The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  Virak turned to Quentin and grabbed one arm with a pedipalp. Quentin managed to not wince at the painful grab — he knew the full strength of a Quyth Warrior, and this grab was not meant to hurt.

  “You watch yourself,” Virak said. “Orbital Stations are a lot older than Ionath City. Races have mingled here for centuries. This is one of the few places in the galaxy that there are no Creterakian soldiers, so a lot of criminal elements come and go, or just come and stay.”

  “So why don’t your people do something about it?”

  “For a long time it was difficult to trade with other systems. No one wanted to bother with the Quyth. Smugglers brought in many goods, and they needed a place to hide out. And when the war came, they fought and died right along with us. For that, we leave them be as long as they don’t make too much trouble.”

  Quentin noted the phrase too much trouble, as opposed to as long as they don’t make any trouble. As he disembarked onto the roof of the purple building, he wondered what kind of activities might fall under the threshold of too much trouble.

  “Just be careful,” Virak said as the races moved to their separate locker rooms. “And you’d do best to keep to yourself.”

  • • •

  THE DEUCE HAD no haven for Purist Nation ex-patriots, so Rick Warburg decided to stay in the Demolition Building. Quentin had no intention of staying in. He opted for dinner with Yassoud and John Tweedy. The city’s bizarre architecture drew him out into the streets. Ionath City was orderly and new, a highly regimented place built with careful planning and meticulous attention to detail. The Deuce, on the other hand, felt far more organic. Not just streets but entire levels had sprung up over the centuries, many without any official sanction or knowledge. Caverns and tunnels, both rough and smoothly engineered, ran through the artificial planetoid like a giant termite colony.

  Like Ionath City and Port Whitok, the football stadium lay in a bustling downtown area packed with many species, noise, grav cars and multiple forms of entertainment. It surprised him to see so many representatives of the different races. Some of the Human families, he’d been told, had lived on The Deuce for eight or more generations, two centuries of life, and considered themselves citizens of the Quyth Concordia with no association whatsoever to the Human systems.

  Quentin thought of his own lineage — his ancestors had come over on the first flotilla, some 240 years ago. A great-great-great-great grandfather, supposedly, had come from someplace on Earth called “Dallas.” Quentin only remembered that tidbit because one of the original football teams had played there. He, and his parents, and his parents’ parents before him, thought of themselves as citizens of the Purist Nation, as separate from Earth as the Human citizens of The Deuce were to any Human government. Still, it was hard to think of Humans proudly boasting their citizenship to a nation of radioactivity-proof aliens.

  Buildings towered above, some reaching a mile into the air. The green crystalline mass that made up the buildings’ frameworks looked bubbly, almost alive, with the soft ripples and curves of a large icicle. Massive arcs of that same green crystal reached from building to building, across narrow spans, across streets, some across entire blocks. Some arcs reached from a building to another arc, and a few even ran from one arc to another, forming a stringy, organic latticework.

  “Bet you never saw anything like this back on the farm, eh Quentin?” Yassoud said as the trio headed to the first building with a holographic football/beer bottle sign.

  “You can say that again,” Quentin said. “Virak told me to watch my back in this place. I hear it’s dangerous.”

  “Relax, backwater,” Tweedy said with a grin. “We’re football players. Nobody is gonna mess with us. We can beat the tar out of them and no one can send us to jail. GFL immunity is great, I tell ya. Let’s just enjoy the place and tie one on tonight.”

  “Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Let us delve into the seedy underbelly of this strange and alien city.”

  As if pulled by some unseen magnetism, Yassoud and Tweedy suddenly turned as one and walked towards a door marked with a familiar glowing sign of a football on top of a Miller logo. Quentin paused before entering. The bar was so packed part of the crowd stood on the street, mag-glasses in hand. Where Ionath City and Port Whitok had “species-specific” areas, this bar seemed to have everything: Humans, Creterakian civilians, female Sklorno, more than a few Ki, Harrah, and, of course, dozens of Quyth Workers, Warriors and Leaders.

