The Champion

by Scott Sigler

  His sister.

  So which one of them was it? Who tried to take Jeanine, and why? And even if Quentin did get her back, would she ever be safe when criminals ran the league?

  “Elder Barnes?”

  The multi-headed monster seemed to materialize out of thin air; Quentin had become lost in his thoughts.

  “Elder Barnes?”

  Quentin looked up and to his right. Messal the Efficient staring down at him, big eye swirling with threads of green and saturated blue, a combination that revealed concern for another.

  “Elder Barnes, Yolanda Davenport of Galaxy Sports Magazine has a question.”

  Quentin again looked out through the crysteel glass. He saw her, the purple skin and white hair of the beautiful, ruthless reporter Yolanda Davenport. She had arranged a discreet meeting with Fred and Jeanine, for which Quentin still owed Yolanda an exclusive interview. If Jeanine was dead, or if she was never found again, Quentin had Yolanda to thank for that final meeting with his sister.

  But... that also meant Yolanda had known where Jeanine was.

  That made Yolanda a suspect.

  He had to face the truth: other than his teammates, the sentients he’d just fought and bled with, won a championship with, everyone was a suspect. Quentin couldn’t afford to trust anyone else.

  “Sorry, I drifted off,” Quentin said.

  “That’s understandable,” Yolanda said, gracious as always. “Quentin, how does it feel be the first Purist Nation quarterback to lead a team to a title? Many experts said that could never happen, because people from the Nation were too racist to lead mixed-species teams. Some sentients even claimed Nationalites were genetically inferior from an intelligence standpoint. Yet here you are, the champion of the galaxy. How does it feel to break that barrier and represent your people?”

  Leave it to Yolanda to ask a question that drove out all other thoughts. He hailed from the Purist Nation, yes, but were Nationalites his people anymore? He’d spent the last four years in Ionath City. That was home; he wanted nothing to do with the Purist Nation.

  And yet ... that wasn’t entirely true. He wanted nothing to do with the religion, with the theocracy that had kept his system mired in the Stone Age, with the businessmen and ruling families that treated the poor like slaves. The poor ... those were his people. He’d gotten out and never looked back. Now that he had more money than he knew what to do with, maybe someday he could do something to help those people.

  He’d found a way out. Sure, that was because of football, and not everyone in the Nation was so big they were sometimes mistaken for HeavyG. If it hadn’t been for sports, he would still be in the mines. He knew that. And yet, he had made it out. The media had claimed he could never lead a team to a title, that he wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t cultured enough, relied on his legs too much instead of his arm, that he could win with athleticism alone in Tier Three but in Tier One, he would quickly wash out.

  He’d proven them wrong. He’d proven them all wrong. Maybe he couldn’t do anything to help people in the Nation, at least not right now, but he knew those people looked up to him. He’d once been a kid watching pirated GFL broadcasts, idolizing the stars — in particular, one Donald Pine. There were kids doing the same thing right now, Nationalite kids, idolizing one of their own. For those kids, Quentin could show that their fate wasn’t sealed, that someone like them could make it.

  “It feels ... it feels like anything is possible,” he said. “The Purist Nation people — not the rich rulers, not the priests and the mullahs, but the people — work harder and endure more oppression than any sentients in the galaxy. I’m proof that if Nationalites are given a chance, they can excel, they can dominate. Those who think my people can’t? They’re dead wrong.”

  A slow smile broke over Yolanda’s face, one that made Quentin nervous and he didn’t know why.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  With Yolanda’s question answered, thoughts of Jeanine returned. Quentin wanted out of the press conference, and he wanted out now. He’d done his part, answering questions asked by sentients who didn’t know what it was like to take a helmet in the throat, to play through a broken bone, to want to win so badly you’d cut off a finger just to stay in the game. Those reporters knew nothing about football, about the brutal reality of competing at the highest level — Quentin didn’t have the patience to put up with their ignorance for one moment longer.

  He slid his chair back and stood.

  Messal turned away from the podium mic so only Quentin could hear him.

  “Elder Barnes! If you leave now, Commissioner Froese will fine you!”

