship game, and he prayed to the Ki gods that you were on another Tier Two team so he could cripple you.”

  “Cripple me?”

  “The Ki consider it a high point of honor to knock someone out of the game — maiming, dismembering and death are all acceptable methods. Now that you’re on the same team, and he’ll see you every day in practice, he figures he’ll cripple you for sure.”

  “Oh this is just great.”

  Yassoud laughed. “You know, if you want to put some money down that you won’t make it through training camp, I can put you in touch with my bookie.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Hey, I’m just saying you might as well come out of this with some money, if only to pay your prolonged hospital bills.”

  Quentin turned and raised his fist, but Yassoud raised his hands, palms out in a defensive posture. His eyebrows rose high in mock surprise. “Hey now! Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just riding you — and if you throw that punch, you’re on the next ship back to the Purist Nation.”

  Quentin lowered the fist and stared straight out from the blue line. “Just keep talking,” he said quietly. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

  The main airlock door, the one connected to the orange and black shuttle, hissed open. A
pair of furry Quyth Leaders scurried out, one with jet-black fur that glistened under the landing deck lights, the other with unkempt yellow fur mottled with irregular brown stripes.

  Two dangerous looking Quyth Warriors followed the Leaders, one about 300 pounds, the other a good-sized 375. Their carapaces were both painted in the wild reds and oranges of Quyth commandos, and each carried a five-foot long stun-stick. Quentin had read about Quyth Warriors in his history classes. They were one of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy: fast, strong and vicious. One-on-one, they were no match for trained Purist Nation soldiers, of course. At least that’s what the history books said. Standing this close to one, Quentin suddenly found himself wondering if his history books were more than a little bit colored by Holy Men’s propaganda.

  The big warrior, Quentin was surprised to see, wore a Krakens jersey with the number 58 on the chest.

  A Creterakian dressed in a blue vest inlaid with tiny, tinkling silver bells flew out of the airlock, did a pair of 360-degree circles, then fluttered in front of Mum-O-Killowe. The Creterakian barked something out in the Ki language, the Ki answered, and the Creterakian settled down on top of the bigger creature’s head.

  Quentin leaned over to Yassoud. “What the heck was that all about?”

  “Most Ki can’t speak Human or Quyth,” Yassoud said. “Creterakians can speak all languages, so they frequently act as interpreters.”

  “Why is it dressed like that?” Quentin asked. “Is that some kind of an interpreter’s uniform?”

  Yassoud chuckled softly. “He’s a civilian.”

  “A ... civilian? You mean it’s not in the military?”

  “Let me guess, the Holy Men taught you that all Creterakians are mindless soldiers bent on exterminating all the other races?”

  His hickish feeling cranked up another notch. “Well ... yeah, that’s about right.”

  Yassoud shook his head. “It’s amazing that such a backwater place can even function. Creterakians are just like everybody else, they’ve got a mostly civilian population along with the military.”