  The crowd parted for the three men as they walked into the bar, mostly because the ever-scowling Tweedy led the way, head tilted down, eyes peering out from his thick eyebrows. KRAKENS RULE THE UNIVERSE scrolled across his forehead. The bar’s counter was a black, onyx-like surface set at just two feet off the ground, the perfect height for Quyth Workers to sit and relax. Quentin, Tweedy and Yassoud sat at three seats, which seemed to magically open before them as three normal-sized Humans got up and left upon their approach.

  “Bartender!” Yassoud screamed as he sat. A wide, white-toothed smile nearly split his face in two. “Bartender! Three Millers!”

  A Quyth Worker waddled over. A shriveled stub on his left cheek remained of what had once matched the yellow-and-orange furred pedipalp on his right. He reached under the bar and quickly served up three mag-cans of Miller. Yassoud, still smiling, ceremoniously opened all three cans, passing one to Quentin and one to John Tweedy.

  “Tonight we drink to turning things around,” Yassoud said, his can held high. “Here’s to kicking in the Demolition’s face! Oh yep!”

  All three men drank as the crowd, obviously Demolition fans, let out low-volume jeers. Quentin noticed how many beings wore Demolition clothing of one type or another; purple hats and jackets and shirts marked with three white stripes.

  Quentin took a couple of swallows. When he set his can down, Yassoud and Tweedy were still drinking. Both men drained their mag-cans, hit the decompress button on the top, and set the now de-charged and empty metal ring on the bar top.

  “Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. “Another round please.”

  John Tweedy poked a finger at Quentin’s can, still three-quarters full. “What’s the matter, rookie. Not thirsty?”

  “Um, we have a game in two days.”

  “So?” Yassoud and Tweedy said in unison.

  “I’m not going to get drunk, we’ve got to be at our best for the game.”

  Tweedy waved a hand in front of his face as if Quentin had farted. “Dang, backwater, I thought you were fun, like Yassoud here.”

  Yassoud, smiling, just shrugged.

  “I’m fun,” Quentin said. “I just don’t wanna mess anything up this week.”

  “Yeah, you’re tons of fun,” Yassoud said. “The way you spend all your time in the VR room, man you’re a regular ball of laughs. I wanna party with you, kid.”

  Tweedy laughed. Quentin felt his face turn a bit red.

  “Hey, I’m out tonight, right?” Quentin said. “Give me at least that much.”

  Yassoud nodded vigorously. “Oh yep, you’re right, you’re here so I’ll quit bagging on you.”

  The second round hit the bar top. Within seconds, John and Yassoud had knocked that one back as well.

  “Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. Quentin slowly shook his head. It was going to be a long night.

  • • •

  RIGHT ABOUT THE TIME John Tweedy, now eight beers heavier, started challenging anyone and everyone in the bar to a fight, Quentin (only two beers heavier) walked outside. He had a good feeling he’d need a grav-cab to get Tweedy and Yassoud back to their rooms. How they could hope to practice the next day was beyond Quentin’s understanding.

  The streets remained packed with grav-cars. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, moved in and out of bars and buildings. The green tinged buildings soared above, their endless network of arms reaching out to each other like tentacled lovers caught in a freeze-frame.

  A pair of Human hand-holding women walked by, one with blue skin, the other w
ith white, both wearing matching see-through body suits that left nothing to the imagination. A month ago, he would have sneered at the two shameless women, both for their sinful dress and for the color of their skin. Now however, something did rise as they walked by, but it wasn’t his lip.

  You’re changing so fast you can barely keep score, Quentin thought to himself. Maybe it was being immersed in alien cultures that made even blue- and white-skinned women look alluring. They didn’t seem so different anymore, not like they had back on Micovi, where you only saw colored skin in the holos. The white-skinned girl turned and looked at him as she walked by, her blue-painted lips flashing a seductive smile.

  He watched her walk down the sidewalk, his eyes following first her shapely booty, then her legs, then her friend’s booty, then her friend’s legs, then Maygon.

  Maygon?

  Quentin blinked twice, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. Maygon, the Creterakian representative of the To Pirates, was two buildings down the street, dressed in a fuchsia suit with yellow stripes, and waving at him with one wing. No, not waving, beckoning.