  “Let him,” Quentin said. “Money I’ve got.”

  He walked off the stage and into the hallways of the Shipyard, the home stadium of the Hittoni Hullwalkers.

  Quentin wanted to track down Bumberpuff. Had the Prawatt captain already found a ship that could reach the Portath Cloud? Would it be Bumberpuff’s old ship, the Grieve? Quentin didn’t know. He couldn’t just book a passenger flight to the Cloud: for starters, no passenger ships went there, and even if they did, Gredok would find out where Quentin was headed and shut the trip down. Fred and Jeanine had taken Quentin’s yacht, the Hypatia, leaving Quentin no easy way to go rushing after them. So, he’d wait for Bumberpuff.

  Since there was nothing to do at that moment, and since Quentin had just won the shucking Galaxy Bowl, he decided he’d do his best to calm down, to relax as much as the situation would allow.

  He headed for the Ki baths.

  2

  The Plan

  IF THERE WAS ANY VARIATION between the Ki baths from one facility to the next, Quentin couldn’t tell. Up on the Touchback, in the home locker room on Ionath, or even here at Hullwalkers Stadium in Hittoni on the planet Wilson 6, they all looked the same: faint purple lights filtering through hanging clouds of slowly moving steam, tile walls spotted with mold and moss, high-up spigots spraying down soft, steady streams of water, and an always-wet tile deck surrounding the most important part of all, the deep, round pool.

  His Ki teammates swirled slowly in their tightly packed, mostly submerged ball of thick serpentine bodies. After a game, even the Galaxy Bowl, the media rarely wanted to talk to linemen, so the Ki had come here to relax, to clean the blood and dirt from their battered bodies.

  Quentin stepped to the pool’s edge.

  “You guys mind if I listen to some music?”

  The twisting ball of Ki didn’t respond. With the Ki, that was the same thing as a yes.

  “Computer, play Trench Warfare, random track, shuffle through catalog.”

  The first song, “Entreaty to Reason,” came on. Quentin hadn’t spoken with Somalia Midori, the band’s lead singer, in months. He’d dated her, but distance and their careers — his football, her music and acting — kept them apart, and they’d simply stopped communicating. He still loved her songs and always would, as they were one of the few things that had brought him happiness back on Micovi.

  Quentin hopped off the pool’s edge and sank in feet first. The scalding temperature sent needle stabs up and down his skin. He let himself sink to the bottom, soles of his feet resting on the algae-covered ceramic tile. Water surrounded him, so hot his body tried to rebel, but he didn’t come up.

  Down there, it was the opposite of the football field’s controlled madness, the locker room’s unpredictability or the unending pressure of real life. In the water, he weighed nothing at all. Floating above him were a dozen Ki linemen who considered him a warrior-brother, a combined seven thousand pounds of elite athlete who would do anything to protect him.

  His lungs began to burn. He had to go up, but he didn’t want to. If only he could stay under forever, stay under and just be.

  The sound of a body plunging into the water startled him, almost made him take a surprised breath. Becca, probably; she was the only one who joined him here. Maybe she would have some ideas on how to move forward. Maybe he could finally
reveal his feelings for her, tell her what was in his heart. But was this the time for that? Did he need anything that might complicate the trip to save Jeanine and Fred?

  The burning in his lungs intensified. Almost time to surface. He focused — just a few seconds more.

  Another heavy splash. Then another, bigger than the two before it.

  Quentin opened his eyes and looked up. What little light filtered down showed three sets of Human legs slowly kicking in the water next to the dark mass of Ki.

  What was going on?

  He pushed off the bottom, heard more heavy splashes before his head broke the surface.

  There was Becca, all right, but treading water near her was John Tweedy and his brother, Ju. Hanging on the pool’s edge, off to the left, bodies only half in the water: Crazy George Starcher and Tara the Freak, the Quyth Warrior receiver. To the right, the hulking HeavyG form of Michael Kimberlin. And in the middle of the pool, the slithering mass of long Ki bodies winding in and out and around each other, purple lights gleaming off water-slick, pebbly enamel skin.

  Ju let out a puff of air.

  “Jeez, Q,” he said. “This pool is mega-hot.”

  The words SOOOOPER MEGA-HOT scrolled across John’s forehead.

  “Sure is,” he said. “You’d have to be a dumbass to come here on purpose.”

  There was no humor in John’s voice. He’d just won a GFL title and had pledged to help Quentin find Jeanine, but he still blamed Quentin for Becca breaking off their engagement.

  Quentin looked at his teammates. Other than Becca, none of them had entered the Ki baths before.

  “What are you all doing here?”

  Becca eased closer, her black hair trailing behind her like a snake sliding across the water.

  “Messal told us to come, don’t ya know,” she said. “He should be here any second.” She glanced up to the ceiling. “Computer, music off.”

  The music stopped.

  Ju groaned. “Come on, Becca, I love that song. You don’t like Trench Warfare?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “I’m not a fan of ... of that band.”

  The door to the pool room opened, letting in a brief bit of stronger light from the hallway outside. Messal entered, the Quyth Worker neatly uniformed as always, along with Choto the Bright, already dressed in the Warrior equivalent of street clothes: loose-fitting gray pants and nothing else. The room’s steam instantly glazed his carapace, making the hard shell reflect the purple lights.

  Messal stopped at the pool’s edge, water already beading up on his clothes and fur.

  “Oh, my,” he said. “Is it always so warm in here?”

  John laughed. “See? Even Messal knows sense from shinola.”

  George Starcher raised a hand dramatically. “The Old Ones live and breathe in the heat, the hardest steel is forged in the hottest fires, the firmament of supernova dreams is—”

  “Shut up,” Quentin snapped. “Everyone stop your damn babbling!”

  They all stared at him. He felt instantly ashamed at his outburst. They were here to help — he couldn’t treat them like that, no matter how stressed he felt. Quentin cupped a double-handful of hot water and rubbed it against his face.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled. Messal, where’s Bumberpuff? Did he contact the ship that will take us to the Cloud?”

  “He is on his way to it now, Elder Barnes.”

  Quentin’s jaw clenched. “He left? We were supposed to go with him. Is he bringing the ship here?”

  A laugh echoed through the room: Michael Kimberlin. The big HeavyG lineman saw Quentin’s glare, and wiped the smile from his face.

  “Sorry,” Kimberlin said. “A handful of Prawatt playing in the GFL doesn’t mean the galaxy isn’t still terrified of that species. If a Prawatt ship suddenly shows up in orbit around Wilson 6, the League of Planets considers that an act of war. Bumberpuff’s ship can’t come to us — we will have to go to it.”

  “Mister Kimberlin is correct,” Messal said. “We have very little time, and I must expedite this discussion. If Gredok finds out that several of his best players are going to the most dangerous place in the galaxy, he will find a way to stop that. Your sister is not important to him, Elder Barnes. If you are going to go after her, you must leave before the Touchback departs on the return trip to Ionath City, and you must have an explanation as to why you can’t be reached.”

  Those were critical points. Gredok probably had the power to stop a ship from leaving Hittoni. Even if Quentin and the others did get off the planet, punch-space relay beacons delivered messages faster than passenger ships traveled: Gredok could get word ahead of whatever ship Quentin was on, possibly contact corrupt system police or make a deal with local crime lords to shut down the journey.

  “I hadn’t thought about Gredok’s reach,” Quentin said. “So what’s our cover story, Messal? Any ideas?”

  “Yes, Elder Barnes. I suggest a ruse where you and the others voyage to Prawatt space in support of Cormorant Bumberpuff, who will be hailed as a hero by his countrymen.”

  John raised a hand. “Wait, are the Prawatt men?”

  “Maybe they’re countrywomen,” Ju said. “Or maybe countrythingees? And what about a parade because we’re champs? Don’t we get a parade?”

  Messal’s eye swirled with strands of red-violet, a color of frustration; he was in a hurry to move things along.

  “Guys, let him talk,” Quentin said.

  “Thank you, Elder Barnes,” Messal said. “After what happened to the last parade, it is doubtful Gredok will ever again allow another such public celebration.”