  Quentin felt his face flush red. He looked around quickly, but saw no one he recognized, and no one staring at him. Well, no unusual stares — a seven-foot-tall being drew plenty of stares in a city where the average citizen stood just over four feet.

  Maygon waved again, this time faster, more demanding.

  Quentin swallowed, looked in the bar to make sure Yassoud and Tweedy weren’t watching, then walked to Maygon.

  “What do you want?’ Quentin said. “We can’t be seen together.”

  “A chance you’ll have to take. Kirani-Ah-Kollok has a message for you.”

  “Well, then make it quick.”

  “I’ll only be a second, relax. I just wanted to let you know you did a good job last week. Your effort looked very convincing, yet you still lost by twenty-five points.”

  Quentin suddenly realized that once he’d taken that first snap, he hadn’t even thought about throwing the game. He felt doubly humiliated — first because he’d considered tanking, and second because he’d played his tail off, lost, and this bat thought he’d lost on purpose. Quentin felt an anger brewing in him like he’d never felt before.

  “Just keep it up, backwater,” Maygon said. “One more loss and you’ll be wearing the blood red before Tier One season starts. Just letting you know that I’m here, and I’m watching. Now piss off, I want to chase some tail.”

  Quentin stood for a moment, then turned, the rage so thick in his head it was hard to think. One more loss ... the phrase echoed in his mind. The To Pirates, his childhood dream, and all he needed was one more loss. He walked towards the bar. It was time to get those two drunks out of there and go back to the rooms.

  He was so mad he didn’t notice the things around him, like the crowd parting before him the way it had for John Tweedy, or the two huge Ki that blocked the sidewalk and weren’t about to part for anybody. Quentin almost walked right into them.

  “Excuse me,” he said, but the Ki didn’t move. Quentin looked at them for a moment, their expressionless black eyes staring back, then he tried to walk around them.

  They moved to block his path.

  “You guys have a problem?”

  The Ki said nothing. A Creterakian, this one dressed in lemon yellow with long flowing streamers of dark yellow, flew up and perched on one of the Ki’s shoulders.

  “Quentin Barnes,” the Creterakian said. “My boss would like a word with you.”

  Did the To Pirates think he was a moron? “I already heard the sermon. Now leave me alone.”

  “You haven’t heard anything,” the Creterakian said, “until you’ve heard it from the boss. And the boss wants to speak with you.”

  “I’m heading back to my room. Now get these beasts out of my way.”

  “The boss wants to talk with you now,” the Creterakian said. The Ki moved quickly, multi-jointed arms reaching out. Quentin immediately started dodging to the left, but they were too close and he’d been caught off guard. Eight strong Ki arms grabbed him and held him concrete-tight. Quentin in tow, they scuttled into a building. It all happened so fast Quentin barely knew what was happening before the Ki tossed him unceremoniously onto the floor. The noise of the street faded away behind a closed door. He stood up with an athlete’s quickness, but the Ki were already off him, backed up against the door to prevent his escape. The yellow-suited Creterakian was also in the room, only now he was perched on the shoulder of a black-and-tan furred Quyth Leader.

  This is bad, Quentin thought instantly. This is very bad. He wanted out and he wanted out quickly. He leaned forward and started lunging for the Ki.

  They both pulled knives. He stopped short, almost stumbling into the glittering points.

  Knives wasn’t the right word. He’d used knives in his military training. Knives were a foot long at most. These blades were three feet long, serrated on one side, gleaming sharpness on the other.

  “Stop being a pansy,” the Quyth Leader said in a gravelly voice. “You’re here until I tell you to leave, so stop being a pansy.”

  Quentin backed away from the sword-wielding Ki. The room had another door, but it was behind the Quyth Leader. Quentin suspected if he rushed for that way out, the Ki might cut him down before he could get the thing open.

  “I am Mopuk the Sneaky,” the Quyth Leader said. He then gestured to the Creterakian. “This is Sobox. If you see Sobox again, know that he is carrying my voice.”

  “I don’t care if he’s carrying your nuts in a paper baggie, you want to tell me what this is about?”

  “This is about Donald Pine.”

  Quentin hadn’t expected that. “What about him?”

  “He works for me,” Mopuk said. “You might say he’s a seasonal employee. Donald Pine owes me a lot of money. He pays off his debt by playing the way I tell him to play.”

  Quentin felt stunned. “You’re trying to tell me that Pine throws games for you?”

  Mopuk’s pedipalps quivered once.

  “Well you’re out of luck then, moron, because Pine’s hurt and I’m playing this week.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Mopuk said. “I want the Demolition to win. You will make sure that happens.”

  Quentin was getting tired of people telling him to lose. Damn tired.

  “There’s cash in it for you,” Mopuk said. He held out one pedipalp, into which Sobox dropped a credit chit. Mopuk tossed it to Quentin. “That’s a chit for a half million. I believe your entire salary for the season is only one million?”

  Quentin looked at the small black chit. Indeed, the readout said c500,000.00. The payable button, however did not glow the blue of an active transaction.

  “One million, what a joke,” Sobox said. “You need an agent, backwater.”

  “Just take care of business, and that light glows blue,” Mopuk said. “Make sure the Demolition wins by at least a touchdown. That’s all you have to do.”

  Quentin stared at the chit. Five hundred thousand — that was half of what he made for the whole season. More than half, if he counted in the tithe he had to pay to the Purist Nation. And hell, they’d probably lose anyway ...

  He shook his head, trying to clear away such thoughts. He would not throw the game. And besides, if he did, Gredok might find out, and that would be very, very bad.

  “Do you know who owns the Krakens?” Quentin asked. “Any idea at all, moron?”

  “I know who owns the Krakens,” Mopuk said. “And if you go run and tell him, he won’t be happy. But right now he doesn’t know anything. And if he does find out, I’ll be sure to implicate you in every way possible. I’m protected, gatholi, but you’re not. Who do you think is going to come out of this with their head still attached to their body? You just throw the game and everyone is happy.”

  Quentin shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you let me use those pedipalps to clean my toilet? I had some Tower food didn’t agree wit
h me, and it’s a mess. Your furry little things would clean it up good.”

  Sobox flapped once, and the Ki were on him. There was no space to maneuver in the small room. Quentin managed one good punch at the first Ki, but didn’t know if his blow did any damage before he went down under a thousand pounds of heavy alien. He felt sudden blows to his ribs, and one to his jaw. The world spun awkwardly around him as the weight suddenly lifted. Quentin slowly stood up, rubbing his jaw, his ribs feeling like someone had jabbed a baseball bat into him handle-first. He felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth shot out and landed in a loogie of his blood.

  Dammit. I just finished growing that thing back.

  “Now shut up and listen,” Mopuk said. “I’m done negotiating. The money is off the table, no more deal there, you blew it. The Demolition win. You do it for free. End of story. And they win by a touchdown. Got that? Seven points, at least. If this doesn’t happen, you’re going back to the Purist Nation in a coffin.”

  Quentin looked at the two Ki. He was stuck in this room, and if they wanted, they could easily kill him.

  “Yeah,” he said, the word coming out stilted from his already swelling jaw. “I got it.”

  One of the Ki opened the door and stood aside. Quentin walked out onto the busy street. The door shut behind him.

  • • •

  RED “NO TOUCH” JERSEY flapping in a light breeze, Quentin dropped back and planted. His feet slid slightly on the white Tiralik. The footing felt like grass — if you covered grass with a light coating of kitchen grease, that is. He was quickly adjusting to the slickness. He looked downfield to his primary receiver and gunned the pass to Hawick. The ball covered fifteen yards in a half-second and hit Hawick dead-on.

  “Good job, Barnes,” Hokor called in his headset.

  “Thanks Coach.” It was strange to hear a compliment, and this had been Hokor’s fourth of the practice. Everything seemed to be flowing now, the players — both offense and defense — part of a huge dance. More and more he knew where each receiver would move, and where their defensive “dance partner” would move in response. Things were starting to feel natural, the way they had back on Micovi. Still, this was against a defense he practiced with not only daily, but nightly as well. He’d started to subconsciously absorb the aggressive tendencies of Berea and Stockbridge, the one-step-too-late break of Perth, and the too-cautious defense of Davenport. Against the Demolition’s top-rated pass defense, however, it would be a different story.