  Quentin couldn’t agree more. So many innocent sentients had died, including Doc Patah’s predecessor. The others in the bath seemed to accept the wisdom of that decision; all save for Ju, who looked horribly disappointed.

  Messal continued.

  “Due to the addition of Prawatt players, Gredok’s public image has improved. If some of his employees further develop diplomatic sports-based relations with the Jihad, that would reflect well on him.”

  Quentin knew Gredok well enough to see the truth in that. The crime lord might be annoyed if his players left without permission, but such a trip would add to his new reputation as a diplomat, a sentient who made peace where entire governments had failed to do so.

  “Now we need two ships,” Quentin said. “One that takes us to Bumberpuff’s vessel, and a decoy that heads for Prawatt space. How do we get those?”

  Messal’s eye cleared. “There is a Human who owes you a favor, who owns a company that manufactures punch-enabled ships — that Human is in Hittoni this very moment.”

  Manny Sayed. Of course. As the co-owner of the Buddha City Elite, a Tier One team, Manny had come to Hittoni for the GFL season’s grand finale.

  “Messal, that’s brilliant,” Quentin said. “Get me a face-to-face meeting with Manny. And make sure Gredok — or Stedmar Osborne — doesn’t find out.”

  Messal’s eye flooded with blue-violet: the color of disgust.

  “Elder Barnes, it is rare for me to speak with annoyance, but I am perfectly aware that Gredok must not find out. If he does —” Messal looked around the pool, meeting the gaze of each player in turn “—it will not go well for me. If we are found out, all of you might be lectured and temporarily detained. I, on the other hand, would be lucky if I am only kicked out of Gredok’s organization and cast into the streets.”

  Quentin stared at the Worker. He’d been so lost in his own problems that he’d forgotten what a risk Messal was taking. Gredok wouldn’t harm his valuable players, but Messal wasn’t a player — Gredok would probably execute the Worker.

  “Sorry,” Quentin said. “You’re right, you don’t need to be told that. About that meeting with Manny, can you —”

  “The meeting is already arranged,” Messal said. “I hope you can forgive my initiative.”

  Messal was acting without instructions; Quentin hadn’t seen this side of the Worke
r before.

  “How did you get Manny to agree to meet in private?”

  “I mentioned that at times you are homesick,” Messal said. “Now that you have won a title for Ionath, it is possible you long to win one for the system of your birth.”

  Quentin started to laugh. He couldn’t help it.

  “You told Manny Sayed I wanted to play quarterback for the Buddha City Elite?”

  “If Elder Sayed chose to interpret my words in a way that fits his own desires, that is his choice, not mine,” Messal said. “The meeting is in this stadium in twenty minutes, Elder Barnes, just enough time for you to get dressed. I think it is best if you bring only Choto and John Tweedy. Any more might create the wrong impression.”

  Messal the Efficient, manipulating by letting Manny believe what Manny wanted to believe. A clever move, one worthy of a Quyth Leader.

  Or something I might do. Is Messal emulating Gredok, or emulating me?

  Quentin swam for the pool’s edge. “Choto, John, get dressed. We do it the way Messal says. Whatever it takes, I need Manny Sayed to sell me a ship.”

  3

  The Request

  THE PROMENADE SURROUNDING Hullwalkers Stadium was a living temple dedicated to Humanity’s history of spaceflight. Life-size replicas of famous early ships like Ikaros, Sputnik, Voyager, Helios, so many more. Part football stadium, part museum.

  Quentin and Choto found themselves in the bowels of that museum. Up above, hundreds of thousands of fans walked and explored, gawked at irreplaceable spaceflight relics. There, the precious items were kept behind crysteel or levitated out of reach of hands, pedipalps, tentacles and other appendages. Down in the basement, however, things weren’t quite so organized.

  Racks held bins full of history not quite suitable for public display. Old space suits with holes in them, some with long-dried bloodstains; a bucket full of thick gloves; a half-disassembled engine; a cracked piece of composite hull streaked with soot; several bins filled to overflowing with small boxes made of plastic and metal — ancient memory drives, Choto guessed; and thousands of other centuries-old items. Some of the relics, if not all, would likely command an insanely high price on the black market.